lady," was the decisive answer. "It must not be. It
is as a thing impossible."

Lady Isabel burst into tears. "I can't die for the trouble," she wailed.
"You keep my children from me. They must not come, you say, lest I
should betray myself. Now you would keep my husband. Joyce, Joyce, let
me see him!"

Her husband! Poor thing! Joyce was in a maze of distress, though not the
less firm. Her eyes were wet with tears; but she believed she should be
infringing her allegiance to her mistress did she bring Mr. Carlyle to
the presence of his former wife; altogether it might be productive of
nothing but confusion.

A knock at the chamber door. Joyce called out, "Come in." The two maids,
Hannah and Sarah, were alone in the habit of coming to the room, and
neither of them had ever known Madame Vine as Lady Isabel. Sarah put in
her head.

"Master wants you, Miss Joyce."

"I'll come."

"He is in the dining-room. I have just taken down Master Arthur to him."

Mr. Carlyle had got "Master Arthur" on his shoulder when Joyce entered.
Master Arthur was decidedly given to noise and rebellion, and was
already, as Wilson expressed it, "sturdy upon his pins."

"How is Madame Vine, Joyce?"

Joyce scarcely knew how to answer. But she did not dare to equivocate
as to her precarious state. And where the use, when a few hours would
probably see the end of it?

"She is very ill, indeed, sir."

"Worse?"

"Sir, I fear she is dying."

Mr. Carlyle, in his consternation, put down Arthur. "Dying!"

"I hardly think she will last till morning, sir!"

"Why, what has killed her?" he uttered in amazement.

Joyce did not answer. She looked pale and confused.

"Have you had Dr. Martin?"

"Oh, no, sir. It would be of no use."

"No use!" repeated Mr. Carlyle, in a sharp accent. "Is that the way to
treat dying people? Assume it is of no use to send for advice, and so
quietly let them die! If Madame Vine is as ill as you say, a telegraphic
message must be sent off at once. I had better see her," he cried,
moving to the door.

Joyce, in her perplexity, dared to place her back against it, preventing
his egress. "Oh, master! I beg your pardon, but--it would not be right.
Please, sir, do not think of going into her room!"

Mr. Carlyle thought Joyce was taken with a fit of prudery. "Why can't I
go in?" he asked.

"Mrs. Carlyle would not like it, sir," stammered Joyce, her cheeks
scarlet now.

Mr. Carlyle stared at her. "Some of you take