Mr. Vissian visited her during that week. In September, that dread month of solitude, she had asked him if he had news from Mr. Kingcote; but the rector had then heard nothing. He was now, however, in a position to answer more satisfactorily, when she again asked the question. It was late in the afternoon; they were by the fire in the drawing-room, drinking tea. “Kingcote? Oh, yes!” said Mr. Vissian. “He has gone to live in Norwich. I thought I should never hear from him again; but I find he has been seriously ill.” “Ill?” Isabel asked, not immediately. “Is that lately?” “He speaks of the end of last year; a bad fever of some kind, which nearly ended his days--those are his words.” She murmured an “Indeed!” and looked at the fire. “What is he doing in Norwich?” was her next question. “Well, I was somewhat surprised to hear that he has turned bookseller, has a shop there.” Isabel looked at him without astonishment, but rather as if she were reflecting on what he had told her. “He writes in a melancholy way,” the rector pursued. “Circumstances have urged him to this step, it seems. I fear he will find business, even that of a bookseller, very uncongenial. He is a man of singular delicacy of temperament; quite unfitted to face practical troubles, I should say. Possibly you know that he has relatives dependent upon him.” “Yes, I know,” Isabel answered mechanically. When the rector went, she sat till dinnertime thinking. Whatever her thoughts were, they only ended in a sigh. More visitors, then the season once more at hand. At hand, too, the month of June--but of that she had resolved not to think. Not till the very day came would she turn a thought to the future. Kingcote was not in London. She was glad of that; otherwise she would have gone up with a troublesome nervousness. CHAPTER XV. Vincent Lacour--now Sir Vincent--had a letter to answer. It was the end of May, and his time was much taken up. A young and handsome baronet, of manner which many people held fascinating, of curious originality in drawing-room conversation, possessed of a considerable fortune, and without encumbrances--it was natural that he should be in request when mornings were too short for the round of seasonable pleasures, and nights were melodious with the strains of Strauss and Waldteufel. For full four days he had postponed the answering of this particular letter, and mentally he characterised the neglect as disgraceful. However, a certain event had just come to pass, which made discharge of the duty imperative. He dined at his club, and there penned his reply. Afterwards he had a ball to go to. It concerns us to know what he wrote: “My dear Miss Warren,