Wilson, who stared only in a less degree than Archie, for she deemed the new governess had gone suddenly mad, gave some voluble assent, and turned her attention upon Archie.

“You naughty young monkey!  How dare you rush out in that way with Sarah’s heart-broom?  I’ll tell you what it is, sir, you are getting a might deal too owdacious and rumbustical for the nursery.  I shall speak to your mamma about it.”

She seized hold of the child and shook him.  Lady Isabel started forward, her hands up, her voice one of painful entreaty.

“Oh, don’t, don’t beat him!  I cannot see him beaten.”

“Beaten!” echoed Wilson; “if he got a good beating it would be all the better for him; but it’s what he never does get.  A little shake, or a tap, is all I must give; and it’s not half enough.  You wouldn’t believe the sturdy impudence of that boy, madame; he runs riot, he does.  The other two never gave a quarter of the trouble.  Come along, you figure!  I’ll have a bolt put at the top of the nursery door; and if I did, he’d be for climbing up the door-post to get at it.”

The last sentence Wilson delivered to the governess, as she jerked Archie out of the room, along the passage, and into the nursery.  Lady Isabel sat down with a wrung heart, a chafed spirit.  Her own child!  And she might not say to the servant, you shall not beat him.

She descended to the gray parlor.  The two older children and breakfast were waiting; Joyce quitted the room when she entered it.

A graceful girl of eight years old, a fragile boy a year younger, both bearing her once lovely features—­her once bright and delicate complexion—­her large, soft brown eyes.  How utterly her heart yearned to them; but there must be no scene like there had just been above.  Nevertheless she stooped and kissed them both—­one kiss each of impassioned fervor.  Lucy was naturally silent, William somewhat talkative.

“You are our new governess,” said he.

“Yes.  We must be good friends.”

“Why not!” said the boy.  “We were good friends with Miss Manning.  I am to go into Latin soon—­as soon as my cough’s gone.  Do you know Latin?”

“No—­not to teach it,” she said, studiously avoiding all endearing epithets.

“Papa said you would be almost sure not to know Latin, for that ladies rarely did.  He said he should send up Mr. Kane to teach me.”

“Mr. Kane?” repeated Lady Isabel, the name striking upon her memory.  “Mr. Kane, the music-master?”

“How did you know he was a music-master?” cried shrewd William.  And Lady Isabel felt the red blood flush to her face at the unlucky admission she had made.  It flushed deeper at her own falsehood, as she muttered some evasive words about hearing of him from Mrs. Latimer.

“Yes, he is a music-master; but he does not get much money at it, and he teaches the classics as well.  He has come up to teach us music since Miss Manning left; mamma said that we ought not to lose our lessons.”