roached Madame Vine.

"Did you ever see a more lovely child?"

"A fine baby, indeed," she constrained herself to answer; and she could
have fancied it her own little Archibald over again when he was a baby.
"But he is not much like you."

"He is the very image of my darling husband. When you see Mr. Carlyle--"
Barbara stopped, and bent her ear, as listening.

"Mr. Carlyle is probably a handsome man!" said poor Lady Isabel,
believing that the pause was made to give her an opportunity of putting
in an observation.

"He is handsome: but that is the least good about him. He is the most
noble man! Revered, respected by everyone; I may say loved! The only one
who could not appreciate him was his wife; and we must assume that she
did not, by the ending that came. However she could leave him--how she
could even look at another, after calling Mr. Carlyle husband--will
always be a marvel to those who know him."

A bitter groan--and it nearly escaped her lips.

"That certainly is the pony carriage," cried Barbara, bending her ear
again. "If so, how very early Mr. Carlyle is home! Yes, I am sure it is
the sound of the wheels."

How Lady Isabel sat she scarcely knew; how she concealed her trepidation
she never would know. A pause: an entrance to the hall; Barbara, baby in
arms, advanced to the drawing-room door, and a tall form entered. Once
more Lady Isabel was in the presence of her sometime husband.

He did not perceive that any one was present, and he bent his head and
fondly kissed his wife. Isabel's jealous eyes were turned upon them.
She saw Barbara's passionate, lingering kiss in return, she heard her
fervent, whispered greeting, "My darling!" and she watched him turn to
press the same fond kisses on the rosy open lips of his child. Isabel
flung her hand over her face. Had she bargained for this? It was part of
the cross she had undertaken to carry, and she _must_ bear it.

Mr. Carlyle came forward and saw her. He looked somewhat surprised.
"Madame Vine," said Barbara; and he held out his hand and welcomed her
in the same cordial, pleasant manner that his wife had done. She put
her shaking hand into his; there was no help for it. Little thought
Mr. Carlyle that that hand had been tenderly clasped in his a thousand
times--that it was the one pledged to him at the altar of Castle
Marling.

She sat down on her chair again, unable to stand, feeling as though
every drop of blood within her had left her body. It had c