Seated under the blaze of the chandelier was Barbara.  Not a day older did she look than when Lady Isabel had first seen her at the churchyard gates, when she had inquired of her husband who was that pretty girl.  “Barbara Hare,” he answered.  Ay.  She was Barbara Hare then, but now she was Barbara Carlyle; and she, she, who had been Isabel Carlyle, was Isabel Vane again!  Oh, woe!  Woe!

Inexpressibly more beautiful, looked Barbara than Lady Isabel had ever seen her—­or else she fancied it.  Her evening dress was of pale sky-blue—­no other color suited Barbara so well, and there was no other she was so fond of—­and on her fair neck there was a gold chain, and on her arms were gold bracelets.  Her pretty features were attractive as ever; her cheeks were flushed; her blue eyes sparkled, and her light hair was rich and abundant.  A contrast, her hair, to that of the worn woman opposite to her.

Barbara came forward, her hand stretched out with a kindly greeting.  “I hope you are not very much tired after your journey?”

Lady Isabel murmured something—­she did not know what—­and pushed the chair set for her as much as possible into the shade.

“You are not ill, are you?” uttered Barbara, noting the intensely pale face—­as much as could be seen of it for the cap and the spectacles.

“Not ill,” was the low answer; “only a little fatigued.”

“Would you prefer that I spoke with you in the morning?  You would like, possibly, to retire to bed at once.”

But Lady Isabel declined.  Better get the interview over by candlelight than by daylight.

“You look so very pale, I feared you might be ill.”

“I am generally pale; sometimes remarkably so; but my health is good.”

“Mrs. Latimer wrote us word that you would be quite sure to suit us,” freely spoke Barbara.  “I hope you will; and that you may find your residence here agreeable.  Have you lived much in England?”

“In the early portion of my life.”

“And you have lost your husband and your children?  Stay.  I beg your pardon if I am making a mistake; I think Mrs. Latimer did mention children.”

“I have lost them,” was the faint, quiet response.

“Oh, but it must be terrible grief when children die!” exclaimed Barbara, clasping her hands in emotion.  “I would not lose my babe for the world!  I could not part with him.”

“Terrible grief, and hard to bear,” outwardly assented Lady Isabel.  But in her heart she was thinking that death was not the worst kind of parting.  There was another far more dreadful.  Mrs. Carlyle began to speak of the children she was to take charge of.

“You are no doubt aware that they are not mine; Mrs. Latimer would tell you.  They are the children of Mr. Carlyle’s first wife.”

“And Mr. Carlyle’s,” interrupted Lady Isabel.  What in the world made her put in that?  She wondered herself the moment the words were out of her mouth.  A scarlet streak flushed her cheeks, and she remembered that there must be no speaking upon impulse at East Lynne.