up odd ideas," he cried.
"In Mrs. Carlyle's absence, it is necessary that some one should see
her! Let a lady die in my house, and never see after her! You are out of
your senses, Joyce. I shall go in after dinner; so prepare Madame Vine."

The dinner was being brought in then. Joyce, feeling like one in
a nervous attack, picked up Arthur and carried him to Sarah in the
nursery. What on earth was she to do?

Scarcely had Mr. Carlyle begun his dinner, when his sister entered. Some
grievance had arisen between her and the tenants of certain houses of
hers, and she was bringing the dispute to him. Before he would hear it,
he begged her to go up to Madame Vine, telling her what Joyce had said
of her state.

"Dying!" exclaimed Miss Corny, in disbelieving derision. "That Joyce has
been more like a simpleton lately than like herself. I can't think what
has come to the woman."

She took off her bonnet and mantle, and laid them on a chair, gave a
twitch or two to her cap, as she surveyed it in the pier-glass, and went
upstairs. Joyce answered her knock at the invalid's door; and Joyce,
when she saw who it was, turned as white as any sheet.

"Oh, ma'am, you must not come in!" she blundered out, in her confusion
and fear, as she put herself right in the doorway.

"Who is to keep me out?" demanded Miss Carlyle, after a pause of
surprise, her tone of quiet power. "Move away, girl. Joyce, I think your
brain must be softening. What will you try at next?"

Joyce was powerless, both in right and strength, and she knew it. She
knew there was no help--that Miss Carlyle would and must enter. She
stood aside, shivering, and passed out of the room as soon as Miss
Carlyle was within it.

Ah! there could no longer be concealment now! There she was, her pale
face lying against the pillow, free from its disguising trappings. The
band of gray velvet, the spectacles, the wraps for the throat and chin,
the huge cap, all were gone. It was the face of Lady Isabel; changed,
certainly, very, very much; but still hers. The silvered hair fell
on either side of her face, like the silky curls had once fallen; the
sweet, sad eyes were the eyes of yore.

"Mercy be good to us!" uttered Miss Carlyle.

They remained gazing at each other, both panting with emotion; yes, even
Miss Carlyle. Though a wild suspicion had once crossed her brain that
Madame Vine might be Lady Isabel, it had died away again, from the
sheer improbability of the thing, as much