“William, I think it likely that your poor mamma’s heart did break, ere death came.  But let us talk of you, not of her.  Are you in pain?”

“I can’t breathe; I can’t swallow.  I wish Joyce was here.”

“She will not be long now.”

The boy nestled himself in his father’s arms, and in a few minutes appeared to be asleep.  Mr. Carlyle, after a while, gently laid him on his pillow, and watched him, and then turned to depart.

“Oh, papa!  Papa!” he cried out, in a tone of painful entreaty, opening wide his yearning eyes, “say good-bye to me!”

Mr. Carlyle’s tears fell upon the little upturned face, as he once more caught it to his breast.

“My darling, your papa will soon be back.  He is going to bring mamma to see you.”

“And pretty little baby Anna?”

“And baby Anna, if you would like her to come in.  I will not leave my darling boy for long; he need not fear.  I shall not leave you again to-night, William, when once I am back.”

“Then put me down, and go, papa.”

A lingering embrace—­a fond, lingering, tearful embrace—­Mr. Carlyle holding him to his beating heart, then he laid him comfortably on his pillow, gave him a teaspoonful of strawberry juice, and hastened away.

“Good-bye, papa!” came forth the little feeble cry.

It was not heard.  Mr. Carlyle was gone, gone from his living child—­forever.  Up rose Lady Isabel, and flung her arms aloft in a storm of sobs!

“Oh, William, darling! in this dying moment let me be to you as your mother!”

Again he unclosed his wearied eyelids.  It is probable that he only partially understood.

“Papa’s gone for her.”

“Not her!  I—­I——­” Lady Isabel checked herself, and fell sobbing on the bed.  No; not even at the last hour when the world was closing on him, dared she say, I am your mother.

Wilson re-entered.  “He looks as if he were dropping off to sleep,” quoth she.

“Yes,” said Lady Isabel.  “You need not wait, Wilson.  I will ring if he requires anything.”

Wilson though withal not a bad-hearted woman, was not one to remain for pleasure in a sick-room, if told she might leave it.  She, Lady Isabel, remained alone.  She fell on her knees again, this time in prayer for the departing spirit, on its wing, and that God would mercifully vouchsafe herself a resting-place with it in heaven.

A review of the past then rose up before her, from the time of her first entering that house, the bride of Mr. Carlyle, to her present sojourn in it.  The old scenes passed through her mind like the changing picture in a phantasmagoria.

Why should they have come, there and then?  She knew not.