"You know what I mean. How can you do it. You lure people to your side with your beautiful face and sweet words and ways, and you see them getting fond of you—too fond for their own peace. Yet you never do anything to discourage or let them see that what is so serious to them, is mere trifling on your part. Nay, dear sister, hear me out. I am older than you, and graver, perhaps, for my years, but I am still young—barely twenty." "I look at things with different eyes, and I think it is dreadful to draw men on for the petty triumph of refusing one after another; wicked to inflict wounds one cannot heal; cruel to triumph over bleeding hearts. Perhaps you have not seen things as I do. I think my own heart would almost break if I believed you capable of such conscious cruelty. For myself, I tell you that if I saw that a good man, whose affection I could not return, was beginning to care for me, I would use every means in my power to prevent him from laying bare his thoughts, and offering what I could not accept. Some girls can triumph over the number of their conquests. I would rather gladden the heart of one good, true man, than know that a thousand had ached on my account. I think sometimes that, because you have never known the meaning of love as you have taught it to many, you are unable to realize the pain you cause by your so-called kindness." Clare listened with dilated eyes and a look of terror, whilst Margery spoke. As she finished Clare burst into a passion of tears and sobs. "I did not know," she cried. "I never meant to hurt any one. Can I be so wicked and cruel as you say? You must hate me, Margery; but I did not know, I only just tried to please everybody." What could Margery do but try to allay the storm of weeping she had aroused, and to pacify Clare with assurances that she believed her? Then Clare laid down on her pillow, exhausted with passionate tears, and through the night Margery could hear her sob in her sleep at intervals, like a frightened child; for Clare slept when her fit of weeping was over. Margery lay awake most of the night, wondering if she had spoken wisely, anxious for the effect of her words, and praying that good might result from them, both to her sister and to others. For one day Clare was pensive and thoughtful. There were dark rings round her eyes; she was silent and self-contained, and held herself aloof from such of her worshippers as came within her reach. "I am not very well, and I want to be quiet! Please leave me to myself, it will really be kind," she said, when asked to join in any amusement. But she was secretly happy in the consciousness that she was an object of the deepest interest to the nicest people of several guests then staying at Monks Lea, and that she never looked more attractive than when her face wore traces of sorrow.