“I have no one else to spend my money on; I love the children,” was madame’s answer, somewhat sharply given, as if she were jealous of the interference between her and the children, and would resent it.

“Nay, you have yourself.  And if you do not require much outlay, you have, I should suppose, a reserve fund to which to put your money.  Be so kind as to take the hint, madame, otherwise I shall be compelled more peremptorily to forbid your generosity.  It is very good of you, very kind; but if you do not think yourself, we must for you.”

“I will buy them less,” was the murmured answer.  “I must give them a little token of love now and then.”

“That you are welcome to do—­a ‘little token,’ once in a way, but not the costly toys you have been purchasing.  Have you ever had an acquaintance with Sir Francis Levison?” continued Mrs. Carlyle, passing with abruptness from one point to another.

An inward shiver, a burning cheek, a heartpang of wild remorse, and a faint answer.  “No.”

“I fancied from your manner when I was speaking of him the other day, that you knew him or had known him.  No compliment, you will say, to assume an acquaintance with such a man.  He is a stranger to you, then?”

Another faint reply.  “Yes.”

Barbara paused.

“Do you believe in fatality, Madame Vine?”

“Yes, I do,” was the steady answer.

“I don’t,” and yet the very question proved that she did not wholly disbelieve it.  “No, I don’t,” added Barbara, stoutly, as she approached the sofa vacated by William, and sat down upon it, thus bringing herself opposite and near to Madame Vine.  “Are you aware that it was Francis Levison who brought the evil to this house?”

“The evil——­” stammered Madame Vine.

“Yes, it was he,” she resumed, taking the hesitating answer for an admission that the governess knew nothing, or but little, of past events.  “It was he who took Lady Isabel from her home—­though perhaps she was as willing to go as he was to take her; I do know—­”

“Oh, no, no!” broke from the unguarded lips of Madame Vine.  “At least—­I mean—­I should think not,” she added, in confusion.

“We shall never know; and of what consequence is it?  One thing is certain, she went; another thing, almost equally certain, is, she did not go against her will.  Did you ever hear the details?”

“N—­o.”  Her answer would have been “Yes,” but possibly the next question might have been, “From whom did you hear them?”

“He was staying at East Lynne.  The man had been abroad; outlawed; dared not show his face in England; and Mr. Carlyle, in his generosity, invited him to East Lynne as a place of shelter, where he would be safe from his creditors while something was arranged.  He was a connection in some way of Lady Isabel’s, and they repaid Mr. Carlyle, he and she, by quitting East Lynne together.”

“Why did Mr. Carlyle give that invitation?” The words were uttered in a spirit of remorseful wailing.  Mrs. Carlyle believed they were a question put, and she rose up haughtily against it.