was on a windy day in the
following March that a traveller arrived at Grenoble, and inquired his
way of a porter, to the best hotel in the place, his French being such
as only an Englishman can produce.

"Hotel? Let's see," returned the man, politely, but with native
indifference. "There are two hotels, nearly contiguous to each other,
and monsieur would find himself comfortable at either. There is the
Tross Dauphins, and there is the Ambassadeurs."

"Monsieur" chose haphazard, the Hotel des Ambassadeurs, and was
conducted to it. Shortly after his arrival there, he inquired his road
to the Place Grenette, and was offered to be shown: but he preferred
that it should be described to him, and to go alone. The Place was
found, and he thence turned to the apartments of Lady Isabel Vane.

Lady Isabel was sitting where you saw her the previous December--in the
precise spot--courting the warmth of the fire, and it seemed, courting
the sparks also, for they appeared as fond of her as formerly. The
marvel was, how she had escaped spontaneous combustion; but there she
was yet, and her clothes likewise. You might think that but a night
had passed, when you looked at the room, for it wore precisely the same
aspect now, as then; everything was the same, even to the child's cradle
in the remote corner, partially hidden by the bed-curtains, and the
sleeping child in it. Lady Isabel's progress toward recovery was
remarkably lingering, as is frequently the case when mind and body are
both diseased. She was so sitting when Susanne entered the room, and
said that a "Monsieur Anglais" had arrived in the town to see her, and
was waiting below, in the saloon.

Lady Isabel was startled. An English gentleman--to see _her_!

English for certain, was Susanne's answer, for she had difficulty to
comprehend his French.

Who could be desirous to see her? One out of the world and forgotten!
"Susanne," she cried aloud, a thought striking her, "it is never Sir
Fran--it is not monsieur!"

"Not in the least like monsieur," complacently answered Susanne. "It is
a tall, brave English gentleman, proud and noble looking like a prince."

Every pulse within Lady Isabel's body throbbed rebelliously: her heart
bounded till it was like to burst her side, and she turned sick with
astonishment.

"Tall, brave, noble?" could that description apply to any but Mr.
Carlyle? Strange that so unnatural an idea should have occurred to her;
it would not have done s