ave entire respite from all charge; and that poor
governess dared not say, let them stay with me. Lady Isabel had also
purposed to be safely away from East Lynne before the time came for her
to die; but that time had advanced with giant strides, and the period
for removal was past. She was going out as her mother had done, rapidly
unexpectedly, "like the snuff of a candle." Wilson was in attendance on
her mistress; Joyce remained at home.

Barbara had chosen a watering-place near, not thirty miles off, so that
Mr. Carlyle went there most evenings, returning to his office in the
mornings. Thus he saw little of East Lynne, paying one or two flying
visits only. From the Saturday to the Wednesday in the second week, he
did not come home at all, and it was in those few days that Lady Isabel
had changed for the worse. On the Wednesday he was expected home to
dinner and to sleep.

Joyce was in a state of frenzy--or next door to it. Lady Isabel was
dying, and what would become of the ominous secret? A conviction, born
of her fears, was on the girl's mind that, with death, the whole must
become known; and who was to foresee what blame might not be cast upon
her, by her master and mistress, for not having disclosed it? She might
be accused of having been an abettor in the plot from the first! Fifty
times it was in Joyce's mind to send for Miss Carlyle and tell her all.

The afternoon was fast waning, and the spirit of Lady Isabel seemed to
be waning with it. Joyce was in the room in attendance upon her. She had
been in a fainting state all day, but felt better now. She was partially
raised in bed by pillows, a white Cashmere shawl over her shoulders, her
nightcap off, to allow as much air as possible to come to her, and the
windows stood open.

Footsteps sounded on the gravel in the quiet stillness of the summer
air. They penetrated even to her ear, for all her faculties were keen
yet. Beloved footsteps; and a tinge of hectic rose to her cheeks. Joyce,
who stood at the window, glanced out. It was Mr. Carlyle.

"Joyce!" came forth a cry from the bed, sharp and eager.

Joyce turned round. "My lady?"

"I should die happily if I might see him."

"See him!" uttered Joyce, doubting her own ears. "My lady! See _him_!
Mr. Carlyle!"

"What can it signify? I am already as one dead. Should I ask it or wish
it, think you, in rude life? The yearning has been upon me for days
Joyce; it is keeping death away."

"It could not be, my