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present?’’
    â€˜â€˜No, indeed; nothing of the sort. But take an interest in her—sympathize with her. She is evidently just the sort of person to appreciate Isabel. She has lived so much in foreign society; she told Isabel all about it. You know you have always thought Isabel rather foreign.’’
    â€˜â€˜You want her to give her a little foreign sympathy, eh? Don’t you think she gets enough at home?’’
    â€˜â€˜Well, she ought to go abroad,’’ said Mrs. Ludlow. ‘‘She’s just the person to go abroad.’’
    â€˜â€˜And you want the old lady to take her, is that it?’’ her husband asked.
    â€˜â€˜She has offered to take her—she is dying to have Isabel go! But what I want her to do when she gets her there is to give her all the advantages. I am sure that all we have got to do,’’ said Mrs. Ludlow, ‘‘is to give her a chance!’’
    â€˜â€˜A chance for what?’’
    â€˜â€˜A chance to develop.’’
    â€˜â€˜Oh Jupiter!’’ Edmund Ludlow exclaimed. ‘‘I hope she isn’t going to develop any more!’’
    â€˜â€˜If I were not sure you only said that for argument, I should feel very badly,’’ his wife replied. ‘‘But you know you love her.’’
    â€˜â€˜Do you know I love you?’’ the young man said, jocosely, to Isabel a little later, while he brushed his hat.
    â€˜â€˜I am sure I don’t care whether you do or not!’’ exclaimed the girl, whose voice and smile, however, were sweeter than the words she uttered.
    â€˜â€˜Oh, she feels so grand since Mrs. Touchett’s visit,’’ said her sister.
    But Isabel challenged this assertion with a good deal of seriousness.
    â€˜â€˜You must not say that, Lily. I don’t feel grand at all.’’
    â€˜â€˜I am sure there is no harm,’’ said the conciliatory Lily.
    â€˜â€˜Ah, but there is nothing in Mrs. Touchett’s visit to make one feel grand.’’
    â€˜â€˜Oh,’’ exclaimed Ludlow, ‘‘she is grander than ever!’’
    â€˜â€˜Whenever I feel grand,’’ said the girl, ‘‘it will be for a better reason.’’
    Whether she felt grand or no, she at any rate felt busy; busy, I mean, with her thoughts. Left to herself for the evening, she sat awhile under the lamp, with empty hands, heedless of her usual avocations. Then she rose and moved about the room, and from one room to another, preferring the places where the vague lamplight expired. She was restless, and even excited; at moments she trembled a little. She felt that something had happened to her of which the importance was out of proportion to its appearance; there had really been a change in her life. What it would bring with it was as yet extremely indefinite; but Isabel was in a situation which gave a value to any change. She had a desire to leave the past behind her, and, as she said to herself, to begin afresh. This desire, indeed, was not a birth of the present occasion; it was as familiar as the sound of the rain upon the window, and it had led to her beginning afresh a great many times. She closed her eyes as she sat in one of the dusky corners of the quiet parlour; but it was not with a desire to take a nap. On the contrary, it was because she felt too wide awake, and wished to check the sense of seeing too many things at once. Her imagination was by habit ridiculously active; if the door were not opened to it, it jumped out of the window. She was not accustomed, indeed, to keep it behind bolts; and, at important moments, when she would have been thankful to make use of her judgement alone, she paid the penalty of having given undue encouragement to the faculty of seeing without judging. At present, with her sense that the note of change had been struck, came gradually a host of images of the