"Is he better? May I go to his room?" she panted.

Yes, the earl was better--better, in so far as that he was quiet and senseless. She moved hastily toward his chamber. Mr. Carlyle drew the housekeeper aside.

"Not the slightest, sir. He is dying."

The earl knew no one; pain was gone for the present, and he lay on his bed, calm; but his face, which had death in it all too plainly, startled Isabel. She did not scream or cry; she was perfectly quiet, save that she had a fit of shivering.

"Will he soon be better?" she whispered to Mr. Wainwright, who stood there.

The surgeon coughed. "Well, he--he--we must hope it, my lady."

"But why does his face look like that? It is pale--gray; I never saw anybody else look so."

"He has been in great pain, my lady, and pain leaves its traces on the countenance."