“True,” issued from her trembling lips.

“Next came her death; and I cannot but think it was sent to her in mercy.  I trust she was prepared for it, and had made her peace with God.  When all else is taken from us, we turn to him; I hope she had learned to find the Refuge.”

“How did Mr. Carlyle receive the news of her death?” murmured Lady Isabel, a question which had been often in her thoughts.

“I cannot tell; he made no outward sign either of satisfaction or grief.  It was too delicate a subject for any one to enter upon with him, and most assuredly he did not enter upon it himself.  After he was engaged to my child, he told me he should never have married during Lady Isabel’s life.”

“From—­from—­the remains of affection?”

“I should think not.  I inferred it to be from conscientious scruples.  All his affection is given to his present wife.  There is no doubt that he loves her with a true, a fervent, a lasting love:  though there may have been more romantic sentiment in the early passion felt for Lady Isabel.  Poor thing!  She gave up a sincere heart, a happy home.”

Ay, poor thing!  She had very nearly wailed forth her vain despair.

“I wonder whether the drawing-room is tenanted yet,” smiled Mrs. Hare, breaking a pause which had ensued.  “If so I suppose they will be expecting me there.”

“I will ascertain for you,” said Lady Isabel, speaking in the impulse of the moment; for she was craving an instant to herself, even though it were but in the next hall.

She quitted the gray parlor and approached the drawing-room.  Not a sound came from it; and, believing it was empty, she opened the door and looked cautiously in.

Quite empty.  The fire blazed, the chandelier was lighted, but nobody was enjoying the warmth or the light.  From the inner room, however, came the sound of the piano, and the tones of Mr. Carlyle’s voice.  She recognized the chords of the music—­they were those of the accompaniment to the song he had so loved when she sang it him.  Who was about to sing it to him now?

Lady Isabel stole across the drawing-room to the other door, which was ajar.  Barbara was seated at the piano, and Mr. Carlyle stood by her, his arm on her chair, and bending his face on a level with hers, possibly to look at the music.  So once had stolen, so once had peeped the unhappy Barbara, to hear this selfsame song. She had been his wife then; she had craved, and received his kisses when it was over.  Their positions were reversed.

Barbara began.  Her voice had not the brilliant power of Lady Isabel’s, but it was a sweet and pleasant voice to listen to.

     “When other lips and other hearts
          Their tales of love shall tell,
     In language whose excess imparts
          The power they feel so well,
     There may, perhaps, in such a scene,
          Some recollection be,
     Of days that have as happy been—­
          And you’ll remember me.”