“It seems so, to speak of it,” said Miss Corny; “but facts are facts.  She was young and gay, active, when she left here, upright as a dart, her dark hair drawn from her open brow, and flowing on her neck, her cheeks like crimson paint, her face altogether beautiful.  Madame Vine arrived here a pale, stooping woman, lame of one leg, shorter than Lady Isabel—­and her figure stuffed out under those sacks of jackets.  Not a bit, scarcely, of her forehead to be seen, for gray velvet and gray bands of hair; her head smothered under a close cap, large, blue, double spectacles hiding the eyes and their sides, and the throat tied up; the chin partially.  The mouth was entirely altered in its character, and that upward scar, always so conspicuous, made it almost ugly.  Then she had lost some of her front teeth, you know, and she lisped when she spoke.  Take her for all in all,” summed up Miss Carlyle, “she looked no more like Isabel who went away from here than I look like Adam.  Just get your dearest friend damaged and disguised as she was, my lord, and see if you’d recognize him.”

The observation came home to Lord Mount Severn.  A gentleman whom he knew well, had been so altered by a fearful accident, that little resemblance could be traced to his former self.  In fact, his own family could not recognize him:  and he used an artificial disguise.  It was a case in point; and—­reader—­I assure you it was a true one.

“It was the disguise that we ought to have suspected,” quietly observed Mr. Carlyle.  “The likeness was not sufficiently striking to cause suspicion.”

“But she turned the house from that scent as soon as she came into it,” struck in Miss Corny, “telling of the ‘neuralgic pains’ that affected her head and face, rendering the guarding them from exposure necessary.  Remember, Lord Mount Severn, that the Ducies had been with her in Germany, and had never suspected her.  Remember also another thing, that, however great a likeness we may have detected, we could not and did not speak of it, one to another.  Lady Isabel’s name is never so much as whispered among us.”

“True:  all true,” nodded the earl.  And they sat themselves down to breakfast.

On the Friday, the following letter was dispatched to Mrs. Carlyle.

“MY DEAREST—­I find I shall not be able to get to you on Saturday afternoon, as I promised, but will leave here by the late train that night.  Mind you don’t sit up for me.  Lord Mount Severn is here for a few days; he sends his regards to you.

“And now, Barbara, prepare for news that will prove a shock.  Madame Vine is dead.  She grew rapidly worse, they tell me, after our departure, and died on Wednesday night.  I am glad you were away.

“Love from the children.  Lucy and Archie are still at Cornelia’s; Arthur wearing out Sarah’s legs in the nursery.

“Ever yours, my dearest,

“ARCHIBALD CARLYLE.”