In a fortnight from the period of his departure, Mr. Carlyle was expected in Boulogne.  But what a marvellous change had this fortnight wrought in Lady Isabel!  She did not dare to analyze her feelings, but she was conscious that all the fresh emotions of her youth had come again.  The blue sky seemed as of the sweetest sapphire, the green fields and waving trees were of an emerald brightness, the perfume of the flowers was more fragrant than any perfume had yet seemed.  She knew that the sky, that the grassy plains, the leafy trees, the brilliant flowers, were but as they ever had been; she knew that the sunny atmosphere possessed no more of loveliness or power of imparting delight than of old; and she knew that the change, the sensation of ecstacy, was in her own heart.  No wonder that she shrank from self-examination.

The change from listless languor to her present feeling brought the hue and contour of health to her face far sooner than anything else could have done.  She went down with Captain Levison to meet Mr. Carlyle, the evening he came in, and when Mr. Carlyle saw her behind the cords, as he was going to the custom-house, he scarcely knew her.  Her features had lost their sharpness, her cheeks wore a rosy flush, and the light of pleasure at meeting him again shone in her eyes.

“What can you have been doing to yourself, my darling?” he uttered in delight as he emerged from the custom-house and took her hands in his.  “You look almost well.”

“Yes, I am much better, Archibald, but I am warm now and flushed.  We have waited here some time, and the setting sun was full upon us.  How long the boat was in coming in!”

“The wind was against us,” replied Mr. Carlyle, wondering who the exquisite was at his wife’s side.  He thought he remembered his face.

“Captain Levison,” said Lady Isabel.  “I wrote you word in one of my letters that he was here.  Have you forgotten it?” Yes, it had slipped from his memory.

“And I am happy that it happened so,” said that gentleman, interposing, “for it has enabled me to attend Lady Isabel in some of her walks.  She is stronger now, but at first she was unfit to venture alone.”

“I feel much indebted to you,” said Mr. Carlyle, warmly.

The following day was Sunday, and Francis Levison was asked to dine with them—­the first meal he had been invited to in the house.  After dinner, when Lady Isabel left them, he grew confidential over his claret to Mr. Carlyle, laying open all his intricate affairs and his cargo of troubles.

“This compulsory exile abroad is becoming intolerable,” he concluded; “and a Paris life plays the very deuce with one.  Do you see any chance of my getting back to England?”

“Not the least,” was the candid answer, “unless you can manage to satisfy or partially satisfy those claims you have been telling me of.  Will not Sir Peter assist you?”

“I believe he would, were the case fairly represented to him; but how am I to get over to do it?  I have written several letters to him lately, and for some time I got no reply.  Then came an epistle from Lady Levison; not short and sweet, but short and sour.  It was to the effect that Sir Peter was ill, and could not at present be troubled with business matters.”