“What!” exclaimed Clara in unfeigned astonishment, but suddenly restraining her emotion, she said: “O, you are going off on business?” “No: I don’t expect to return.” “Why--is--it--is it not a sudden conclusion?” “It is,” said Xerxes. “I reached it on leaving you yesterday evening. I learned something that at once decided me.” “It seems that it was something disagreeable, judging by your looks?” “Yes, the most disagreeable news I ever heard in my life,” exclaimed Xerxes. “I cannot remain here any longer. I wish I had known it sooner. I should have controlled my foolish heart, and saved myself a world of sorrow.” “I don’t understand you,” said Clara. “I know you don’t, but to be plain, you are the cause of my trouble.” “I? How can I be?” “I will tell you,” said Xerxes, speaking as if he were in the deepest distress. “I heard of your engagement yesterday evening. I had permitted myself to entertain hopes in regard to you, not dreaming that I had a rival. I do think you ought to have informed me of this fact, in common charity.” “You never asked me, Mr. Comston.” “No: but when you saw my infatuation, you might have thrown out a hint, that your heart was pre-occupied. But you allowed me to go on in my blindness till I have become hopelessly entangled in the web of Cupid. I love you to madness. O, why did you not warn me?” exclaimed Xerxes in a voice of such exquisite anguish that Clara felt sorry, and yet glad. “I think it would have been presumptuous in me to have done so. I did not know that you cared anything for me.” “Well, it is useless to talk about it, I suppose. I go with a great wound in my heart which nothing on earth can cure. You are lost to me forever. The thought drives me mad. I cannot remain here.” “Why should you go?” asked Clara timidly. “Do you suppose I could stay here, and see you the bride of another? No, no, never.” “Another? whom do you mean?” “Why, you know--Mr. Edgefield.” “I don’t think I will ever be his bride,” replied Clara in a low, hesitating tone. “Are you not engaged to him?” asked Xerxes eagerly. “Yes: but since he has joined the Christians, I have been thinking of breaking it off. He has become too solemn to suit me.” “O, if you will only give me the slightest grounds for hope, this town would be the dearest spot on earth to me. Tell me that I may try to win you, and I will be raised at once from the very depths of despair to the pinnacle of felicity.” Xerxes had used this very expression at least a dozen times to different damsels, but he now spoke it with all the freshness of a first utterance, and it had the same effect upon Clara as if it had been the spontaneous outgush of a sentiment struggling to find vent in suitable language. Subsequent events will show what reply Clara made.