ad the change been wrought?
Barbara was now the cherished wife, East Lynne's mistress. And what was
she? Not even the courted, welcomed guest of an hour, as Barbara had
been; but an interloper; a criminal woman who had thrust herself into
the house; her act, in doing so, not justifiable, her position a
most false one. Was it right, even if she did succeed in remaining
undiscovered, that she and Barbara should dwell in the same habitation,
Mr. Carlyle being in it? Did she deem it to be right? No, she did not;
but one act of ill-doing entails more. These thoughts were passing
through her mind as she stood there, listening to the song; stood there
as one turned to stone, her throbbing temples pressed against the door's
pillar.

The song was over, and Barbara turned to her husband, a whole world
of love in her bright blue eyes. He laid his hand upon her head; Lady
Isabel saw that, but she would not wait to see the caress that most
probably followed it. She turned and crossed the room again, her hands
clasped tightly on her bosom, her breath catching itself in hysterical
sobs. Miss Carlyle was entering the hall. They had not yet met, and
Lady Isabel swept meekly past her with a hurried courtesy. Miss Carlyle
spoke, but she dared not answer, to wait would have been to betray
herself.

Sunday came, and that was the worst of all. In the old East Lynne pew
at St. Jude's, so conspicuous to the congregation, sat she, as in former
times; no excuse, dared she, the governess make, to remain away. It was
the first time she had entered an English Protestant church since she
had last sat in it, there, with Mr. Carlyle. Can you wonder that the
fact alone, with all the terrible remembrances it brought in its train,
was sufficient to overwhelm her with emotion? She sat at the upper end
now, with Lucy; Barbara occupied the place that had been hers, by the
side of Mr. Carlyle. Barbara there, in her own right his wife; she
severed from him forever and forever!

She scarcely raised her head; she tightened her thick veil over her
face; she kept her spectacles bent toward the ground. Lucy thought she
must be crying; she never had seen anyone so still at church before.
Lucy was mistaken; tears came not to solace the bitter anguish of
hopeless, self-condemning remorse. How she sat out the service she could
not tell; she could not tell how she could sit out other services, as
the Sundays came round! The congregation did not forget to stare at he