said Joyce, now fully aroused. "She came here and woke me.
That was just before twelve, for I heard the clock strike. She did not
stay here a minute, sir."

"Woke you!" repeated Mr. Carlyle. "What did she want? What did she come
here for?"

Thoughts are quick; imagination is still quicker; and Joyce was giving
the reins to both. Her mistress's gloomy and ambiguous words were
crowding on her brain. Three o'clock and she had not been in bed, and
was not to be found in the house? A nameless horror struggled to Joyce's
face, her eyes were dilating with it; she seized and threw on a large
flannel gown which lay on a chair by the bed, and forgetful of
her master who stood there, out she sprang to the floor. All minor
considerations faded to insignificance beside the terrible dread which
had taken possession of her. Clasping the flannel gown tight around her
with one hand, she laid the other on the arm of Mr. Carlyle.

"Oh, master! Oh, master! She has destroyed herself! I see it all now."

"Joyce!" sternly interrupted Mr. Carlyle.

"She has destroyed herself, as true as that we two are living here,"
persisted Joyce, her own face livid with emotion. "I can understand her
words now; I could not before. She came here--and her face was like a
corpse as the light fell upon it--saying she had come to get a promise
from me to stay with her children when she was gone, I asked whether she
was ill, and she answered, 'Yes, ill and wretched.' Oh, sir, may heaven
support you under this dreadful trial!"

Mr. Carlyle felt bewildered--perplexed. Not a syllable did he believe.
He was not angry with Joyce, for he thought she had lost her reason.

"It is so, sir, incredible as you may deem my words," pursued Joyce,
wringing her hands. "My lady has been miserably unhappy; and that has
driven her to it."

"Joyce, are you in your senses or out of them?" demanded Mr. Carlyle, a
certain sternness in his tone. "Your lady miserably unhappy! What do you
mean?"

Before Joyce could answer, an addition was received to the company in
the person of Miss Carlyle, who appeared in black stockings and a shawl,
and the lofty nightcap. Hearing voices in Joyce's room, which was above
her own, and full of curiosity, she ascended, not choosing to be shut
out from the conference.

"Whatever's up?" cried she. "Is Lady Isabel found?"

"She is not found, and she never will be found but in her
winding-sheet," returned Joyce, whose lamentable and unusual stat