how soon she must
be ready, and went upstairs. Walter detained his cousin--'I say,
Fitzjocelyn, have they really got nothing to live on?'

'No more than will keep them from absolute want.'

'I shall take them home,' said Walter, with much satisfaction. 'I shall
write to tell James that there is nothing else to be done. I cannot do
without Isabel, and I'll make my mother consent.'

Fitzjocelyn was glad to be freed from the boy on any terms, and to see
him go off to write his letter.

Walter was at least sincere and warm-hearted in his selfishness, and so
more agreeable than his mother, whom Louis found much distressed, under
the secret conviction that something might be expected of her. 'Poor
Isabel! I wish she could come to me; but so many of them--and we
without a settled home. If there were no children--but London houses
are so small; and, indeed, it would be no true kindness to let them
live in our style for a little while. They must run to expenses in
dress; it would be much more economical at home, and I could send
Walter to them if he is very troublesome.'

'Thank you,' said Louis. 'I think James will be able to ride out the
storm independently.'

'I know that would be his wish. And I think I heard that Mr. Dynevor
objected to the school. That might be one obstacle removed.'

Lady Conway comforted herself by flourishing on into predictions that
all would now be right, and that poor dear Isabel would soon be a much
richer woman than herself; while Louis listened to the castle-building,
not thinking it worth while to make useless counter-prophecies.

The sisters were upstairs, assisting Isabel, and they all came down
together. The girls were crying; but Isabel's dark, soft eyes, and
noble head, had an air of calm, resolute elevation, which drove all
Louis's misgivings away, and which seemed quite beyond and above the
region of Lady Conway's caresses and affectionate speeches. Walter and
Virginia came up to the station, and parted with their sister with
fondness that was much mure refreshing, Walter reiterating that his was
the only plan.

'Now, Fitzjocelyn,' said Isabel, when they were shut into a coupe,
'tell me what you said about distress of mind. It has haunted me
whether you used those words.'

'Could you doubt his distress at such a state of affairs?'

'I thought there could be no distress of mind where the suffering is
for the truth.'

'Ah! if he could quite feel it so!'

'What do y