It was near the dinner hour, and when Mr.Carlyle entered, he was startled to see her; her pallid cheeks were burning with a red hectic glow, and her eyes glistened with fever.
"Isabel, you are worse!" he uttered, as he approached her with a quick step.
She partially rose from the sofa, and clasped hold of him in her emotion.

"Oh, Archibald! Archibald!" she uttered, "don't marry her! I could not rest in my grave." Mr.Carlyle, in his puzzled astonishment, believed her to be laboring under some temporary hallucination, the result of weakness.

He set himself to soothe her, but it seemed that she could not be soothed.

She burst into a storm of tears and began again--wild words.
"She would ill-treat my child; she would draw your love from it, and from my memory.

Archibald, you must not marry her!" "You must be speaking from the influence of a dream, Isabel," he soothingly said; "you have been asleep and are not yet awake.