lasped upon her bosom,
as though life was heavy to bear. A gentle-spirited, high-born lady, as
I know she was, could not fail to be driven to desperation; and I know
that she has been."

Mr. Carlyle turned to his sister. "Can this be true?" he inquired, in a
tone of deep agitation.

She did not answer. Whether it was the shade cast by the nightcap, or
the reflection of the wax taper, her face looked of a green cast, and,
for the first time probably in Miss Carlyle's life, her words failed
her.

"May God forgive you, Cornelia!" he muttered, as he went out of the
chamber.

He descended to his own. That his wife had laid violent hands upon
herself, his reason utterly repudiated, she was one of the least likely
to commit so great a sin. He believed that, in her unhappiness, she
might have wandered out in the grounds, and was lingering there. By this
time the house was aroused, and the servants were astir. Joyce--surely a
supernatural strength was given her, for though she had been able to
put her foot to the ground, she had not yet walked upon it--crept
downstairs, and went into Lady Isabel's dressing-room. Mr. Carlyle was
hastily assuming the articles of attire he had not yet put on, to go out
and search the grounds, when Joyce limped in, holding out a note. Joyce
did not stand on ceremony that night.

"I found this in the dressing-glass drawer, sir. It is my lady's
writing."

He took it in his hand and looked at the address--"Archibald Carlyle."
Though a calm man, one who had his emotions under his own control, he
was no stoic, and his fingers shook as he broke the seal.

"When years go on, and my children ask where their mother is, and why
she left them, tell them that you, their father, goaded her to it. If
they inquire what she is, tell them, also, if you so will; but tell
them, at the same time, that you outraged and betrayed her, driving her
to the very depth of desperation ere she quitted them in her despair."

The handwriting, his wife's, swam before the eyes of Mr. Carlyle. All,
save the disgraceful fact that she had _flown_--and a horrible suspicion
began to dawn upon him, with whom--was totally incomprehensible. How had
he outraged her? In what manner had he goaded her to it. The discomforts
alluded to by Joyce, and the work of his sister, had evidently no part
in this; yet what had _he_ done? He read the letter again, more slowly.
No he could not comprehend it; he had not the clue.

At that moment t