“I don’t know that Lady Isabel has returned home yet.  My being late once in a while is of no consequence.”

Not another word was spoken, save by Barbara.  “Whatever excuse can I make, should papa come home?” Both were buried in their own reflections.  “Thank you very greatly,” she said as they reached her gate, and Mr. Carlyle finally turned away.  Barbara stole in, and found the coast clear; her papa had not arrived.

Lady Isabel was in her dressing-room when Mr. Carlyle entered; she was seated at a table, writing.  A few questions as to her evening’s visit, which she answered in the briefest way possible, and then he asked her if she was not going to bed.

“By and by.  I am not sleepy.”

“I must go at once, Isabel, for I am dead tired.”  And no wonder.

“You can go,” was her answer.

He bent down to kiss her, but she dexterously turned her face away.  He supposed that she felt hurt that he had not gone with her to the party, and placed his hand on her shoulder with a pleasant smile.

“You foolish child, to be aggrieved at that!  It was no fault of mine, Isabel; I could not help myself.  I will talk to you in the morning; I am too tired to-night.  I suppose you will not be long.”

Her head was bent over her writing again, and she made no reply.  Mr. Carlyle went into his bedroom and shut the door.  Some time after, Lady Isabel went softly upstairs to Joyce’s room.  Joyce, fast in her first sleep, was suddenly aroused from it.  There stood her mistress, a wax light in her hand.  Joyce rubbed her eyes, and collected her senses, and finally sat up in bed.

“My lady!  Are you ill?”

“Ill!  Yes; ill and wretched,” answered Lady Isabel; and ill she did look, for she was perfectly white.  “Joyce, I want a promise from you.  If anything should happen to me, stay at East Lynne with my children.”

Joyce stared in amazement, too much astonished to make any reply.

“Joyce, you promised it once before; promise it again.  Whatever betide you, you will stay with my children when I am gone.”

“I will stay with them.  But, oh, my lady, what can be the matter with you?  Are you taken suddenly ill?”

“Good-bye, Joyce,” murmured Lady Isabel, gliding from the chamber as quietly as she had entered it.  And Joyce, after an hour of perplexity, dropped asleep again.

Joyce was not the only one whose rest was disturbed that eventful night.  Mr. Carlyle himself awoke, and to his surprise found that his wife had not come to bed.  He wondered what the time was, and struck his repeater.  A quarter past three!

Rising, he made his way to the door of his wife’s dressing-room.  It was in darkness; and, so far as he could judge by the absence of sound, unoccupied.

“Isabel!”

No reply.  Nothing but the echo of his own voice in the silence of the night.

He struck a match and lighted a taper, partially dressed himself, and went about to look for her.  He feared she might have been taken ill; or else that she had fallen asleep in some one of the rooms.  But nowhere could he find her, and feeling perplexed, he proceeded to his sister’s chamber door and knocked.