It was little Isabel, stealing in with a frightened face, in her white nightgown. The commotion had aroused her.
“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Where’s mamma?”
“Child, you’ll catch your death of cold,” said Joyce. “Go back to bed.”
“But I want mamma.”
“In the morning, dear,” evasively returned Joyce. “Sir, please, must not Isabel go back to bed?”
Mr. Carlyle made no reply to the question; most likely he never heard its import. But he touched Isabel’s shoulder to draw Joyce’s attention to the child.
“Joyce—Miss Lucy in future.”
He left the room, and Joyce remained silent from amazement. She heard him go out at the hall door and bang it after him. Isabel—nay, we must say “Lucy” also—went and stood outside the chamber door; the servants gathered in a group near, did not observe her. Presently she came running back, and disturbed Joyce from her reverie.
“Joyce, is it true?”
“Is what true, my dear?”