Miss Carlyle was a slight sleeper, and rose up in bed at once.  “Who’s that?” cried out she.

“It is only I, Cornelia,” said Mr. Carlyle.

“You!” cried Miss Corny.  “What in the name of fortune do you want?  You can come in.”

Mr. Carlyle opened the door, and met the keen eyes of his sister bent on him from the bed.  Her head was surmounted by a remarkable nightcap, at least a foot high.

“Is anybody ill?” she demanded.

“I think Isabel must be, I cannot find her.”

“Not find her?” echoed Miss Corny.  “Why, what’s the time?  Is she not in bed?”

“It is three o’clock.  She had not been to bed.  I cannot find her in the sitting-rooms; neither is she in the children’s room.”

“Then I’ll tell you what it is, Archibald; she’s gone worrying after Joyce.  Perhaps the girl may be in pain to-night.”

Mr. Carlyle was in full retreat toward Joyce’s room, at this suggestion, when his sister called to him.

“If anything is amiss with Joyce, you come and tell me, Archibald, for I shall get up and see after her.  The girl was my servant before she was your wife’s.”

He reached Joyce’s room, and softly unlatched the door, fully expecting to find a light there, and his wife sitting by the bedside.  There was no light there, however, save that which came from the taper he held, and he saw no signs of his wife. Where was she?  Was it probable that Joyce should tell him?  He stepped inside the room and called to her.

Joyce started up in a fright, which changed to astonishment when she recognized her master.  He inquired whether Lady Isabel had been there, and for a few moments Joyce did not answer.  She had been dreaming of Lady Isabel, and could not at first detach the dream from the visit which had probably given rise to it.

“What did you say, sir?  Is my lady worse?”

“I asked if she had been here.  I cannot find her.”

“Why, yes,” said Joyce, now fully aroused.  “She came here and woke me.  That was just before twelve, for I heard the clock strike.  She did not stay here a minute, sir.”

“Woke you!” repeated Mr. Carlyle.  “What did she want?  What did she come here for?”

Thoughts are quick; imagination is still quicker; and Joyce was giving the reins to both.  Her mistress’s gloomy and ambiguous words were crowding on her brain.  Three o’clock and she had not been in bed, and was not to be found in the house?  A nameless horror struggled to Joyce’s face, her eyes were dilating with it; she seized and threw on a large flannel gown which lay on a chair by the bed, and forgetful of her master who stood there, out she sprang to the floor.  All minor considerations faded to insignificance beside the terrible dread which had taken possession of her.  Clasping the flannel gown tight around her with one hand, she laid the other on the arm of Mr. Carlyle.

“Oh, master!  Oh, master!  She has destroyed herself!  I see it all now.”