“Mr. Carlyle’s, of course,” said Barbara, believing Madame Vine had asked the question.  “Their position—­the girl’s in particular—­is a sad one, for their mother left them.  Oh, it was a shocking business!”

“She is dead, I hear,” said Lady Isabel hoping to turn the immediate point of conversation.  Mrs. Carlyle, however, continued as though she had not heard her.

“Mr. Carlyle married Lady Isabel Vane, the late Lord Mount Severn’s daughter.  She was attractive and beautiful, but I do not fancy she cared very much for her husband.  However that may have been, she ran away from him.”

“It was very sad,” observed Lady Isabel, feeling that she was expected to say something.  Besides, she had her role to play.

“Sad?  It was wicked—­it was infamous!” returned Mrs. Carlyle, giving way to some excitement.  “Of all men living, of all husbands, Mr. Carlyle least deserved such a requital.  You will say so when you come to know.  And the affair altogether was a mystery; for it never was observed or suspected by any one that Lady Isabel entertained a liking for another.  It was Francis Levison she eloped with—­Sir Francis he is now.  He had been staying at East Lynne, but no one detected any undue intimacy between them, not even Mr. Carlyle.  To him, as others, her conduct must always remain a mystery.”

Madame appeared to be occupied with her spectacles, setting them straight.  Barbara continued,—­

“Of course the disgrace is reflected on the children, and always will be; the shame of having a divorced mother—­”

“Is she not dead?” interrupted Lady Isabel.

“She is dead—­oh, yes.  But they will not be the less pointed at, the girl especially, as I say.  They allude to their mother now and then in conversation, Wilson tells me; but I would recommend you, Madame Vine, not to encourage them in that.  They had better forget her.”

“Mr. Carlyle would naturally wish them to do so.”

“Most certainly.  There is little doubt that Mr. Carlyle would blot out the recollection of her, were it possible.  But unfortunately she was the children’s mother, and, for that, there’s no help.  I trust you will be able to instill principles into the little girl which will keep her from a like fate.”

“I will try,” answered Lady Isabel, with more fervor than she had yet spoken.  “Do you have the children much with you, may I inquire?”

“No.  I never was fond of being troubled with children.  When my own grow up into childhood I shall deem the nursery and the schoolroom the fitter place for them.  What I trust I shall never give up to another, will be the training of my children,” pursued Barbara.  “Let the offices properly pertaining to a nurse be performed by the nurse—­of course, taking care that she is thoroughly to be depended on.  Let her have the trouble of the children, their noise, their romping; in short, let the nursery