Lady Isabel was unwilling to take the advice; more especially to go so far as the “French coast.”  And but for a circumstance that seemed to have happened purposely to induce her to decide, would probably never have gone.  Mrs. Ducie—­the reader may not have forgotten her name—­had, in conjunction with her husband, the honorable Augustus, somewhat run out at the elbows, and found it convenient to enter for a time on the less expensive life of the Continent.  For eighteen months she had been staying in Paris, the education of her younger daughters being the plea put forth, and a very convenient plea it is, and serves hundreds.  Isabel had two or three letters from her during her absence, and she now received another, saying they were going to spend a month or two at Boulogne-sur-Mer.  Mr. Carlyle, Mr. Wainwright, and Dr. Martin—­in short, everybody—­declared this must remove all Lady Isabel’s unwillingness to go from home, for Mrs. Ducie’s society would do away with the loneliness she had anticipated, which had been the ostensible score of her objection.

“Boulogne-sur-Mer, of all places, in the world!” remonstrated Lady Isabel.  “It is spoken of as being crowded and vulgar.”

“The more amusing for you, my lady,” cried Dr. Martin, while Mr. Carlyle laughed at her.  And finding she had no chance against them all, she consented to go, and plans were hastily decided upon.

“Joyce,” said Lady Isabel to her waiting maid, “I shall leave you at home; I must take Wilson instead.”

“Oh, my lady!  What have I done?”

“You have done all that you ought, Joyce, but you must stay with the children.  If I may not take them, the next best thing will be to leave them in your charge, not Miss Carlyle’s,” she said, shaking her voice; “if it were Wilson who remained, I could not do that.”

“My lady, I must do whatever you think best.  I wish I could attend you and stay with them, but of course I cannot do both.”

“I am sent away to get health and strength, but it may be that I shall die, Joyce.  If I never come back, will you promise to remain with my children?”

Joyce felt a creeping sensation in her veins, the sobs rose in her throat, but she swallowed them down and constrained her voice to calmness.  “My lady, I hope you will come back to us as well as you used to be.  I trust you will hope so too, my lady, and not give way to low spirits.”

“I sincerely hope and trust I shall,” answered Lady Isabel, fervently.  “Still, there’s no telling, for I am very ill.  Joyce, give me your promise.  In case of the worst, you will remain with the children.”

“I will, my lady—­as long as I am permitted.”

“And be kind to them and love them, and shield them from—­from—­any unkindness that may be put upon them,” she added, her head full of Miss Carlyle, “and talk to them sometimes of their poor mother, who is gone?”

“I will, I will—­oh my lady, I will!” And Joyce sat down in the rocking-chair as Lady Isabel quitted her, and burst into tears.