and struck his repeater.
A quarter past three!

Rising, he made his way to the door of his wife's dressing-room. It
was in darkness; and, so far as he could judge by the absence of sound,
unoccupied.

"Isabel!"

No reply. Nothing but the echo of his own voice in the silence of the
night.

He struck a match and lighted a taper, partially dressed himself, and
went about to look for her. He feared she might have been taken ill; or
else that she had fallen asleep in some one of the rooms. But nowhere
could he find her, and feeling perplexed, he proceeded to his sister's
chamber door and knocked.

Miss Carlyle was a slight sleeper, and rose up in bed at once. "Who's
that?" cried out she.

"It is only I, Cornelia," said Mr. Carlyle.

"You!" cried Miss Corny. "What in the name of fortune do you want? You
can come in."

Mr. Carlyle opened the door, and met the keen eyes of his sister bent on
him from the bed. Her head was surmounted by a remarkable nightcap, at
least a foot high.

"Is anybody ill?" she demanded.

"I think Isabel must be, I cannot find her."

"Not find her?" echoed Miss Corny. "Why, what's the time? Is she not in
bed?"

"It is three o'clock. She had not been to bed. I cannot find her in the
sitting-rooms; neither is she in the children's room."

"Then I'll tell you what it is, Archibald; she's gone worrying after
Joyce. Perhaps the girl may be in pain to-night."

Mr. Carlyle was in full retreat toward Joyce's room, at this suggestion,
when his sister called to him.

"If anything is amiss with Joyce, you come and tell me, Archibald, for
I shall get up and see after her. The girl was my servant before she was
your wife's."

He reached Joyce's room, and softly unlatched the door, fully expecting
to find a light there, and his wife sitting by the bedside. There was no
light there, however, save that which came from the taper he held, and
he saw no signs of his wife. _Where_ was she? Was it probable that Joyce
should tell him? He stepped inside the room and called to her.

Joyce started up in a fright, which changed to astonishment when she
recognized her master. He inquired whether Lady Isabel had been there,
and for a few moments Joyce did not answer. She had been dreaming of
Lady Isabel, and could not at first detach the dream from the visit
which had probably given rise to it.

"What did you say, sir? Is my lady worse?"

"I asked if she had been here. I cannot find her."

"Why, yes,"