Scarcely had Mr. Carlyle begun his dinner, when his sister entered.  Some grievance had arisen between her and the tenants of certain houses of hers, and she was bringing the dispute to him.  Before he would hear it, he begged her to go up to Madame Vine, telling her what Joyce had said of her state.

“Dying!” exclaimed Miss Corny, in disbelieving derision.  “That Joyce has been more like a simpleton lately than like herself.  I can’t think what has come to the woman.”

She took off her bonnet and mantle, and laid them on a chair, gave a twitch or two to her cap, as she surveyed it in the pier-glass, and went upstairs.  Joyce answered her knock at the invalid’s door; and Joyce, when she saw who it was, turned as white as any sheet.

“Oh, ma’am, you must not come in!” she blundered out, in her confusion and fear, as she put herself right in the doorway.

“Who is to keep me out?” demanded Miss Carlyle, after a pause of surprise, her tone of quiet power.  “Move away, girl.  Joyce, I think your brain must be softening.  What will you try at next?”

Joyce was powerless, both in right and strength, and she knew it.  She knew there was no help—­that Miss Carlyle would and must enter.  She stood aside, shivering, and passed out of the room as soon as Miss Carlyle was within it.

Ah! there could no longer be concealment now!  There she was, her pale face lying against the pillow, free from its disguising trappings.  The band of gray velvet, the spectacles, the wraps for the throat and chin, the huge cap, all were gone.  It was the face of Lady Isabel; changed, certainly, very, very much; but still hers.  The silvered hair fell on either side of her face, like the silky curls had once fallen; the sweet, sad eyes were the eyes of yore.

“Mercy be good to us!” uttered Miss Carlyle.

They remained gazing at each other, both panting with emotion; yes, even Miss Carlyle.  Though a wild suspicion had once crossed her brain that Madame Vine might be Lady Isabel, it had died away again, from the sheer improbability of the thing, as much as from the convincing proofs offered by Lord Mount Severn.  Not but what Miss Carlyle had borne in mind the suspicion, and had been fond of tracing the likeness in Madame Vine’s face.

“How could you dare come back here!” she abruptly asked, her tone of sad, soft wailing, not one of reproach.

Lady Isabel humbly crossed her attenuated hands upon her chest.  “My children,” she whispered.  “How could I stay away from them?  Have pity, Miss Carlyle!  Don’t reproach me.  I am on my way to God, to answer for all my sins and sorrows.”

“I do not reproach you,” said Miss Carlyle.

“I am so glad to go,” she continued to murmur, her eyes full of tears.  “Jesus did not come, you know, to save the good like you; He came for the sake of us poor sinners.  I tried to take up my cross, as He bade us, and bear it bravely for His sake; but its weight has killed me.”