“Not always,” sighed Mrs. Hare.  “Sorrow, I grant you, does come all too frequently, from ill-doing; but the worst is, the consequences of this ill-doing fall upon the innocent as well as upon the guilty.  A husband’s errors will involve his innocent wife; parent’s sins fall upon their children; children will break the hearts of their parents.  I can truly say, speaking in all humble submission, that I am unconscious of having deserved the great sorrow which came upon me; that no act of mine invited it on; but though it has nearly killed me, I entertain no doubt that it is lined with mercy, if I could only bring my weak rebellious heart to look for it.  You, I feel sure, have been equally undeserving.”

She? Mrs. Hare marked not the flush of shame, the drooping of the eyelids.

“You have lost your little ones,” Mrs. Hare resumed.  “That is grief—­great grief; I would not underrate it; but, believe me, it is as nothing compared to the awful fate, should it ever fall upon you, of finding your children grow up and become that which makes you wish they had died in their infancy.  There are times when I am tempted to regret that all my treasures are not in that other world; that they had not gone before me.  Yes; sorrow is the lot of all.”

“Surely, not of all,” dissented Lady Isabel.  “There are some bright lots on earth.”

“There is not a lot but must bear its appointed share,” returned Mrs. Hare.  “Bright as it may appear, ay, and as it may continue to be for years, depend upon it, some darkness must overshadow it, earlier or later.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle—­what sorrow can there be in store for them?” asked Lady Isabel, her voice ringing with a strange sound, which Mrs. Hare noted, though she understood it not.

“Mrs. Carlyle’s lot is bright,” she said, a sweet smile illumining her features.  “She loves her husband with an impassioned love; and he is worthy of it.  A happy fate, indeed, is hers; but she must not expect to be exempted from sorrow.  Mr. Carlyle has had his share of it,” continued Mrs. Hare.

“Ah!”

“You have doubtless been made acquainted with his history.  His first wife left him—­left home and her children.  He bore it bravely before the world, but I know that it wrung his very heart-strings.  She was his heart’s sole idol.”

“She?  Not Barbara?”

The moment the word “Barbara” had escaped her lips, Lady Isabel, recollected herself.  She was only Madame Vine, the governess; what would Mrs. Hare think of her familiarity?

Mrs. Hare did not appear to have noticed it; she was absorbed in the subject.

“Barbara?” she uttered; “certainly not.  Had his first love been given to Barbara, he would have chosen her then.  It was given to Lady Isabel.”

“It is given his wife now?”

Mrs. Hare nearly laughed.

“Of course it is; would you wish it to be buried in the grave with the dead, and with one who was false to him?  But, my dear, she was the sweetest woman, that unfortunate Lady Isabel.  I loved her then, and I cannot help loving her still.  Others blamed her, but I pitied.  They were well matched; he so good and noble; she, so lovely and endearing.”