'I don't know; he is terribly provoking sometimes--and without dear granny to hinder the rubs. O, Louis! it is true that there is no bearing to stay at home in those great empty rooms!' 'And Jane?' 'Oh, she goes,' said Clara, recovering a smile; 'she is firmly persuaded that we shall run into another revolution, and as she could not frighten us by the description of your wounds, she decides to come and dress ours when we get any. Dear old Jenny, I am glad she goes; she is the only creature I can talk to; but, Louis, before my uncle comes in, I have something to give you.' It was the letters that Mary had written to her aunt since the parting, and the Spanish books which she had left in her charge. 'It is very kind in you, Clara,' said Louis, fervently. They talked of Mary, and a little of James, from whom Clara had once heard; but it had been a stiff letter, as if a barrier were between them, and then Mr. Dynevor came in, and seemed pleased to find Louis there; even asking him whether he could not join them on their tour, and help Clara to speak French. 'No, thank you, sir,' said Louis, 'I am afraid my company brought no good luck last time.' 'Never mind that--manage better now--ha, Clara.' 'It would be very nice; but he has a great deal too much to do at home,' said Clara. Oliver would not be persuaded that Fitzjocelyn would not meet them abroad, and began magniloquently talking of his courier, and his route, and while he was looking for the map, the two cousins smiled, and Clara said,--'Lucky you to have work at home, and to stay with it.' 'Only I say, Clara, when you break down anywhere, send me a telegraph.' 'No such good luck,' sighed Clara. 'So he won't come,' said her uncle, when he was gone; 'but we shall have him following us yet--Ha! ha! Never mind, Clara.' Clara laughed. She knew what her uncle meant, but the notion was to her too impossible and ridiculous even to need a blush. She did not think the world contained Louis's equal; but she had always known that his love was disposed of, and she no more thought of wishing for it than for any other impossible thing. His affection for Mary gave her no more pain than did that of James for Isabel; and she would have treated with scorn and anger anything that impeached his constancy. The pleasure with which he received Mary's letters was the single satisfaction that she carried away with her. And so she was borne away, and her sad heart could not choose but be somewhat enlivened by change and novelty, while her uncle made it his business to show her everything as rapidly as it could be seen, apparently with no relish himself for aught but perpetual movement.