aroused and the servants were astir. Joyce -surely a supernatural strength was given her, for, though she had been able to put her foot to the ground, she had not yet walked upon it-crept down stairs and went into Lady Isabel's dressing-room. Mr. Carlyle was hastily assuming the articles of attire he had not yet put on, to go out and search the grounds, when Joyce limped in, holding out a note. Joyce did not stand on ceremony that night: a blanched face. Never had she seen him betray agitation so powerful. Not the faintest suspicion of the dreadful truth had yet dawned upon her. He walked to the door, the open note in his hand, then turned and wavered and stood still, as if he did not know what he was doing. Probably he did not. Then he took out his pocket-book, put the note inside it and returned it to his pocket, his hands trembling equally with his livid lips. "You need not mention this," he said to "I found this in the dressing-glass drawer, Joyce, indicating the note. "It concerns sir. It is My Lady's writing." He took it in his hand and looked at the address: “Archibald Carlyle." Though a calm man, one who had his emotions under his own control, he was no stoic, and his fingers shook as he broke the seal: When years go on, and my children ask where their mother is and why she left them, tell them that you, their father, goaded her to it. If they inquire what she is, tell them also, if you so will; but tell them, at the same time, that you outraged and betrayed her, driving her to the very depth of desperation ere she quitted them in her despair." The handwriting, his wife's, swam before the eyes of Mr. Carlyle. All save the disgraceful fact that she had flown-and a horrible suspicion began to dawn upon him with whom was totally incomprehensible. How had he outraged her? In what manner had he goaded her to it? The discomforts alluded to by Joyce as the work of his sister had evidently no part in this; yet what had he done? He read the letter again, more slowly. No, he could not. comprehend it; he had not the clue. Joyce sat on the edge of a chair-she could not stand-watching her master with myself alone." "Sir, does it say she's dead?" "She is not dead," he answered. "Worse than that," he added, in his heart. Why, who is this?" uttered Joyce. It was little Isabel, stealing in with a frightened face, in her white nightgown. The commotion had aroused her. "What is the matter?" she asked. "Where's mamma?" "Child, you'll catch your death of cold," said Joyce. "Go back to bed." "But I want mamma.' "In the morning, dear," evasively returned Joyce.-"Sir, please, must not Miss Isabel go back to bed?" Mr. Carlyle made no reply to the question; most likely he never heard its import. But he touched Isabel's shoulder to draw Joyce's attention to the child: Joyce, Miss Lucy in future." He left the room, and Joyce remained. silent from amazement. She heard him go out at the hall door and bang it after him. A VISITOR. December came in. The Alps were covered with snow; Grenoble borrowed the shade, and looked cold and white and sleety and sloppy; the wide gutters which run through the middle of the streets were unusually black, and the people crept along looking very dismal. Close to the fire in the barn of a French bedroom full of windows and doors and draughts, with its wide hearth and its wide chimney, shivered Lady Isabel Vane. She wore an invalid-cap and a thick woollen invalid-shawl, and she shook and shivered perpetually, though she had drawn so close to the wood-fire that there was a danger of her petticoats igniting, and the attendant had frequently to spring up and interpose between them and the crackling logs. Little did it seem to matter to Lady Isabel; she sat in one position, her countenance the picture of stony despair. So had she sat, so looked, since she began to get better. She had had a long illness, terminating in low fever, but the attendants whispered amongst themselves that miladi would soon get about if she would only rouse herself. She had so far got about as to sit up in the windy chamber, and it seemed to be to her a matter of perfect indifference whether she ever got out of it. This day she had partaken of her early dinner—such as it was, for appetite failedand had dozed asleep in the arm-chair, when a noise arose from below, like a carriage driving into the courtyard through the portecochère. It instantly aroused her. Had he The girl departed, closing the door, and Lady Isabel sat looking at it, schooling herself into patience. Another moment, and it was flung open. Sir Francis Levison approached to greet her as he came in. She waved him off, begging him in a subdued, quiet tone not to draw too near, as any little excitement made her faint now. He took a seat opposite to her and began pushing the logs together with his boot as he explained that he really could not get away from town before. "Why did you come now?" she quietly rejoined. Why did I come?" repeated he. “Are these all the thanks a fellow gets for travelling in this inclement weather? I thought you would at least have been glad to welcome me, Isabel." "Sir Francis," she rejoined, speaking still with almost unnatural calmness, as she continued to do throughout the interview, though the frequent changes in her countenance, and the movement of her hands when she laid them from time to time on her chest to keep down its beating, told what an effort the struggle cost her—“Sir Francis, I am glad, for one reason, to welcome you: we must come to an understanding, one with the other; and so far I am pleased that you are here. It was my intention to have. communicated with you by letter as soon as I found myself as I found myself capable of the necessary exertion, but your visit has removed the necessity. I wish to deal with you quite unreservedly, without concealment or deceit ; I must request you so to deal with me." She spoke so quietly, so apparently without feeling or passion, that Sir Francis was agreeably astonished. He should have less | make, all the reparation that the whole trouble in throwing off the mask. Her heart world can invent, could not undo my sin. beat a little quicker, but she stilled it: It and its effects must lie upon me for ever." "You deemed that it was not in reason I should aspire to be made the wife of Sir Francis Levison?" He rose and began kicking at the logs hand." with the heel of his boot this time: Well, Isabel, you must be aware that it is an awful sacrifice for a man in my position to marry a divorced woman." The hectic flushed into her thin cheeks, but her voice sounded calm as before : "When I expected, or wished, for the 'sacrifice,' it was not for my own sake; I told you so then. But it was not made, and the child's inheritance is that of sin and shame." "I am the representative now of an ancient and respected baronetcy," he said, in a tone as of apology, "and to make you my wife would so offend all my family that-" "Stay!" interrupted Lady Isabel; "you need not trouble yourself to find needless excuses. Had you taken this journey for the purpose of making me your wife—were you to propose to do so this day and bring a clergyman into the room to perform the ceremony-it would be futile. The injury to the child can never be repaired, and for myself I cannot imagine any fate in life worse than the being compelled to pass it with you.' "If you have taken this aversion to me, it cannot be helped," he coolly said, inwardly congratulating himself at being spared the trouble he had anticipated. "You made commotion enough once about my making you 'reparation.' She shook her head: "Yes," she sadly answered. "May Heaven help all to do so who may be tempted as I was!" "If you mean that as a reproach to me, it's rather out of place," chafed Sir Francis, whose fits of ill-temper were under no control, and who never, when in them, cared what he said to outrage the feelings of another. "The temptation to sin, as you call it, lay not in my persuasions half as much. as in your jealous anger toward your husband." "Quite true," was her reply. "And I believe you were on the wrong scent, Isabel-if it will be any satisfaction to you to hear it. Since we are mutually on this complimentary discourse, it is of no consequence to smooth over facts.' "I do not understand what you would imply," she said, drawing her shawl round her with a fresh shiver. "How 'on the wrong scent'?" "With regard to your husband and that Hare girl. You were blindly, outrageously jealous of him." "Go on." "And I say I think you were on the wrong scent. I do not believe Carlyle ever thought of the girl-in that way." What do you mean?" she gasped. "They had a secret between them-not of love: a secret of business-and those "All the reparation in your power to interviews they had together, her dancing attendance upon him perpetually, related to | by inheritance: Francis Levison,'" was her that, and to that alone.' Her face was more flushed than it had been throughout the interview. He spoke quietly now, quite in an equable tone of reasoning it was his way when his illtemper was upon him; and the calmer he spoke, the more cutting were his words. He need not have told her this. icy answer. "Let's see how old is he now ?" "He was born the last day of August." Sir Francis threw up his arms and stretched himself, as if a fit of idleness had overtaken. him, then advanced to the cradle and pulled down the clothes: Who is he like, Isabel? My handsome 'What was the secret?" she inquired, in self?" a low tone. "Nay, I can't explain all: they did not take me into their confidence; they did not even take you. Better, perhaps, that they had, though, as things have turned out-or seem to be turning. There's some disreputable secret attaching to the Hare family, and Carlyle was acting in it for Mrs. Hare. She could not seek out Carlyle herself, so she sent the young lady. That's all I knew." "How did you know it?" "I had reason to think so." Were he like you in spirit, I would pray that he might die ere he could speak or think," she burst forth, and then, remembering the resolution she had marked out for herself, subsided outwardly into calmness again. "What else?" retorted Sir Francis. You know my disposition pretty well by this time, Isabel, and may be sure that if deal out small change to me you will get it back again with interest." you She made no reply. Sir Francis put the "What reason? I must request you to clothes back over the sleeping child, returned tell me.' to the fire and stood a few moments with his back to it. "I overheard scraps of their conversation now and then in those meetings, and so gathered my conclusions." "You told a different tale to me, Sir Francis," was her remark as she lifted her indignant eyes toward him. Sir Francis laughed : Is my room prepared for me, do you know?" he presently asked. "No, it is not," she quietly rejoined. "These apartments are mine now; they have been transferred into my name, and they can never again afford you accommo "All stratagems are fair in love and dation. Will you be so obliging-I am not war." She dared not immediately trust herself to reply, and a silence ensued. Sir Francis broke it, pointing with his left thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the cradle : "What have you named that young article there?" strong as to hand me that writing-case?" Sir Francis walked to the table she indicated, which was at the far end of the great barn of a room, and, taking the writing-case from it, gave it to her. She reached her keys from the stand at her elbow, unJocked the case and took from it some. "The name which ought to have been his bank-notes. |