“I begin to despair of its ever being discovered,” she observed.  “What will become of poor Richard?”

“We can but wait, and hope that time may bring forth its own elucidation,” continued Mr. Carlyle.

“Ah,” sighed Barbara, “but it is weary waiting—­weary, weary.”

“How is it you contrive to get under the paternal displeasure?” he resumed, in a gayer tone.

She blushed vividly, and it was her only answer.

“The Major Thorn alluded to by your papa is our old friend, I presume?”

Barbara inclined her head.

“He is a very pleasant man, Barbara.  Many a young lady in West Lynne would be proud to get him.”

There was a pause.  Barbara broke it, but she did not look at Mr. Carlyle as she spoke.

“The other rumor—­is it a correct one?”

“What other rumor?”

“That you are to marry Louisa Dobede.”

“It is not.  I have no intention of marrying any one.  Nay, I will say it more strongly; it is my intention not to marry any one—­to remain as I am.”

Barbara lifted her eyes to his in the surprise of the moment.

“You look amused, Barbara.  Have you been lending your credence to the gossips, who have so kindly disposed of me to Louisa Dobede?”

“Not so.  But Louisa Dobede is a girl to be coveted, and, as mamma says, it might be happier for you if you married again.  I thought you would be sure to do so.”

“No.  She—­who was my wife—­lives.”

“What of that?” uttered Barbara, in simplicity.

He did not answer for a moment, and when he did, it was in a low, almost imperceptible tone, as he stood by the table at which Barbara sat, and looked down on her.

“’Whosoever putteth away his wife, and marrieth another, committeth adultery.’”

And before Barbara could answer, if, indeed, she had found any answer to make, or had recovered her surprise, he had taken his hat and was gone.

To return for a short while to Lady Isabel.  As the year advanced she grew stronger, and in the latter part of the summer she made preparations for quitting Grenoble.  Where she would fix her residence, or what she would do, she knew not.  She was miserable and restless, and cared little what became of her.  The remotest spot on earth, one unpenetrated by the steps of civilized man, appeared the most desirable for her.  Where was she to find this?

She set out on her search, she and the child and its nurse.  Not Susanne.  Susanne had a sweetheart in Grenoble, and declined to leave it, so a girl was engaged for the child in her place.  Lady Isabel wound up her housekeeping, had her things packed and forwarded to Paris, there to wait her orders and finally quitted Grenoble.  It was a fine day when she left it—­all too fine for the dark ending it was to bring.