“I begin to despair of its ever being discovered,” she observed. “What will become of poor Richard?”
“We can but wait, and hope that time may bring forth its own elucidation,” continued Mr. Carlyle.
“Ah,” sighed Barbara, “but it is weary waiting—weary, weary.”
“How is it you contrive to get under the paternal displeasure?” he resumed, in a gayer tone.
She blushed vividly, and it was her only answer.
“The Major Thorn alluded to by your papa is our old friend, I presume?”
Barbara inclined her head.
“He is a very pleasant man, Barbara. Many a young lady in West Lynne would be proud to get him.”
There was a pause. Barbara broke it, but she did not look at Mr. Carlyle as she spoke.
“The other rumor—is it a correct one?”