Later in the day the earl grew alarmingly worse; his paroxysms of pain were awful.  Isabel, who was kept from the room, knew nothing of the danger, and the earl’s groans did not penetrate to her ears.  She dressed herself in a gleeful mode, full of laughing willfulness, Marvel, her maid, superintending in stiff displeasure, for the attire chosen did not meet her approbation.  When ready, she went into the earl’s room.

“Shall I do, papa?”

Lord Mount Severn raised his swollen eyelids and drew the clothes from his flushed face.  A shining vision was standing before him, a beauteous queen, a gleaming fairy; he hardly knew what she looked like.  She had put on a white lace hat and her diamonds; the dress was rich, and the jewels gleamed from her delicate arms:  and her cheeks were flushed and her curls were flowing.

The earl stared at her in amazement.  “How could you dress yourself off like that for a concert?  You are out of yours senses, Isabel.”

“Marvel thinks so, too,” was the gay answer; “she has had a cross face since I told her what to put on.  But I did it on purpose, papa; I thought I would show those West Lynne people that I think the poor man’s moment worth going to, and worth dressing for.”

“You will have the whole room gaping at you.”

“I don’t mind.  I’ll bring you word all about it.  Let them gape.”

“You vain child!  You have so dressed yourself to please your vanity.  But, Isabel, you—­oooh!”

Isabel started as she stood; the earl’s groan of pain was dreadful.

“An awful twinge, child.  There, go along; talking makes me worse.”

“Papa, shall I stay at home with you?” she gravely asked.  “Every consideration should give way to illness.  If you would like me to remain, or if I can do any good, pray let me.”

“Quite the contrary; I had rather you were away.  You can do no earthly good, for I could not have you in the room.  Good-bye, darling.  If you see Carlyle, tell him I shall hope to see him to-morrow.”

The room was partly full when Mrs. Ducie, her two daughters, and Lady Isabel entered, and were conducted to seats by Mr. Kane—­seats he had reserved for them at the upper end, near the orchestra.  The same dazzling vision which had burst on the sight of Lord Mount Severn fell on that of the audience, in Isabel, with her rich, white dress, her glittering diamonds, her flowing curls, and her wondrous beauty.  The Misses Ducie, plain girls, in brown silks, turned up their noses worse than nature had done it for them, and Mrs. Ducie heaved an audible sigh.

“The poor motherless girl is to be pitied, my dears,” she whispered; “she has nobody to point out to her suitable attire.  This ridiculous decking out must have been Marvel’s doings.”

But she looked like a lily among poppies and sunflowers whether the “decking out” was ridiculous or not.  Was Lord Mount Severn right, when he accused her of dressing so in self-gratification?  Very likely, for has not the great preacher said that childhood and youth are vanity?