in concealing the anxiety he felt on her behalf. Isabel
appeared quite worn out the night they arrived at D----, Norris insisted
upon perfect rest and quiet next day, saying that she should join them
at tea if she seemed sufficiently rested, but Everard rebelled, and made
Emily amuse her during the morning. Norris submitted without much fuss,
as he was a great favorite.

"I know as well as you Master Everard, that she needs to be kept more
cheerful than she has been, but after all the worry and fatigue of the
journey, a little quietness is good for her," said Norris, endeavoring
to justify herself.

"I don't deny that Norris, I only object to her being quite alone."

"And you know sir, that you always get your own way," replied Norris
laughing.

"Usually," returned Everard, "but Norris, understand that I wish her
kept quiet."

"As if anyone could be quiet where Miss Emily is," said Norris
reproachfully.

"I'll trust Emmy," he answered laughing.

"That is more nor I would Mr. Everard," she returned with the
familiarity that old domestics who have been a long time in a family
often acquire. For Norris had been with Mrs. Arlington ever since she
was married, now some twenty-six years.

After dinner, Everard, Emily and the children, went out for a ramble.
On their return, Everard left them near the town, as he had to make some
inquiries as to the time the train left, as he was to leave next
morning, for they had been so much longer on the way than had been
anticipated, consequently his stay at D---- had to be curtailed.

When he returned to the cottage, he found Isabel in the old arm chair in
the sitting-room, the others had not yet arrived. Isabel was looking
wretchedly ill, but pronounced herself much rested. Everard gave her an
animated account of their ramble, and an excellent description of the
place, but she appeared to take little interest in either.

"Perhaps you would rather I didn't talk, he said, as she leaned her head
wearily upon her hand.

"O, I don't mind," she replied in a tone of such utter indifference that
Everard took a book. He did not read however, but sat shading his face
with his hand, so as to enable him to contemplate the poor worn face and
fragile form of her whom he loved better than life. He pictured her, as
she appeared when waiting the arrival of the guests on Grace's birthday,
and the contrast was painful in the extreme, neither could he account
for the utter hopelessness depic