Clarice Severn had many admirers, but the man who loved her with a life’s love was Kenelm Eyrle. He had made her an offer of marriage and she refused him; he had told her that living or dead he should be true to her and care for her alone. She had never flirted or coquetted with him; she was fond of him from old associations, because for years he had been kind to her, but she had never deceived him in the least. Now that Sir Ronald was coming home, she has begun to wonder how she should best avoid Kenelm. “I remember Ronald’s chivalrous sense of honor,” she said to herself. “No matter how much he might care for me, if he thought Kenelm loved me he would shun and avoid me.” She did her best to bring Kenelm and Lady Hermione into each other’s society. She arranged picnics, drives, walks; she exaggerated and repeated every little complimentary speech they ever made about each other, but it was all in vain. Kenelm Eyrle used to laugh in her face. “Oh, Clarice, you think I shall learn to care for Hermione,” he would say. “As well try to make the needle false to the pole. I care for one face only, and that is yours; for one love only, and that is you.” Nor was she more successful with Lady Hermione, who laughingly refused to believe that Kenelm cared for her at all, and pulled marguerites apart, leaf by leaf, the last one always ending, “He loves me not.” “There was a man once who sold his shadow,” said Mr. Eyrle to her one day. “That was a much easier feat, Clarice, than for you to send me from you. You cannot, darling! Do not look at me and tell me you may die. If you did I should always live where I could see your grave, and I should love the grass upon it better than the fairest color that ever bloomed on another face. Do you believe me?” “Yes,” she replied, half sadly; “I do believe you, Kenelm. I--I wish it were not so.” And the beautiful girl had looked at him half regretfully. “I almost wish I did; but you have explained the reason yourself. If for every one there is what the Germans call an _alter ego_, another soul--ah, Kenelm, I do not wish to hurt you--but you are not that to me. It is not my fault.” He looked long and earnestly at her. “No,” he said; “God help me. It is not your fault, Clarice; but I shall hope on until you tell me that you love some one else.” CHAPTER X. SIR RONALD’S ERROR. Perhaps if any man or woman were asked if they were willing to tell a lie they would most indignantly deny it. Perhaps most people, even though they be guilty of some trifling act of deceit or insincerity that can hardly merit a harsher name, would shrink with horror from an actual lie.