m of their mother. She left them."

"Yes."

"It is never well to speak to children of a mother who has disgraced
them. Mr. Carlyle would not like it; and I dare say they are taught to
forget her, and to regard Mrs. Carlyle as their only mother."

Her aching heart had to assent to all.

It was a foggy afternoon, gray with the coming twilight, when they
arrived at West Lynne.

Mrs. Latimer believing the governess was a novice in England, kindly
put her into a fly, and told the driver his destination. "_Au revoir_,
madame," she said, "and good luck to you."

Once more she was whirling along the familiar road. She saw Justice
Hare's house, she saw other marks which she knew well; and once more she
saw _East Lynne_, the dear old house, for the fly had turned into the
avenue. Lights were moving in the windows; it looked gay and cheerful,
a contrast to her. Her heart was sick with expectation, her throat
was beating; and as the man thundered up with all the force of his one
horse, and halted at the steps, her sight momentarily left her. Would
Mr. Carlyle come to the fly to hand her out? She wished she had never
undertaken the project, now, in the depth of her fear and agitation. The
hall door was flung open, and there gushed forth a blaze of light.

Two men-servants stood there. The one remained in the hall, the other
advanced to the chaise. He assisted Lady Isabel to alight, and then
busied himself with the luggage. As she ascended to the hall she
recognized old Peter. Strange, indeed, did it seem not to say, "How are
you, Peter?" but to meet him as a stranger. For a moment, she was at a
loss for words; what should she say, or ask, coming to her own home? Her
manner was embarrassed, her voice low.

"Is Mrs. Carlyle within?"

"Yes, ma'am."

At that moment Joyce came forward to receive her. "It is Madame Vine, I
believe," she respectfully said. "Please to step this way, madame."

But Lady Isabel lingered in the hall, ostensibly to see that her boxes
came in right--Stephen was bringing them up--in reality to gather a
short respite, for Joyce might be about to usher her into the presence
of Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle.

Joyce, however, did nothing of the sort. She merely conducted her to the
gray parlor. A fire was burning in the grate, looking cheerful on the
autumn night.

"This is your sitting-room, madame. What will you please to take? I will
order it brought in while I show you your bed-chamber."

"A cup of tea,"