tion is given to his present wife. There is no doubt that
he loves her with a true, a fervent, a lasting love: though there may
have been more romantic sentiment in the early passion felt for Lady
Isabel. Poor thing! She gave up a sincere heart, a happy home."

Ay, poor thing! She had very nearly wailed forth her vain despair.

"I wonder whether the drawing-room is tenanted yet," smiled Mrs.
Hare, breaking a pause which had ensued. "If so I suppose they will be
expecting me there."

"I will ascertain for you," said Lady Isabel, speaking in the impulse
of the moment; for she was craving an instant to herself, even though it
were but in the next hall.

She quitted the gray parlor and approached the drawing-room. Not a
sound came from it; and, believing it was empty, she opened the door and
looked cautiously in.

Quite empty. The fire blazed, the chandelier was lighted, but nobody was
enjoying the warmth or the light. From the inner room, however, came the
sound of the piano, and the tones of Mr. Carlyle's voice. She recognized
the chords of the music--they were those of the accompaniment to the
song he had so loved when she sang it him. Who was about to sing it to
him now?

Lady Isabel stole across the drawing-room to the other door, which was
ajar. Barbara was seated at the piano, and Mr. Carlyle stood by her, his
arm on her chair, and bending his face on a level with hers, possibly
to look at the music. So once had stolen, so once had peeped the unhappy
Barbara, to hear this selfsame song. _She_ had been his wife then; she
had craved, and received his kisses when it was over. Their positions
were reversed.

Barbara began. Her voice had not the brilliant power of Lady Isabel's,
but it was a sweet and pleasant voice to listen to.

"When other lips and other hearts
Their tales of love shall tell,
In language whose excess imparts
The power they feel so well,
There may, perhaps, in such a scene,
Some recollection be,
Of days that have as happy been--
And you'll remember me."

Days that had as happy been! Ay! _did_ he remember her? Did a thought of
her, his first and best love, flit across him, as the words fell on his
ear? Did a past vision of the time when she had sat there and sung it to
him arouse his heart to even momentary recollection?

Terribly, indeed, were their positions reversed; most terribly was
she feeling it. And by whose act and will h