Soon after this, a ridiculous thing occurred, the consequences of which were grave enough. The summer and autumn after that weary drought were rather wet and stormy. One night towards the end of October, it blew a heavy gale after torrents of rain. Going to the churchyard next day, I found, as I had expected, that the flowers so carefully kept through the summer were shattered and strewn by the tempest; and so I returned to the garden for others to plant in their stead. My cousin Clement (as he was told to call himself) came sauntering towards me among the beds. His usual look of shallow brightness and empty self-esteem had failed him for the moment, and he looked like a fan-tailed pigeon who has tumbled down the horse-rack. He followed me to and fro, with a sort of stuttering walk, as I chose the plants I liked best; but I took little notice of him, for such had been my course since I first discovered their scheme. At last, as I stooped to dig up a white verbena, he came behind me, and began his errand with more than his usual lisp. This I shall not copy, as it is not worth the trouble. "Oh, Clara," he said, "I want to tell you something, if you’ll only be good-natured!" "Don’t you see I am busy now?" I replied, without turning to look. "Won’t it do when you have taken your curl-papers off?" "Now, Clara, you know that I never use curl-papers. My hair doesn’t want it. You know it’s much prettier than your long waving black stuff, and it curls of its own accord, if mamma only brushes it. But I want to tell you something particular." "Well, then, be quick, for I am going away." And with that I stood up and confronted him. He was scarcely so tall as myself, and his light showy dress and pink rose of a face, which seemed made to be worn in the hair, were thrown into brighter relief by my sombre apparel and earnest twilight look. Some lurking sense of this contrast seemed to add to his hesitation. At last he began again: "You know, Cousin Clara, you must not be angry with me, because it isn’t my fault." "What is not your fault?" "Why, that I should fall--what do they call it?--fall in love, I suppose." "You fall in love, you dissolute doll! How dare you fall in love, sir, without my leave?" "Well, I was afraid to ask you, Clara. I couldn’t tell what you would say." "Oh, that must depend, of course, on who Mrs. Doll is to be! If it’s a good little thing with blue satin arms, and a sash and a slip, and pretty blue eyes that go with a string, perhaps I’ll forgive you, poor child, and set you up with a house, and a tea-set, and a mother-of-pearl perambulator." "Now, don’t talk nonsense," he answered. "Before long I shall be a man, and then you’ll be afraid of me, and put up your hands, and shriek, and want me to kiss you." I had indulged him too much, and his tongue was taking liberties. I soon stopped him. "How dare you bark at me, you wretched little white-woolled nursery dog?"