a run toward the house, his heels flying
behind him.

And now the contest began in earnest--that is, the canvass. Sir Francis
Levison, his agent, and a friend from town, who, as it turned out,
instead of being some great gun of the government, was a private chum of
the baronet's by name Drake, sneaked about the town like dogs with their
tails burnt, for they were entirely alive to the color in which they
were held, their only attendants being a few young gentlemen and ladies
in rags, who commonly brought up the rear. The other party presented a
stately crowd--county gentry, magistrates, Lord Mount Severn. Sometimes
Mr. Carlyle would be with them, arm-and-arm with the latter. If the
contesting groups came within view of each other, and were likely to
meet, the brave Sir Francis would disappear down an entry, behind a
hedge, any place convenient; with all his "face of brass," he could not
meet Mr. Carlyle and that condemning jury around him.

One afternoon it pleased Mrs. Carlyle to summon Lucy and the governess
to accompany her into West Lynne. She was going shopping. Lady Isabel
had a dread and horror of appearing in there while that man was in town,
but she could not help herself. There was no pleading illness, for she
was quite well; there must be no saying, "I will not go," for she was
only a dependant. They started, and had walked as far as Mrs. Hare's
gate, when Miss Carlyle turned out of it.

"Your mamma's not well, Barbara."

"Is she not?" cried Barbara, with quick concern. "I must go and see
her."

"She has had one of those ridiculous dreams again," pursued Miss
Carlyle, ignoring the presence of the governess and Lucy. "I was sure of
it by her very look when I got in, shivering and shaking, and glancing
fearfully around, as if she feared a dozen spectres were about to burst
out of the walls. So I taxed her with it, and she could make no denial.
Richard is in some jeopardy, she protests, or will be. And there she is,
shaking still, although I told her that people who put faith in dreams
were only fit for a lunatic asylum."

Barbara looked distressed. She did not believe in dreams any more than
Miss Carlyle, but she could not forget how strangely peril to Richard
_had_ supervened upon some of these dreams.

"I will go in now and see mamma," she said. "If you are returning home,
Cornelia, Madame Vine can walk with you, and wait for me there."

"Let me go in with you, mamma!" pleaded Lucy.

Barbara mecha