The little lord had turned his thoughtful eyes on Mr. Carlyle, apparently studying his countenance.  “I shall like you, sir, if you are kind to Isabel.  Are you kind to her?”

“Very, very kind,” murmured Lady Isabel, leaving William, and turning to Mr. Carlyle, but not looking at him.  “I don’t know what to say; I ought to thank you.  I did not intend to use the—­to use it; but I—­I—­”

“Hush!” he interrupted, laughing at her confusion.  “I do not know what you are talking of.  I have a great misfortune to break to you, Lady Isabel.”

She lifted her eyes and her glowing cheeks, somewhat aroused from her own thoughts.

“Two of your fish are dead.  The gold ones.”

“Are they?”

“I believe it was the frost killed them; I don’t know what else it could have been.  You may remember those bitter days we had in January; they died then.”

“You are very good to take care of them all this while.  How is East Lynne looking?  Dear East Lynne!  Is it occupied?”

“Not yet.  I have spent some money upon it, and it repays the outlay.”

The excitement of his arrival had worn off, and she was looking herself again, pale and sad; he could not help observing that she was changed.

“I cannot expect to look so well at Castle Marling as I did at East Lynne,” she answered.

“I trust it is a happy home to you?” said Mr. Carlyle, speaking upon impulse.

She glanced up at him a look that he would never forget; it certainly told of despair.  “No,” she said, shaking her head, “it is a miserable home, and I cannot remain in it.  I have been awake all night, thinking where I can go, but I cannot tell; I have not a friend in the wide world.”

Never let people talk secrets before children, for be assured that they comprehend a vast deal more than is expedient; the saying “that little pitchers have great ears” is wonderfully true.  Lord Vane held up his hand to Mr. Carlyle,—­

“Isabel told me this morning that she should go away from us.  Shall I tell you why?  Mamma beat her yesterday when she was angry.”

“Be quiet, William!” interrupted Lady Isabel, her face in a flame.

“Two great slaps upon her cheeks,” continued the young viscount; “and Isabel cried so, and I screamed, and then mamma hit me.  But boys are made to be hit; nurse says so.  Marvel came into the nursery when we were at tea, and told nurse about it.  She says Isabel’s too good-looking, and that’s why mamma—­”

Isabel stopped the child’s tongue, rang a peal on the bell, and marched him to the door, dispatching him to the nursery by the servant who answered it.

Mr. Carlyle’s eyes were full of indignant sympathy.  “Can this be true?” he asked, in a low tone when she returned to him.  “You do, indeed, want a friend.”

“I must bear my lot,” she replied, obeying the impulse which prompted her to confide in Mr. Carlyle; “at least till Lord Mount Severn returns.”