She rose on the Saturday morning weak and languid, the effects of the night of grief, and Marvel brought her breakfast up.  William Vane stole into her room afterward; he was attached to her in a remarkable degree.

“Mamma’s going out,” he exclaimed, in the course of the morning.  “Look, Isabel.”

Isabel went to the window.  Lady Mount Severn was in the pony carriage, Francis Levison driving.

“We can go down now, Isabel, nobody will be there.”

She assented, and went down with William; but scarcely were they in the drawing-room when a servant entered with a card on a salver.

“A gentleman, my lady, wishes to see you.”

“To see me!” returned Isabel, in surprise, “or Lady Mount Severn?”

“He asked for you, my lady.”

She took up the card.  “Mr. Carlyle.”  “Oh!” she uttered, in a tone of joyful surprise, “show him in.”

It is curious, nay, appalling, to trace the thread in a human life; how the most trivial occurrences lead to the great events of existence, bringing forth happiness or misery, weal or woe.  A client of Mr. Carlyle’s, travelling from one part of England to the other, was arrested by illness at Castle Marling—­grave illness, it appeared to be, inducing fears of death.  He had not, as the phrase goes, settled his affairs, and Mr. Carlyle was telegraphed for in haste, to make his will, and for other private matters.  A very simple occurrence it appeared to Mr. Carlyle, this journey, and yet it was destined to lead to events that would end only with his own life.

Mr. Carlyle entered, unaffected and gentlemanly as ever, with his noble form, his attractive face, and his drooping eyelids.  She advanced to meet him, holding out her hand, her countenance betraying her pleasure.

“This is indeed unexpected,” she exclaimed.  “How very pleased I am to see you.”

“Business brought me yesterday to Castle Marling.  I could not leave it again without calling on you.  I hear that Lord Mount Severn is absent.”

“He is in France,” she rejoined.  “I said we should be sure to meet again; do you remember, Mr. Carlyle?  You——­”

Isabel suddenly stopped; for with the word “remember,” she also remembered something—­the hundred pound note—­and what she was saying faltered on her tongue.  Confused, indeed, grew she:  for, alas! she had changed and partly spent it. How was it possible to ask Lady Mount Severn for money?  And the earl was nearly always away.  Mr. Carlyle saw her embarrassment, though he may not have detected its cause.

“What a fine boy!” exclaimed he, looking at the child.

“It is Lord Vane,” said Isabel.

“A truthful, earnest spire, I am sure,” he continued, gazing at his open countenance.  “How old are you, my little man?”

“I am six, sir; and my brother was four.”

Isabel bent over the child—­an excuse to cover her perplexity.  “You do not know this gentleman, William.  It is Mr. Carlyle, and he has been very kind to me.”