She stole out, throwing a dark shawl over her shoulders, that might render her less conspicuous to the justice, and her dress that evening was a dark silk. She did not dare to stand still when she reached the trees, or to penetrate them, but she caught glimpses of Richard’s face, and her heart ached at the change in it. It was white, thin, and full of care; and his hair, he told her, was turning gray.
“Oh, Richard, darling, and I may not stop to talk to you!” she wailed, in a deep whisper. “Papa is at home, you see, of all the nights in the world.”
“Can’t I see my mother?”
“How can you? You must wait till to-morrow night.”
“I don’t like waiting a second night, Barbara. There’s danger in every inch of ground that this neighborhood contains.”
“But you must wait, Richard, for reasons. That man who caused all the mischief—Thorn—”
“Hang him!” gloomily interrupted Richard.
“He is at West Lynne. At least there is a Thorn, we—I and Mr. Carlyle—believe to be the same, and we want you to see him.”
“Let me see him,” panted Richard, whom the news appeared to agitate; “let me see him, Barbara, I say——”
Barbara had passed on again, returning presently.