gaze from her, and he became conscious, as he grew more familiar with
her face, that there was in its character a sad, sorrowful look; only at
times was it to be noticed, when the features were at repose, and it lay
chiefly in the very eyes he was admiring. Never does this unconsciously
mournful expression exist, but it is a sure index of sorrow and
suffering; but Mr. Carlyle understood it not. And who could connect
sorrow with the anticipated brilliant future of Isabel Vane?

"Isabel," observed the earl, "you are dressed."

"Yes, papa. Not to keep old Mrs. Levison waiting tea. She likes to take
it early, and I know Mrs. Vane must have kept her waiting dinner. It was
half-past six when she drove from here."

"I hope you will not be late to-night, Isabel."

"It depends upon Mrs. Vane."

"Then I am sure you will be. When the young ladies in this fashionable
world of ours turn night into day, it is a bad thing for their roses.
What say you, Mr. Carlyle?"

Mr. Carlyle glanced at the roses on the cheeks opposite to him; they
looked too fresh and bright to fade lightly.

At the conclusion of dinner a maid entered the room with a white
cashmere mantle, placing it over the shoulders of her young lady, as she
said the carriage was waiting.

Lady Isabel advanced to the earl. "Good-bye, papa."