s had written in
a lively strain to her, as if proud of his little daughters, and
resolved not to be pitied. Of this he was in no danger from his
sisters-in-law, who looked upon twin-girls as the only blessing needed
to complete Isabel's felicity, had devised three dozen names for them,
and longed to be invited to Northwold to see them.

Nothing was heard of James for more than a week, and, as London grew
hotter, dustier, and drearier than ever, Fitzjocelyn longed, more than
he thought wholesome to confess, after Ormersfield turf, the deep
ravines, and rushing brooks. The sun shone almost through the blind of
the open window on the large library table, where sat Louis at his own
end, writing to his Inglewood bailiff, and now and then solacing
himself by lifting with the feather of his pen one of the bells of a
delicate lily in a glass before him--a new spectacle on the Earl's
writing-table; and so was a strip of vellum, with illuminations rich
and rare--Louis's indulgence when he felt he had earned an hour's
leisure. There was a ring at the door, a step on the stairs, and
before the father and son stood James, his little black bag in his
hand, like himself, all dust, and his face worn, heated, and tired.

'Then you have not heard from Cheveleigh?' he said, in answer to their
astonished greetings, producing a note, which was eagerly read:--

'Dearest Jem,--My uncle says I may write to you, in case you can leave
Isabel, that he will be glad to see you. I told you that dear
grandmamma had a cold, and so we would not let her come to Isabel; but
I little guessed what was coming. It only seemed a feverish cold, and
Jane and I almost laughed at my uncle for choosing to send for a
doctor. He was not alarmed at first, but yesterday she was inert and
sleepy, and he asked for more advice. Dr. Hastings came to-day, and
oh! Jem, he calls it a breaking up of the constitution, and does not
think she will rally. She knows us, but she is almost always drowsy,
and very hard to rouse. If you can come without hurting Isabel, I know
you will. We want you all the more, because my uncle will not let me
send for Mr. Danvers. Poor Uncle Oliver is dreadfully troubled.

'Your most affectionate CLARA.'

'Transplantation has killed her--I knew it would!' said James, as Louis
stood, with the note in his hand, as if not yet understanding the blow.

'Nay,' said the Earl, 'it is an age at which we could ha