Then she was like a child let loose from school.  She laughed, she danced in her excess of content; she showered kisses on her husband, thanking him in her gleeful gratitude.  Mr. Carlyle set it down to her love for him; he arrived at the conclusion that, in reiterating that she could not bear to be away from him, she spoke the fond truth.

“Isabel,” he said, smiling tenderly upon her, “do you remember, in the first days of our marriage, you told me you did not yet love me, but that the love would come.  I think this is it.”

Her face flushed nearly to tears at the words; a bright, glowing, all too conscious flush.  Mr. Carlyle mistook its source, and caught her to his heart.

Lady Isabel had returned home to bodily health, to the delight of meeting her children, to the glad sensation of security.  But as the days went on, a miserable feeling of apathy stole over her:  a feeling as if all whom she had loved in the world had died, leaving her living and alone.

She did not encourage these reflections; knowing what you do know of her, you may be sure of that, but they thrust themselves continually forward.  The form of Francis Levison was ever present to her; not a minute of the day but it gave the coloring to her thoughts, and at night it made the subject of her dreams.  Oh, those dreams!  They were painful to wake from; painful from the contrasts they presented to reality; and equally painful to her conscience, in its strife after what was right.

Mr. Carlyle mounted his horse one morning and rode over to Levison Park.  He asked for Sir Peter, but was shown into the presence of Lady Levison—­a young and pretty woman dressed showily.  She inquired his business.

“My business, madam, is with Sir Peter.”

“But Sir Peter is not well enough to attend to business; it upsets him—­worries him.”

“Nevertheless, I am here by his own appointment.  Twelve o’clock he mentioned; and the hour has barely struck.”

Lady Levison bit her lip and bowed coldly; and at that moment a servant appeared to conduct Mr. Carlyle to Sir Peter.  The matter which had taken Mr. Carlyle thither was entered upon immediately—­Francis Levison, his debts, and his gracelessness.  Sir Peter, an old gentleman in a velvet skullcap, particularly enlarged upon the latter.

“I’d pay his debts to-day and set him upon his legs again, but that I know I should have to do the same thing over and over again to the end of the chapter, as I have done it repeatedly hitherto,” cried Sir Peter.  “His grandfather was my only brother, his father my dutiful and beloved nephew; but he is just as bad as they were estimable.  He is a worthless fellow and nothing else, Mr. Carlyle.”

“His tale drew forth my compassion, and I promised I would see you and speak for him,” returned Mr. Carlyle.  “Of Captain Levison’s personal virtues or vices, I know nothing.”

“And the less you know the better,” growled Sir Peter.  “I suppose he wants me to clear him and start him afresh.”