“Joyce,” he whispered, “is it well still?”

“I believe so, sir.”

The services commenced.  The clergyman took the child.  “What name?” he asked.

Mr. Carlyle had never thought about the name.  But he replied, pretty promptly.

“William;” for he knew it was a name revered and loved by Lady Isabel.

The minister dipped his fingers in the water.  Joyce interrupted in much confusion, looking at her master.

“It is a little girl, sir.  I beg your pardon, I’m sure I thought I had said so; but I’m so flurried as I never was before.”

There was a pause, and then the minister spoke again.  “Name the child.”

“Isabel Lucy,” said Mr. Carlyle.  Upon which a strange sort of resentful sniff was heard from Miss Corny.  She had probably thought to hear him mention her own; but he had named it after his wife and his mother.

Mr. Carlyle was not allowed to see his wife until evening.  His eyelashes glistened, as he looked down at her.  She detected his emotion, and a faint smile parted her lips.

“I fear I bore it badly, Archibald; but let us be thankful that it is over.  How thankful, none can know, save those who have gone through it.”

“I think they can,” he murmured.  “I never knew what thankfulness was until this day.”

“That the baby is safe?”

“That you are safe, my darling; safe and spared to me, Isabel,” he whispered, hiding his face upon hers.  “I never, until to-day, knew what prayer was—­the prayer of a heart in its sore need.”

“Have you written to Lord Mount Severn?” she asked after a while.

“This afternoon,” he replied.

“Why did you give baby my name—­Isabel?”

“Do you think I could have given it a prettier one?  I don’t.”

“Why do you not bring a chair, and sit down by me?”

He smiled and shook his head.  “I wish I might.  But they limited my stay with you to four minutes, and Wainwright has posted himself outside the door, with his watch in his hand.”

Quite true.  There stood the careful surgeon, and the short interview was over almost as soon as it had begun.

The baby lived, and appeared likely to live, and of course the next thing was to look out for a maid for it.  Isabel did not get strong very quickly.  Fever and weakness had a struggle with each other and with her.  One day, when she was dressing and sitting in her easy chair, Miss Carlyle entered.

“Of all the servants in the neighborhood, who should you suppose is come up after the place of nurse?”

“Indeed, I cannot guess.”

“Why, Wilson, Mrs. Hare’s maid.  Three years and five months she has been with them, and now leaves in consequence of a fall out with Barbara.  Will you see her?”

“Is she likely to suit?  Is she a good servant?”

“She’s not a bad servant, as servants go,” responded Miss Carlyle.  “She’s steady and respectable; but she has got a tongue as long as from here to Lynneborough.”