whatever may have been the aspect he wore for others, she had deeply loved and reverenced—­was sharply poignant; but in the midst of that grief, and of the singular troubles his death had brought forth, she could not shut her eyes to her own future.  Its blank uncertainty, its shadowed-forth embarrassments did obtrude themselves and the words of that plain-speaking creditor kept ringing in her ears:  “You won’t have a roof to put your head under, or a guinea to call your own.”  Where was she to go?  With whom to live?  She was in Mr. Carlyle’s house now.  And how was she to pay the servants?  Money was owing to them all.

“Mr. Carlyle, how long has this house been yours?” she asked, breaking the silence.

“It was in June that the purchase was completed.  Did Lord Mount Severn never tell you he had sold it to me?”

“No, never.  All these things are yours?” glancing round the room.

“The furniture was sold with the house.  Not these sort of things,” he added, his eye falling on the silver on the breakfast table; “not the plate and linen.”

“Not the plate and linen!  Then those poor men who were here yesterday have a right to them,” she quickly cried.

“I scarcely know.  I believe the plate goes with the entail—­and the jewels go also.  The linen cannot be of consequence either way.”

“Are my clothes my own?”

He smiled as he looked at her; smiled at her simplicity, and assured her that they were nobody’s else.

“I did not know,” she sighed; “I did not understand.  So many strange things have happened in the last day or two, that I seem to understand nothing.”

Indeed, she could not understand.  She had no definite ideas on the subject of this transfer of East Lynne to Mr. Carlyle; plenty of indefinite ones, and they were haunting her.  Fears of debt to him, and of the house and its contents being handed over to him in liquidation, perhaps only partial, were working in her brain.

“Does my father owe you any money?” she breathed in a timid tone.

“Not any,” he replied.  “Lord Mount Severn was never indebted to me in his life.”

“Yet you purchased East Lynne?”

“As any one else might have done,” he answered, discerning the drift of her thoughts.  “I was in search of an eligible estate to invest money in, and East Lynne suited me.”

“I feel my position, Mr. Carlyle,” she resumed, the rebellious fears forcing themselves to her eyes; “thus to be intruding upon you for a shelter.  And I cannot help myself.”

“You can help grieving me,” he gently answered, “which you do much when you talk of obligation.  The obligation is on my side, Lady Isabel; and when I express a hope that you will continue at East Lynne while it can be of service, however prolonged that period may be, I assure you, I say it in all sincerity.”

“You are very kind,” she faltered; “and for a few days; until I can think; until—­Oh, Mr. Carlyle, are papa’s affairs really so bad as they said yesterday?” she broke off, her perplexities recurring to her with vehement force.  “Is there nothing left?”