“Is it?” cried the relieved Richard.  “Can’t you make her keep out?” he continued, his teeth still chattering.

“No, that I can’t, if she has a mind to come in,” was the candid answer.  “You remember what she was, Richard; she is not altered.”

Knowing that to speak on this side the door to his sister, when she was in one of her resolute moods, would be of no use, Mr. Carlyle opened the door, dexterously swung himself through it, and shut it after him.  There she stood; in a towering passion, too.

It had struck Miss Carlyle, while undressing, that certain sounds, as of talking, proceeded from the room underneath, which she had just quitted.  She possessed a remarkably keen sense of hearing, did Miss Carlyle; though, indeed, none of her faculties lacked the quality of keenness.  The servants, Joyce and Peter excepted, would not be convinced but that she must “listen;” but, in that, they did her injustice.  First of all, she believed her brother must be reading aloud to himself; but she soon decided otherwise.  “Who on earth has he got in there with him?” quoth Miss Carlyle.

She rang her bell; Joyce answered it.

“Who is it that is with your master?”

“Nobody, ma’am.”

“But I say there is.  I can hear him talking.”

“I don’t think anybody can be with him,” persisted Joyce.  “And the walls of this house are too well built, ma’am, for sounds from the down stairs rooms to penetrate here.”

“That’s all you know about it,” cried Miss Carlyle.  “When talking goes on in that room, there’s a certain sound given out which does penetrate here, and which my ears have grown accustomed to.  Go and see who it is.  I believe I left my handkerchief on the table; you can bring it up.”

Joyce departed, and Miss Carlyle proceeded to take off her things; her dress first, her silk petticoat next.  She had arrived as far as the flannel petticoat when Joyce returned.

“Yes, ma’am, some one is talking with master.  I could not go in, for the door was bolted, and master called out that he was busy.”

Food for Miss Carlyle.  She, feeling sure that no visitor had come to the house, ran her thoughts rapidly over the members of the household, and came to the conclusion that it must be the governess, Miss Manning, who had dared to closet herself with Mr. Carlyle.  This unlucky governess was pretty, and Miss Carlyle had been cautious to keep her and her prettiness very much out of her brother’s sight; she knew the attraction he would present to her visions, or to those of any other unprovided-for governess.  Oh, yes; it was Miss Manning; she had stolen in; believing she, Miss Carlyle, was safe for the night; but she’d just unearth my lady.  And what in the world could possess Archibald—­to lock the door!

Looking round for something warm to throw over her shoulders, and catching up an article that looked as much like a green baize table-cover as anything else, and throwing it on, down stalked Miss Carlyle.  And in this trim Mr. Carlyle beheld her when he came out.