“I hope it is not, now or later—­for the sake of this dear little innocent thing upon my lap,” went on the undaunted Wilson.  “She would not make a very kind stepmother, for it is certain that where the first wife had been hated, her children won’t be loved.  She would turn Mr. Carlyle against them—­”

“I tell you what it is, Wilson,” interrupted Joyce, in a firm, unmistakable tone, “if you think to pursue those sort of topics at East Lynne, I shall inform my lady that you are unsuitable for the situation.”

“I dare say!”

“And you know that when I make up my mind to a thing I do it,” continued Joyce.  “Miss Carlyle may well say you have the longest tongue in West Lynne; but you might have the grace to know that this subject is one more unsuitable to it than another, whether you are eating Mr. Hare’s bread, or whether you are eating Mr. Carlyle’s.  Another word, Wilson; it appears to me that you have been carrying on a prying system in Mrs. Hare’s house—­do not attempt such a thing in this.”

“You were always one of the straight-laced sort, Joyce,” cried Wilson, laughing good-humoredly.  “But now that I have had my say out, I shall stop; and you need not fear I shall be such a simpleton as to go prattling of this kind of thing to the servants.”

Now just fancy this conversation penetrating to Lady Isabel!  She heard every word.  It is all very well to oppose the argument, “Who attends to the gossip of the servants?” Let me tell you it depends upon what the subject may be, whether the gossip is attended to or not.  It might not, and indeed would not, have made so great an impression upon her had she been in strong health, but she was weak, feverish, and in a state of partial delirium; and she hastily took up the idea that Archibald Carlyle had never loved her, that he had admired her and made her his wife in his ambition, but that his heart had been given to Barbara Hare.

A pretty state of excitement she worked herself into as she lay there, jealousy and fever, ay, and love too, playing pranks with her brain.  It was near the dinner hour, and when Mr. Carlyle entered, he was startled to see her; her pallid cheeks were burning with a red hectic glow, and her eyes glistened with fever.

“Isabel, you are worse!” he uttered, as he approached her with a quick step.

She partially rose from the sofa, and clasped hold of him in her emotion.  “Oh, Archibald!  Archibald!” she uttered, “don’t marry her!  I could not rest in my grave.”

Mr. Carlyle, in his puzzled astonishment, believed her to be laboring under some temporary hallucination, the result of weakness.  He set himself to soothe her, but it seemed that she could not be soothed.  She burst into a storm of tears and began again—­wild words.

“She would ill-treat my child; she would draw your love from it, and from my memory.  Archibald, you must not marry her!”

“You must be speaking from the influence of a dream, Isabel,” he soothingly said; “you have been asleep and are not yet awake.  Be still, and recollection will return to you.  There, love; rest upon me.”