“You are at home soon, Archibald,” said Barbara, addressing him.  “I did not expect you so early.  I did not think you could get away.  Do you know what I was wishing to-day?” she continued.  “Papa is going to London with Squire Pinner to see those new agricultural implements—­or whatever it is.  They are sure to be away as much as three days.  I was thinking if we could but persuade mamma to come to us for the time papa is to be away, it would be a delightful little change for her—­a break in her monotonous life.”

“I wish you could,” warmly spoke Mr. Carlyle.  “Her life, since you left, is a monotonous one; though, in her gentle patience, she will not say so.  It is a happy thought, Barbara, and I only hope it may be carried out.  Mrs. Carlyle’s mother is an invalid, and lonely, for she has no child at home with her now,” he added, in a spirit of politeness, addressing himself to Madame Vine.

She simply bowed her head; trust herself to speak she did not.  Mr. Carlyle scanned her face attentively, as she sat, her spectacles bent downward.  She did not appear inclined to be sociable, and he turned to the baby, who was wider awake than ever.

“Young sir, I should like to know what brings you up, and here, at this hour.”

“You may well ask,” said Barbara.  “I just had him brought down, as you were not here, thinking he would be asleep directly.  And only look at him!—­no more sleep in his eyes than there is in mine.”

She would have hushed him to her as she spoke, but the young gentleman stoutly repudiated it.  He set up a half cry, and struggled his arms, and head free again, crowing the next moment most impudently.  Mr. Carlyle took him.

“It is no use, Barbara; he is beyond your coaxing this evening.”  And he tossed the child in his strong arms, held him up to the chandelier, made him bob at the baby in the pier-glass, until the rebel was in an ecstacy of delight.  Finally he smothered his face with kisses, as Barbara had done.  Barbara rang the bell.

Oh!  Can you imagine what it was for Lady Isabel?  So had he tossed, so had he kissed her children, she standing by, the fond, proud, happy mother, as Barbara was standing now.  Mr. Carlyle came up to her.

“Are you fond of these little troubles, Madame Vine?  This one is a fine fellow, they say.”

“Very fine.  What is his name?” she replied, by way of saying something.

“Arthur.”

“Arthur Archibald,” put in Barbara to Madame Vine.  “I was vexed that his name could not be entirely Archibald, but that was already monopolized.  Is that you, Wilson?  I don’t know what you’ll do with him, but he looks as if he would not be asleep by twelve o’clock.”

Wilson, with a fresh satisfying of her curiosity, by taking another prolonged stare from the corner of her eyes at Madame Vine, received the baby from Mr. Carlyle, and departed with him.

Madame Vine rose.  “Would they excuse her?” she asked, in a low tone; “she was tired and would be glad to retire to rest.”