“Well, we must shelter him as best we can.”

“Archibald—­dear Archibald, what can be done to clear him?” she asked, the tears rising to her eyes.

“Being Levison, I cannot act.”

“What!” she uttered.  “Not act—­not act for Richard!”

He bent his clear, truthful eyes upon her.

“My dearest, how can I?”

She looked a little rebellious, and the tears fell.

“You have not considered, Barbara.  Any one in the world but Levison; it would look like my own revenge.”

“Forgive me!” she softly whispered.  “You are always right.  I did not think of it in that light.  But, what steps do you imagine can be taken?”

“It is a case encompassed with difficulties,” mused Mr. Carlyle.  “Let us wait until Richard comes.”

“Do you happen to have a five-pound note in your pocket, Archibald?  I had not one to send to him, and borrowed it from Madame Vine.”

He took out his pocket book and gave it to her.

In the gray parlor, in the dark twilight of the April evening—­or it was getting far into the night—­were William Carlyle and Lady Isabel.  It had been a warm day, but the spring evenings were still chilly, and a fire burned in the grate.  There was no blaze, the red embers were smoldering and half dead, but Madame Vine did not bestir herself to heed the fire.  William lay on the sofa, and she sat by, looking at him.  Her glasses were off, for the tears wetted them continually; and it was not the recognition of the children she feared.  He was tired with the drive to Lynneborough and back, and lay with eyes shut; she thought asleep.  Presently he opened them.

“How long will it be before I die?”

The words took her utterly by surprise, and her heart went round in a whirl.  “What do you mean, William?  Who said anything about dying?”

“Oh, I know.  I know by the fuss there is over me.  You heard what Hannah said the other night.”

“What?  When?”

“When she brought in the tea, and I was lying on the rug.  I was not asleep, though you thought I was.  You told her she ought to be more cautious, for that I might not have been asleep.”

“I don’t remember much about it,” said Lady Isabel, at her wits’ ends how to remove the impression Hannah’s words must have created, had he indeed heard them.  “Hannah talks great nonsense sometimes.”

“She said I was going on fast to the grave.”

“Did she?  Nobody attends to Hannah.  She is only a foolish girl.  We shall soon have you well, when the warm weather comes.”

“Madame Vine.”

“Well, my darling?”

“Where’s the use of your trying to deceive me?  Do you think I don’t see that you are doing it?  I’m not a baby; you might if it were Archibald.  What is it that’s the matter with me?”

“Nothing.  Only you are not strong.  When you get strong again, you will be as well as ever.”