Mamma!  How the word, applied to Barbara, grated on her ear.

“Whom does he teach?” she asked.

“Us two,” replied William, pointing to his sister and himself.

“Do you always take bread and milk?” she inquired, perceiving that to be what they were eating.

“We get tired of it sometimes and then we have milk and water, and bread and butter, or honey; and then we take to bread and milk again.  It’s Aunt Cornelia who thinks we should eat bread and milk for breakfast.  She says papa never had anything else when he was a boy.”

Lucy looked up.

“Papa would give me an egg when I breakfasted with him,” cried she, “and Aunt Cornelia said it was not good for me, but papa gave it to me all the same.  I always had breakfast with him then.”

“And why do you not now?” asked Lady Isabel.

“I don’t know.  I have not since mamma came.”

The word “stepmother” rose up rebelliously in the heart of Lady Isabel.  Was Mrs. Carlyle putting away the children from their father?

Breakfast over, she gathered them to her, asking them various questions about their studies, their hours of recreation, the daily routine of their lives.

“This is not the schoolroom, you know,” cried William, when she made some inquiry as to their books.

“No?”

“The schoolroom is upstairs.  This is for our meals, and for you in an evening.”

The voice of Mr. Carlyle was heard at this juncture in the hall, and Lucy was springing toward the sound.  Lady Isabel, fearful lest he might enter if the child showed herself, stopped her with a hurried hand.

“Stay here, Isabel.”

“Her name’s Lucy,” said William, looking quickly up.  “Why do you call her Isabel?”

“I thought—­thought I had heard her called Isabel,” stammered the unfortunate lady, feeling quite confused with the errors she was committing.

“My name is Isabel Lucy,” said the child; “but I don’t know who could have told you, for I am never called Isabel.  I have not been since—­since—­shall I tell you?—­since mamma went away,” she concluded, dropping her voice.  “Mamma that was, you know.”

“Did she go?” cried Lady Isabel, full of emotion, and possessing a very faint idea of what she was saying.

“She was kidnapped,” whispered Lucy.

“Kidnapped!” was the surprised answer.

“Yes, or she would not have gone.  There was a wicked man on a visit to papa, and he stole her.  Wilson said she knew he was a kidnapper before he took mamma.  Papa said I was never to be called Isabel again, but Lucy.  Isabel was mamma’s name.”

“How do you know papa said it?” dreamily returned Lady Isabel.

“I heard him.  He said it to Joyce, and Joyce told the servants.  I put only Lucy to my copies.  I did put Isabel Lucy, but papa saw it one day, and he drew his pencil through Isabel, and told me to show it to Miss Manning.  After that, Miss Manning let me put nothing but Lucy.  I asked her why, and she told me papa preferred the name, and that I was not to ask questions.”