last
resting-place.

They left her in it, the earl and Mr. Carlyle, and entered the
mourning-coach, to be conveyed back again to East Lynne.

"Just a little stone of white marble, two feet high by a foot and a half
broad," remarked the earl, on their road, pursuing a topic they were
speaking upon. "With the initials 'I. V.' and the date of the year.
Nothing more. What do you think?"

"I. M. V.," corrected Mr. Carlyle.

"Yes."

At this moment the bells of another church, not St. Jude's, broke out in
a joyous peal, and the earl inclined his ear to listen.

"What can they be ringing for?" he cried.

They were ringing for a wedding. Afy Hallijohn, by the help of two
clergymen and six bridesmaids, of which you may be sure Joyce was _not_
one, had just been converted into Mrs. Joe Jiffin. When Afy took a thing
into her heard, she somehow contrived to carry it through, and to bend
even clergymen and bridesmaids to her will. Mr. Jiffin was blest at
last.

In the afternoon the earl left East Lynne, and somewhat later Barbara
arrived at it. Wilson scarcely gave her mistress time to step into
the house before her, and she very nearly left the baby in the fly.
Curiously anxious was Wilson to hear all particulars as to whatever
could have took off that French governess. Mr. Carlyle was much
surprised at their arrival.

"How could I stay away, Archibald, even until Monday, after the news you
sent me?" said Barbara. "What did she die of? It must have been awfully
sudden."

"I suppose so," was his dreamy answer. He was debating a question with
himself, one he had thought over a good deal since Wednesday night.
Should he, or should he not, tell his wife? He would have preferred not
to tell her; and, were the secret confined to his own breast, he would
decidedly not have done so. But it was known to three others--to Miss
Carlyle, to lord Mount Severn, and to Joyce. All trustworthy and of good
intention; but it was impossible for Mr. Carlyle to make sure that not
one of them would ever, through any chance and unpremeditated word, let
the secret come to the knowledge of Mrs. Carlyle. That would not do, if
she must hear it at all, she must hear it from him, and at once. He took
his course.

"Are you ill, Archibald?" she asked, noting his face. It wore a pale,
worn sort of look.

"I have something to tell you, Barbara," he answered, drawing her hand
into his, as they stood together. They were in her dressing-room, where
she