had been sojourning at Stalkenberg, and they did not know her in the least.  Who could know her?  What resemblance was there between that gray, broken-down woman, with her disfiguring marks, and the once loved Lady Isabel, with her bright color, her beauty, her dark flowing curls, and her agile figure?  Mr. Carlyle himself could not have told her.  But she was good-looking still, in spite of it all, gentle and interesting; and people wondered to see that gray hair in one yet young.

She had been with the Crosbys going on for two years.  After her recovery from the railway accident, she removed to a quiet town in the vicinity; they were living there, and she became daily governess to Helena.  The Crosbys were given to understand that she was English, but the widow of a Frenchman—­she was obliged to offer some plausible account.  There were no references; but she so won upon their esteem as the daily governess, that they soon took her into the house.  Had Lady Isabel surmised that they would be travelling to so conspicuous a spot as an English-frequented German watering-place, she might have hesitated to accept the engagement.  However, it had been of service to her, the meeting with Mrs. Ducie proving that she was altered beyond chance of recognition.  She could go anywhere now.

But now, about her state of mind?  I don’t know how to describe it; the vain yearning, the inward fever, the restless longing for what might not be.  Longing for what?  For her children.  Let the mother, be she a duchess, or be she an apple-woman at a stand, be separated for awhile from her little children; let her answer how she yearns for them.  She may be away on a tour of pleasure for a few weeks; the longing to see their little faces again, to hear their prattling tongues, to feel their soft kisses, is kept under; and there may be frequent messages, “The children’s dear love to mamma;” but as the weeks lengthen out, the desire to see them again becomes almost irrepressible.  What must it have been then, for Lady Isabel, who had endured this longing for years?  Talk of the mal du pays, which is said to attack the Swiss when exiled from their country—­that is as nothing compared to the heartsickness which clung to Lady Isabel.  She had passionately loved her children; she had been anxious for their welfare in all ways; and not the least she had to endure now was the thought that she had abandoned them to be trained by strangers.  Would they be trained to goodness, to morality, to religion?  Careless as she herself had once been upon these points, she had learnt better now.  Would Isabel grow up to indifference, to—­perhaps do as she had done?  Lady Isabel flung her hands before her eyes and groaned in anguish.

It happened that Mrs. Latimer, a lady living at West Lynne, betook herself about that time to Stalkenberg, and with her, three parts maid and one part companion, went Afy Hallijohn.  Not that Afy was admitted to the society of Mrs. Latimer, to sit with her or dine with her, nothing of that; but she did enjoy more privileges than most ladies’ maids do, and Afy, who was never backward at setting off her own consequence, gave out that she was “companion.”  Mrs. Latimer was an easy woman, fond of Afy, and Afy had made her own tale good to her respecting the ill-natured reports at the time of the murder, so that Mrs. Latimer looked upon her as one to be compassionated.