s left alone with
Isabel in a house in the town; for Anthony was in the seminary.

Then, in '86 Lady Maxwell had died, quite suddenly. Isabel herself had
found her at her prie-dieu in the morning, still in her evening dress;
she was leaning partly against the wall; her wrinkled old hands were
clasped tightly together on a little ivory crucifix, on the top of the
desk; and her snow-white head, with the lace drooping from it like a
bridal veil, was bowed below them. Isabel, who had not dared to move her,
had sent instantly for a little French doctor, who had thrown up his
hands in a kind of devout ecstasy at that wonderful old figure, rigid in
an eternal prayer. The two tall tapers she had lighted eight hours before
were still just alight beside her, and looked strange in the morning
sunshine.

"Pendant ses oraisons! pendant ses oraisons!" he murmured over and over
again; and then had fallen on his knees and kissed the drooping lace of
her sleeve.

"Priez pour moi, madame," he whispered to the motionless figure.

And so the old Catholic who had suffered so much had gone to her rest.
The fact that her son James had been living in the College during her
four years' stay at Douai had been perhaps the greatest possible
consolation to her for being obliged to be out of England; for she saw
him almost daily; and it was he who sang her Requiem. Isabel had then
gone to live with other friends in Douai, until Anthony had been ordained
priest in the June of '88, and was ready to take her to England; and now
the two were bound for Stanfield, where Anthony was to act as chaplain
for the present, as Mr. Buxton had predicted so long before. Old Mr.
Blake had died in the spring of the year, still disapproving of his
patron's liberal notions, and Mr. Buxton had immediately sent a special
messenger all the way to Douai to secure Anthony's services; and had
insisted moreover that Isabel should accompany her brother. They intended
however to call at the Dower House on the way, which had been left under
the charge of old Mrs. Carroll; and renew the memories of their own dear
home.

They talked little at dinner; and only of general matters, their journey,
the Armada, their joy at getting home again; for they had been expressly
warned by their friends abroad against any indiscreet talk even when they
thought themselves alone, and especially in the seaports, where so
constant a watch was kept for seminary priests. The presence of Isabel,