eat confidence in Joyce; and in case of my illness or
absence, Joyce would superintend the nursery."

"I should not mind that," was the applicant's answer. "We all like
Joyce, my lady."

A few more questions, and then the girl was told to come again in the
evening for her answer. Miss Carlyle went to the Grove for the "ins and
outs" of the affair, where Mrs. Hare frankly stated that she had nothing
to urge against Wilson, save her hasty manner of leaving, and believed
the chief blame to be due to Barbara. Wilson, therefore, was engaged,
and was to enter upon her new service the following morning.

In the afternoon succeeding to it, Isabel was lying on the sofa in her
bedroom, asleep, as was supposed. In point of fact, she was in that
state, half asleep, half wakeful delirium, which those who suffer from
weakness and fever know only too well. Suddenly she was aroused from it
by hearing her own name mentioned in the adjoining room, where sat Joyce
and Wilson, the latter holding the sleeping infant on her knee, the
former sewing, the door between the rooms being ajar.

"How ill she does look," observed Wilson.

"Who?" asked Joyce.

"Her ladyship. She looks just as if she'd never get over it."

"She is getting over it quickly, now," returned Joyce. "If you had seen
her but a week ago, you would not say she was looking ill now, speaking
in comparison."

"My goodness! Would not somebody's hopes be up again if anything should
happen?"

"Nonsense!" crossly rejoined Joyce.

"You may cry out 'nonsense' forever, Joyce, but they would," went on
Wilson. "And she would snap him up to a dead certainty; she'd never let
him escape her a second time. She is as much in love with him as she
ever was!"

"It was all talk and fancy," said Joyce. "West Lynne must be busy. Mr.
Carlyle never cared for her."

"That's more than you know. I have seen a little, Joyce; I have seen him
kiss her."

"A pack of rubbish!" remarked Joyce. "That tells nothing."

"I don't say it does. There's not a young man living but what's fond of
a sly kiss in the dark, if he can get it. He gave her that locket and
chain she wears."

"Who wears?" retorted Joyce, determined not graciously to countenance
the subject. "I don't want to hear anything about it."

"'Who,' now! Why, Miss Barbara. She has hardly had it off her neck
since, my belief is she wears it in her sleep."

"More simpleton she," returned Joyce.

"The night before he left West Lynne t