is his name?" she replied, by way of saying something.

"Arthur."

"Arthur Archibald," put in Barbara to Madame Vine. "I was vexed that his
name could not be entirely Archibald, but that was already monopolized.
Is that you, Wilson? I don't know what you'll do with him, but he looks
as if he would not be asleep by twelve o'clock."

Wilson, with a fresh satisfying of her curiosity, by taking another
prolonged stare from the corner of her eyes at Madame Vine, received the
baby from Mr. Carlyle, and departed with him.

Madame Vine rose. "Would they excuse her?" she asked, in a low tone;
"she was tired and would be glad to retire to rest."

"Of course. And anything she might wish in the way of refreshment, would
she ring for?" Barbara shook hands with her, in her friendly way; and
Mr. Carlyle crossed the room to open the door for her, and bowed her out
with a courtly smile.

She went up to her chamber at once. To rest? Well, what think you? She
strove to say to her lacerated and remorseful heart that the cross--far
heavier though it was proving than anything she had imagined or
pictured--was only what she had brought upon herself, and _must_
bear. Very true; but none of us would like such a cross to be upon our
shoulders.

"Is she not droll looking?" cried Barbara, when she was alone with Mr.
Carlyle. "I can't think why she wears those blue spectacles; it cannot
be for her sight, and they are very disfiguring."

"She puts me in mind of--of----" began Mr. Carlyle, in a dreamy tone.

"Of whom?"

"Her face, I mean," he said, still dreaming.

"So little can be seen of it," resumed Mrs. Carlyle. "Of whom does she
put you in mind?"

"I don't know. Nobody in particular," returned he, rousing himself. "Let
us have tea in, Barbara."

CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE YEARNING OF A BREAKING HEART.

At her bedroom door, the next morning, stood Lady Isabel, listening
whether the coast was clear ere she descended to the gray parlor, for
she had a shrinking dread of encountering Mr. Carlyle. When he was
glancing narrowly at her face the previous evening she had felt the
gaze, and it impressed upon her the dread of his recognition. Not only
that; he was the husband of another; therefore it was not expedient that
she should see too much of him, for he was far dearer to her than he had
ever been.

Almost at the same moment there burst out of a remote room--the
nursery--an upright, fair, noble boy, of some five years old, who bega