a remained behind at East Lynne to spend the rest of the day."

"I remember it."

"I was sent to fetch her home in the evening, Jasper being out. I came
the field way; for the dust by the road was enough to smother one, and
by the last stile but one, what do you think I came upon?"

Joyce lifted her eyes. "A snake perhaps."

"I came upon Miss Barbara and Mr. Carlyle. What had passed, nobody knows
but themselves. She was leaning back against the stile, crying; low,
soft sobs breaking from her, like one might expect to hear from a
breaking heart. It seemed as if she had been reproaching him, as if some
explanation had passed, and I heard him say that from henceforth they
could only be brother and sister. I spoke soon, for fear they should see
me, and Mr. Carlyle got over the stile. Miss Barbara said to him that he
need not come any further, but he held out his arm, and came with her to
our back gate. I went on then to open the door, and I saw him with his
head bent down to her, and her two hands held in his. We don't know how
it is between them, I tell you."

"At any rate, she is a downright fool to suffer herself to love him
still!" uttered Joyce, indignantly.

"So she is, but she does do it. She'll often steal out to the gate about
the time she knows he'll be passing, and watch him by, not letting him
see her. It is nothing but her unhappiness, her jealousy of Lady Isabel,
that makes her cross. I assure you, Joyce, in this past year she had so
changed that she's not like the same person. If Mr. Carlyle should ever
get tired of my lady, and--"

"Wilson," harshly interrupted Joyce, "have the goodness to recollect
yourself."

"What have I said not? Nothing but truth. Men are shamefully fickle,
husbands worse than sweethearts, and I'm sure I'm not thinking of
anything wrong. But to go back to the argument that we began with--I
say that if anything happened to my lady, Miss Barbara, as sure as fate,
would step into her shoes."

"Nothing is going to happen to her," continued Joyce, with composure.

"I hope it is not, now or later--for the sake of this dear little
innocent thing upon my lap," went on the undaunted Wilson. "She would
not make a very kind stepmother, for it is certain that where the first
wife had been hated, her children won't be loved. She would turn Mr.
Carlyle against them--"

"I tell you what it is, Wilson," interrupted Joyce, in a firm,
unmistakable tone, "if you think to pursue those sort of