I left him, and went with my basket of flowers along the path to the churchyard. For a while he stood there frightened, till his mother looked forth from the drawing-room window. Between the two fears he chose the less, and followed me to my father’s grave. I stood there and angrily waved him back, but he still persisted, though trembling. "Cousin Clara," he said--and his lisp was quite gone, and he tried to be in a passion--"Cousin Clara, you shall hear what I have got to say. You have lived with me now a long time, and I’m sure we have agreed very well, and I--I--no, I don’t see why we should not be married." "Don’t you indeed, sir?" "Perhaps," he continued, "you are afraid that I don’t care about you. Really now, I often think that you would be very good-looking, if you would only laugh now and then, and leave off those nasty black gowns; and then if you would only leave off being so grand, and mysterious, and stately, and getting up so early, I would let you do as you liked, and you might paint me and have a lock of my hair." "Clement Daldy," I asked, "do you see that lake?" "Yes," he replied, turning pale, and inclined to fly. "There’s water enough there now. If you ever dare again to say one word like this to me, or even to show by your looks that you think it, I’ll take you and drown you there, as sure as my father lies here." He slunk away quickly without a word, and could eat no lunch that day. In the afternoon, as I sat in my favourite bow-window seat, Mrs. Daldy glided in. She had put on with care her clinging smile, as she would an Indian shawl. I thought how much better her face would have looked with its natural, bold, haughty gaze. "My dear Clara," began this pious tidewaiter, "what have you done to vex so your poor cousin Clement?" "Only this, Mrs. Daldy: he was foolish or mad, and I gave him advice in a truly Christian spirit, entirely for his own good." "I hope, my dear, that some day it may be his duty as well as his privilege to advise you. But, of course, you need not take his advice. My Clara loves her own way as much as any girl I ever knew; and with poor Clement she will be safe to have it." "No doubt of that," I replied. "And then, my pet, you will be in a far better position than you could attain as an unmarried girl to pursue the great aim of your life; so far, I mean, as is not inconsistent with the spirit of Christian forgiveness. Your guardian has thought of that, in effecting this arrangement; and I trust that I was not wrong in allowing so fair a prospect, under Providence, of your ultimate peace of mind to influence me considerably when he sought my consent." "I am sure I am much obliged to you."