“Papa not so well!” she quickly exclaimed.

“Not quite.  At any rate, he wishes you to go home.  Will you allow me to pilot you through the room?”

“Oh, my dear, considerate papa!” she laughed.  “He fears I shall be weary, and would emancipate me before the time.  Thank you, Mr. Carlyle, but I will wait till the conclusion.”

“No, no, Lady Isabel, it is not that.  Lord Mount Severn is indeed worse.”

Her countenance changed to seriousness; but she was not alarmed.  “Very well.  When the song is over—­not to disturb the room.”

“I think you had better lose no time,” he urged.  “Never mind the song and the room.”

She rose instantly, and put her arm within Mr. Carlyle’s.  A hasty word of explanation to Mrs. Ducie, and he led her away, the room, in its surprise, making for them what space it might.  Many an eye followed them, but none more curiously and eagerly than Barbara Hare’s.  “Where is he going to take her to?” involuntarily uttered Barbara.

“How should I know?” returned Miss Corny.  “Barbara, you have done nothing but fidget all the night; what’s the matter with you?  Folks come to a concert to listen, not to talk and fidget.”

Isabel’s mantle was procured from the ante-room where it had been left, and she descended the stairs with Mr. Carlyle.  The carriage was drawn up close to the entrance, and the coachman had his reins gathered, ready to start.  The footman—­not the one who had gone upstairs—­threw open the carriage door as he saw her.  He was new in the service, a simple country native, just engaged.  She withdrew her arm from Mr. Carlyle’s, and stood a moment before stepping in, looking at the man.

“Is papa much worse?”

“Oh, yes, my lady; he was screaming shocking.  But they think he’ll live till morning.”

With a sharp cry, she seized the arm of Mr. Carlyle—­seized it for support in her shock of agony.  Mr. Carlyle rudely thrust the man away; he would willingly have flung him at full length on the pavement.

“Oh, Mr. Carlyle, why did you not tell me?” she shivered.

“My dear Lady Isabel, I am grieved that you are told now.  But take comfort; you know how ill he frequently is, and this may be but an ordinary attack.  Step in.  I trust we shall find it nothing more.”

“Are you going home with me?”

“Certainly; I shall not leave you to go alone.”

She moved to the other side of the chariot, making room for him.

“Thank you.  I will sit outside.”

“But the night is cold.”

“Oh, no.”  He closed the door, and took his seat by the coachman; the footman got up behind, and the carriage sped away.  Isabel gathered herself into her corner, and moaned aloud in her suspense and helplessness.

The coachman drove rapidly, and soon whipped his horses through the lodge-gates.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Mason, waited at the hall-door to receive Lady Isabel.  Mr. Carlyle helped her out of the carriage, and gave her his arm up the steps.  She scarcely dared to inquire.