“People say that changes come every seven years, mamma,” said Barbara, hopefully; “but I will go down and send you up some more tea.”
“And guard your countenance well,” returned her mother. “Don’t let your father suspect anything. Remember his oath to bring Richard to justice. If he thought we dwelt on his innocence, there is no knowing what he might do to find him, he is so very just.”
“So very cruel and unnatural, I call it, mamma. But never fear my betraying anything. But have you heard about Joyce?”
“No. What is it?”
“She had a severe fall while playing with little Isabel, and it is said she will be confined to bed for several weeks. I am very sorry for her.” And, composing her face, she descended to the breakfast-room.
The dinner hour at the Hares’, when they were alone, was four o’clock and it arrived that day as usual, and they sat down to table. Mrs. Hare was better then; the sunshine and the business of stirring life had in some measure effaced the visions of the night, and restored her to her wonted frame of mind.
The cloth removed, the justice sat but a little while over his port wine, for he was engaged to smoke an after-dinner pipe with a brother magistrate, Mr. Justice Herbert.
“Shall you be home to tea, papa?” inquired Barbara.
“Is it any business of yours, young lady?”
“Oh, not in the least,” answered Miss Barbara. “Only if you had been coming home to tea, I suppose we must have waited, had you not been in time.”