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gainst the wall, her apron up to her eyes. Miss Carlyle beckoned to her. "How long have you known of this?" "Since that night in the spring, when there was an alarm of fire. I saw her then, with nothing on her face, and knew her; though, at the first moment, I thought it was her ghost. Ma'am, I have just gone about since, like a ghost myself from fear." "Go and request your master to come up to me." "Oh, ma'am! Will it be well to tell him?" remonstrated Joyce. "Well that he should see her?" "Go and request your master to come to me," unequivocally repeated Miss Carlyle. "Are you mistress, Joyce, or am I?" Joyce went down and brought Mr. Carlyle up from the dinner-table. "Is Madame Vine worse, Cornelia? Will she see me?" "She wishes to see you." Miss Carlyle opened the door as she spoke. He motioned her to pass in first. "No," she said, "you had better see her alone." He was going in when Joyce caught his arm. "Master! Master! You ought to be prepared. Ma'am, won't you tell him?" He looked at them, thinking they must be moonstruck, for their conduct seemed inexplicable. Both were in evident agitation, an emotion Miss Carlyle was not given to. Her face and lips were twitching, but she kept a studied silence. Mr. Carlyle knit his brow and went into the chamber. They shut him in. He walked gently at once to the bed, in his straightforward manner. "I am grieved, Madame Vine----" The words faltered on his tongue. He was a man as little given to show emotion as man can well be. Did he think, as Joyce had once done, that it was a ghost he saw? Certain it is that his face and lips turned the hue of death, and he backed a few steps from the bed. The falling hair, the sweet, mournful eyes, the hectic which his presence brought to her cheeks, told too plainly of the Lady Isabel. "Archibald!" She put out her trembling hand. She caught him ere he had drawn quite beyond her reach. He looked at her, he looked round the room, as does one awaking from a dream. "I could not die without your forgiveness," she murmured, her eyes falling before him as she thought of her past. "Do you turn from me? Bear with me a little minute! Only say you forgive me, and I shall die in peace!" "Isabel?" he spoke, not knowing in the least what he said. "Are you--are you--were you Madame Vine?" "Oh, forgive--forgive me! I did not die. I got well from the accident, but it changed me dreadfully. Nobody knew me, and I
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