A neat-looking, good-tempered maid answered it, Hannah, who, as Joyce had informed her, waited upon the gray parlor, and was at her, the governess’s, especial command.  She took away the things, and then Lady Isabel sat on alone.  For how long, she scarcely knew, when a sound caused her heart to beat as if it would burst its bounds, and she started from her chair like one who has received an electric shock.

It was nothing to be startled at either—­for ordinary people—­for it was but the sound of children’s voices. Her children!  Were they being brought in to her?  She pressed her hand upon her heaving bosom.

No; they were but traversing the hall, and the voices faded away up the wide staircase.  Perhaps they had been in to desert, as in the old times, and were now going up to bed.  She looked at her new watch—­half past seven.

Her new watch.  The old one had been changed away for it.  All her trinkets had been likewise parted with, sold or exchanged away, lest they should be recognized at East Lynne.  Nothing whatever had she kept except her mother’s miniature and a small golden cross, set with its seven emeralds.  Have you forgotten that cross?  Francis Levison accidentally broke it for her, the first time they ever met.  If she had looked upon the breaking of that cross which her mother had enjoined her to set such store by, as an evil omen, at the time of the accident, how awfully had the subsequent events seemed to bear her fancy out!  These two articles—­the miniature and the cross—­she could not bring her mind to part with.  She had sealed them up, and placed them in the remotest spot of her dressing-case, away from all chance of public view.  Peter entered.

“My mistress says, ma’am, she would be glad to see you, if you are not too tired.  Will you please to walk into the drawing-room?”

A mist swam before her eyes.  Was she about to enter the presence of Mrs. Carlyle?  Had the moment really come?  She moved to the door, which Peter held open.  She turned her head from the man, for she could feel how ashy white were her face and lips.

“Is Mrs. Carlyle alone?” she asked, in a subdued voice.  The most indirect way she could put the question, as to whether Mr. Carlyle was there.

“Quite alone, ma’am.  My master is dining out to-day.  Madame Vine, I think?” he added, waiting to announce her, as, the hall traversed, he laid his hand on the drawing-room door.

“Madame Vine,” she said, correcting him.  For Peter had spoken the name, Vine, broadly, according to our English habitude; she set him right, and pronounced it a la mode Francaise.

“Madame Vine, ma’am,” quoth Peter to his mistress, as he ushered in Lady Isabel.

The old familiar drawing-room; its large handsome proportions, the well arranged furniture, its bright chandelier!  It all came back to her with a heart-sickness.  No longer her drawing-room, that she should take pride in it; she had flung it away from her when she flung away the rest.