Rising, he made his way to the door of his wife’s dressing-room. It was in darkness; and, so far as he could judge by the absence of sound, unoccupied.
“Isabel!”
No reply. Nothing but the echo of his own voice in the silence of the night.
He struck a match and lighted a taper, partially dressed himself, and went about to look for her. He feared she might have been taken ill; or else that she had fallen asleep in some one of the rooms. But nowhere could he find her, and feeling perplexed, he proceeded to his sister’s chamber door and knocked.
Miss Carlyle was a slight sleeper, and rose up in bed at once. “Who’s that?” cried out she.
“It is only I, Cornelia,” said Mr. Carlyle.
“You!” cried Miss Corny. “What in the name of fortune do you want? You can come in.”
Mr. Carlyle opened the door, and met the keen eyes of his sister bent on him from the bed. Her head was surmounted by a remarkable nightcap, at least a foot high.
“Is anybody ill?” she demanded.
“I think Isabel must be, I cannot find her.”