and the children were upon the best of terms. She had
greatly endeared herself to them; she loved them, and they loved
her--perhaps nature was asserting her own hidden claims.

She felt very anxious about William. He seemed to grow weaker, and she
determined to make her fears known to Mr. Carlyle.

She quitted the parlor. She had heard Mr. Carlyle come in. Crossing the
hall, she tapped softly at the drawing-room door, and then as softly
entered. It was the moment of Mr. Carlyle's loud greeting to his wife.
They stood together heedless of her.

Gliding out again, she paced the hall, her hands pressed upon her
beating heart. How _dared_ that heart rise up in sharp rebellion at
these witnessed tokens of love? Was Barbara not his wife? Had she not
a legal claim to all his tenderness? Who was she that she should resent
them in her jealousy? What, though they had once been hers, hers only,
had she not signed and sealed her own forfeit of them, and so made room
for Barbara?

Back to the gray parlor, there she stood, her elbow on the mantelpiece,
her eyes hidden by her hand. Thus she remained for some minutes, and
Lucy thought how sad she looked.

But Lucy felt hungry, and was casting longing glances to the tea-table.
She wondered how long her governess meant to keep it waiting. "Madame
Vine," cried she presently, "don't you know that tea is ready?"

This caused Madame Vine to raise her eyes. They fell on the pale boy at
her feet. She made no immediate answer, only placed her hand on Lucy's
shoulder.

"Oh, Lucy dear, I--I have many sorrows to bear."

"The tea will warm you, and there is some nice jam," was Miss Lucy's
offered consolation.

"Their greeting, tender as it may be, is surely over by this time,"
thought Lady Isabel, an expression something like mockery curving her
lips. "I will venture again."

Only to see him with his wife's face on his breast, and his lips bent
upon it. But they had heard her this time, and she had to advance, in
spite of her spirit of misery and her whitened features.

"Would you be so good sir, as to come and look at William?" she asked in
a low tone, of Mr. Carlyle.

"Certainly."

"What for?" interjected Barbara.

"He looks very ill. I do not like his looks. I am fearing whether he can
be worse than we have thought."

They went to the gray parlor, all three of them. Mr. Carlyle was in
first, and had taken a long, silent look at William before the others
entered.

"What is