This was a fair analysis of Clare's character. It was also much like the thoughts which passed through Margery's mind, only she did not put them into words. They were not mingled with any idea of blame. "It is her nature," said Margery to herself; "and perhaps it is not to be regretted that she is able to make so many pleased for the time. I sometimes wish I could exercise the same charm, only I cannot love for an hour or a day. My misfortune is that I love too long and too well." There was one result of Clare's fascinations that gave pain to the nobler nature of Margery. She could see that whilst Clare charmed and forgot so many of her admirers in turn, she caused no little suffering. "Perhaps," thought Margery, "she knows not what she does. But those bright eyes and winsome ways wound whilst they charm, and often the wound does not easily heal, or leaves a life-long scar." It was true enough. Clare came off unscathed. She received attentions from many, was impartially fascinating to each individual of those who hovered around, ready to obey her commands or anticipate her wishes. She had sweet smiles and graceful thanks for each; but when men lost their hearts and tried to whisper love tales in her ear, her manner changed in a moment. "You do grieve me," she would say, as her lovely eyes filled with tears. "I am so sorry. I try to be just the same to everybody. I never dreamed you could make the mistake of thinking that I encouraged anything of that kind. Forgive me if I have pained you; I never meant it. I am only a child—just turned eighteen—and far too young and foolish to think of marrying." Probably the poor half-maddened suitor would say he did not wish to marry yet. He would wait her time; "any time, if she could give him a word of hope." "But I cannot; it would be wrong. I do not feel in that way at all, and I shall not marry for years and years, if ever. Besides, I have a sacred duty to fulfil. Do you not know that I belong to Margery? I was sent to her as a Christmas gift from her dear little dead sister. I shall never leave Margery, and if she marries first, as she ought to do, being the elder, I must stay with mother." All these pretty words would make the suitor more in love than before, and more despairing of ever deserving or winning such beauty and goodness as were combined in Clare Austin. Barbara's prophecy, "She will make somebody's heart ache," was fulfilled again and again. At length Margery ventured to speak to Clare on the subject— "Clare," she said, "I do not think you would be wilfully cruel, but you are so very often." "I, darling! What do you mean?" and Clare's face put on a look of mingled unconsciousness of wrong-doing and pain at Margery's accusation.