The justice came in. A middle sized man, with pompous features, and a
pompous walk, and a flaxen wig. In his aquiline nose, compressed lips,
and pointed chin, might be traced a resemblance to his daughter; though
he never could have been half so good-looking as was pretty Barbara.

"Richard," spoke up Mrs. Hare from between her shawls, the instant he
opened the door.

"Well?"

"Would you please let me have tea in now? Would you very much mind
taking it a little earlier this evening? I am feverish again, and my
tongue is so parched I don't know how to speak."

"Oh, it's near seven; you won't have long to wait."

With this exceedingly gracious answer to an invalid's request, Mr. Hare
quitted the room again and banged the door. He had not spoken unkindly
or roughly, simply with indifference. But ere Mrs. Hare's meek sigh
of disappointment was over, the door re-opened, and the flaxen wig was
thrust in again.

"I don't mind if I do have it now. It will be a fine moonlight night and
I am going with Pinner as far as Beauchamp's to smoke a pipe. Order it
in, Barbara."

The tea was made and partaken of, and the justice departed for Mr.
Beauchamp's, Squire Pinner calling for him at the gate. Mr. Beauchamp
was a gentleman who farmed a great deal of land, and who was also Lord
Mount Severn's agent or steward for East Lynne. He lived higher up the
road some little distance beyond East Lynne.

"I am so cold, Barbara," shivered Mrs. Hare, as she watched the justice
down the gravel path. "I wonder if your papa would say it was foolish of
me, if I told them to light a bit of fire?"

"Have it lighted if you like," responded Barbara, ringing the bell.
"Papa will know nothing about it, one way or the other, for he won't be
home till after bedtime. Jasper, mamma is cold, and would like a fire
lighted."

"Plenty of sticks, Jasper, that it may burn up quickly," said Mrs. Hare,
in a pleading voice, as if the sticks were Jasper's and not hers.

Mrs. Hare got her fire, and she drew her chair in front, and put her
feet on the fender, to catch its warmth. Barbara, listless still, went
into the hall, took a woolen shawl from the stand there, threw it over
her shoulders, and went out. She strolled down the straight formal path,
and stood at the iron gate, looking over it into the public road. Not
very public in that spot, and at that hour, but as lonely as one could
wish. The night was calm and pleasant, though somewhat chilly for the