Madame Vine said “Yes.”  Said it eagerly.  To have another fortnight with her children, Lucy and Archibald, was very like a reprieve, and she embraced it.  Although she knew, as I have said, that grim Death was on his way, she did not think he had drawn so near the end of his journey.  Her thoughts went back to the time when she had been ordered to the seaside after an illness.  It had been a marvel if they had not.  She remembered how he, her husband, had urged the change upon her; how he had taken her, traveling carefully; how tenderly anxious he had been in the arrangements for her comfort, when settling her in the lodgings; how, when he came again to see her, he had met her with his passionate fondness, thanking God for the visible improvement in her looks.  That one injunction which she had called him back to give him, as he was departing for the boat, was bitterly present to her now:  “Do not get making love to Barbara Hare.”  All this care, and love, and tenderness belonged now of right to Barbara, and were given to her.

But now Barbara, although she pressed Madame Vine to remain at East Lynne, and indeed would have been glad that she should do so, did not take her refusal at heart.  Barbara could not fail to perceive that she was a thoroughly refined gentlewoman, far superior to the generality of governesses.  That she was truly fond of Lucy, and most anxious for her welfare in every way, Barbara also saw.  For Lucy’s sake, therefore, she would be grieved to part with Madame Vine, and would raise her salary to anything in reason, if she would but stay.  But, on her own score, Barbara had as soon Madame Vine went as not; for, in her heart of hearts, she had never liked her.  She could not have told why.  Was it instinct?  Very probably.  The birds of the air, the beasts of the field, the fishes of the sea, have their instincts, and so does man have his.  Perhaps it was the unaccountable resemblance that Madame Vine bore to Lady Isabel.  A strange likeness!  Barbara often thought, but whether it lay in the face, the voice, or the manner, she could not decide.  A suspicion of the truth did not cross her mind.  How should it?  And she never spoke of it; had the resemblance been to any one but Lady Isabel she would have talked of it freely.  Or, it may have been that there was now and then a tone in Madame Vine’s voice that grated on her ear; a wrung, impatient tone, wanting in respect, savoring of hauteur, which Barbara did not understand, and did not like.  However it may have been, certain it is that Mrs. Carlyle would not shed tears after the governess.  Only for Lucy’s sake did she regret parting with her.

These different resemblances and reflections were separately passing through the minds of the two ladies when their conference was over.  Madame Vine at length rose from her chair to depart.

“Would you mind holding my baby for one minute?” cried Barbara.

Madame Vine quite started.