Six months now had she been at East Lynne, and had hitherto escaped detection.  Time and familiarity render us accustomed to most things—­to danger among the rest; and she had almost ceased to fear recognition, living—­so far as that point went—­far more peaceably than she had done at first.  She and the children were upon the best of terms.  She had greatly endeared herself to them; she loved them, and they loved her—­perhaps nature was asserting her own hidden claims.

She felt very anxious about William.  He seemed to grow weaker, and she determined to make her fears known to Mr. Carlyle.

She quitted the parlor.  She had heard Mr. Carlyle come in.  Crossing the hall, she tapped softly at the drawing-room door, and then as softly entered.  It was the moment of Mr. Carlyle’s loud greeting to his wife.  They stood together heedless of her.

Gliding out again, she paced the hall, her hands pressed upon her beating heart.  How dared that heart rise up in sharp rebellion at these witnessed tokens of love?  Was Barbara not his wife?  Had she not a legal claim to all his tenderness?  Who was she that she should resent them in her jealousy?  What, though they had once been hers, hers only, had she not signed and sealed her own forfeit of them, and so made room for Barbara?

Back to the gray parlor, there she stood, her elbow on the mantelpiece, her eyes hidden by her hand.  Thus she remained for some minutes, and Lucy thought how sad she looked.

But Lucy felt hungry, and was casting longing glances to the tea-table.  She wondered how long her governess meant to keep it waiting.  “Madame Vine,” cried she presently, “don’t you know that tea is ready?”

This caused Madame Vine to raise her eyes.  They fell on the pale boy at her feet.  She made no immediate answer, only placed her hand on Lucy’s shoulder.

“Oh, Lucy dear, I—­I have many sorrows to bear.”

“The tea will warm you, and there is some nice jam,” was Miss Lucy’s offered consolation.

“Their greeting, tender as it may be, is surely over by this time,” thought Lady Isabel, an expression something like mockery curving her lips.  “I will venture again.”

Only to see him with his wife’s face on his breast, and his lips bent upon it.  But they had heard her this time, and she had to advance, in spite of her spirit of misery and her whitened features.

“Would you be so good sir, as to come and look at William?” she asked in a low tone, of Mr. Carlyle.

“Certainly.”

“What for?” interjected Barbara.

“He looks very ill.  I do not like his looks.  I am fearing whether he can be worse than we have thought.”

They went to the gray parlor, all three of them.  Mr. Carlyle was in first, and had taken a long, silent look at William before the others entered.

“What is he doing on the floor?” exclaimed Barbara, in her astonishment.  “He should not lie on the floor, Madame Vine.”