indeed, is hers; but she must not expect to
be exempted from sorrow. Mr. Carlyle has had his share of it," continued
Mrs. Hare.

"Ah!"

"You have doubtless been made acquainted with his history. His first
wife left him--left home and her children. He bore it bravely before
the world, but I know that it wrung his very heart-strings. She was his
heart's sole idol."

"She? Not Barbara?"

The moment the word "Barbara" had escaped her lips, Lady Isabel,
recollected herself. She was only Madame Vine, the governess; what would
Mrs. Hare think of her familiarity?

Mrs. Hare did not appear to have noticed it; she was absorbed in the
subject.

"Barbara?" she uttered; "certainly not. Had his first love been given to
Barbara, he would have chosen her then. It was given to Lady Isabel."

"It is given his wife now?"

Mrs. Hare nearly laughed.

"Of course it is; would you wish it to be buried in the grave with
the dead, and with one who was false to him? But, my dear, she was the
sweetest woman, that unfortunate Lady Isabel. I loved her then, and I
cannot help loving her still. Others blamed her, but I pitied. They were
well matched; he so good and noble; she, so lovely and endearing."

"And she left him--threw him to the winds with all his nobility and
love!" exclaimed the poor governess, with a gesture of the hands that
looked very much like despair.

"Yes. It will not do to talk of--it is a miserable subject. How she
could abandon such a husband, such children, was a marvel to many; but
to none more than it was to me and my daughter. The false step--though
I feel almost ashamed to speak out the thought, lest it may appear to
savor of triumph--while it must have secured her own wretchedness, led
to the happiness of my child; for it is certain Barbara would never love
one as she loves Mr. Carlyle."

"It did secure wretchedness to her, you think?" cried Lady Isabel, her
tone one of bitter mockery more than anything else.

Mrs. Hare was surprised at the question.

"No woman ever took that fatal step yet, without its entailing on her
the most dire wretchedness," she replied. "It cannot be otherwise. And
Lady Isabel was of a nature to feel remorse beyond common--to meet it
half-way. Refined, modest, with every feeling of an English gentlewoman,
she was the very last, one would have thought, to act so. It was as if
she had gone away in a dream, not knowing what she was doing; I have
thought so many a time. That terribl