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