now the turn of Lady Isabel. She had no more
decided disorder than the countess had had, yet death had marked her.
She felt that it had, and in its approach she dreaded not, as she once
had done, the consequences that must ensue, did discovery come. Which
brings us back to the point whence ensued this long digression. I dare
say you are chafing at it, but it is not often I trouble you with one.

But she would not willingly let discovery come, neither had she the
least intention of remaining at East Lynne to die. Where she should take
refuge was quite a secondary consideration, only let her get smoothly
and plausibly away. Joyce, in her dread, was forever urging it. Of
course, the preliminary step was to arrange matters with Mrs. Carlyle,
and in the afternoon of the day following the funeral, Lady Isabel
proceeded to her dressing-room, and craved an interview.

Mr. Carlyle quitted the room as she entered it. Barbara, fatigued with a
recent drive, was lying on the sofa. She would scarcely take the notice.

"We shall be so sorry to lose you, Madame Vine. You are all we could
wish for Lucy, and Mr. Carlyle feels truly grateful for your love and
attention to his poor boy."

"To leave you will give me pain also," Madame Vine answered, in a
subdued tone. Pain? Ay. Mrs. Carlyle little guessed at its extent. All
she cared for on earth she should leave behind her at East Lynne.

"Indeed you must not leave," resumed Barbara. "It would be unjust
to allow you to do so. You have made yourself ill, waiting upon poor
William, and you must stay here and take a holiday until you are cured.
You will soon get well, if you will only suffer yourself to be properly
waited on and taken care of."

"You are very considerate. Pray do not think me insensible if I decline.
I believe my strength is beyond getting up--that I shall never be able
to teach again."

"Oh, nonsense," said Barbara, in her quick way. "We are all given to
fancy the worst when we are ill. I was feeling terribly weak, only a few
minutes ago, and said something of the same sort to Archibald. He talked
and soothed me out of it. I wish you had your dear husband living,
Madame Vine, to support you and love you, as I have him."

A tinge of scarlet streaked Madame Vine's pale face, and she laid her
hand upon her beating heart.

"How could you think of leaving? We should be glad to help re-establish
your health, in any case, but it is only fair to do it now. I felt
sure, by