umph, or you would not wonder that it should end as it did.
I have told you all this Mrs. Arlington because I thought it my duty,
and also, that should Dr. Taschereau again be your guest, you might
kindly spare me the pain of meeting him."

"Poor child you have suffered greatly," said Mrs. Arlington kindly. She
had listened very patiently and very attentively to all Isabel had to
say, but she had not said how that she already knew something of this
from her own delirious talk during her illness, but she thought that it
would make Isabel uncomfortable, therefore she remained silent upon that
point. "You may depend that I shall not abuse your confidence" she
continued, "I do not promise secrecy, but you may trust to my discretion
without fear. Whenever you need advice, do not scruple to come to me, as
I shall always be glad to give it," no doubt, but Isabel was the last
person to ask advice, though she had the highest opinion of Mrs.
Arlington.

"I think you would do well Isabel, to re-consider the offer I made you
to visit with my daughters."

"You are very kind; but, indeed, I would rather not."

"As you please, Miss Leicester; but I think you are wrong to refuse. You
may be sure that the offer is disinterested on my part." (Disinterested
it certainly was, as neither of the Arlington girls could compare
favorably with Isabel as to beauty or accomplishments.)

"I fully appreciate your kindness, Mrs. Arlington, but indeed it would
be extremely unpleasant to do so," returned Isabel.

"I cannot let this opportunity pass without expressing my gratitude for
your great kindness during my illness, for I can never, never repay you.
But I will use my best endeavors to make your children all that you can
wish."

"And that will quite repay me," replied Mrs. Arlington, kindly.

CHAPTER XV.

Upon a beautiful moonlight night, under the trees in the garden of
Madame Bourges' boarding-school, near Versailles, quite secure from
observation stood Arthur Barrington and Louisa Aubray, engaged in
earnest conversation.

"Are you happy here, dearest Louisa?" he inquired, in accents of deepest
tenderness.

"Happy! Ah, no, Louisa is never happy," she answered, "but lonely and
unhappy--so unhappy and miserable!"

"But you are not lonely now that I am here, dear Louisa."

"No; but, when you are gone, it is so dreary--oh, so dreary!"

"You used to think that you would be so happy at school."

"Ah, yes! but I'm not. Madame