"Birth is not always to be depended upon nowadays." "She is so quiet, too, and so retiring. She would not even shake hands with you, when we met her, though you wanted her to. Did you remark that?" "Sometimes I am dull about trifles, such as that." "Yes. By the by, she did not seem surprised at seeing you here to-day, although she thought you safe in town, as we all did,--you deceitful boy." "Did she not?" "No. But then, of course, it was a matter of indifference to her." "Of course." They have reached the entrance to the vicarage by this time, and are pausing to say farewell for a few hours. "I shall come up to Gowran to-morrow morning first thing, and speak to your father: is that what you will wish me to do?" asks Horace, her hand in his. "Yes. But, Horace," looking at him earnestly, "I think I should like to tell it all to papa myself first, this evening." "Very well, dearest. Do whatever makes you happiest," returns he, secretly pleased that the ice will be broken for him before his prepares for his _mauvais quart-d'heure_ in the library. "And if he should refuse his consent, Clarissa, what then? You know you might make so much a better marriage." "Might I?"--tenderly. "I don't think so; and papa would not make me unhappy." CHAPTER IX. "A generous friendship no cold medium knows."--POPE. Mrs. Redmond is sitting on a centre ottoman, darning stockings. This is her favorite pastime, and never fails her. When she isn't darning stockings, she is always scolding the cook, and as her voice, when raised, is not mellifluous, her family, in a body, regard the work-basket with reverential affection, and present it to her notice when there comes the crash of broken china from the lower regions, or when the cold meat has been unfairly dealt with. She is of the lean cadaverous order of womankind, and is bony to the last degree. Her nose is aquiline, and, as a rule, pale blue. As this last color might also describe her eyes, there is a depressing want of contrast about her face. Her lips are thin and querulous, and her hair--well, she hasn't any hair, but her wig is flaxen. As Clarissa enters, she hastily draws the stocking from her hand, and rises to greet her. A faint blush mantles in her cheek, making one at once understand that in by-gone days she had probably been considered pretty. "So unexpected, my dear Clarissa," she says, with as pleased a smile as the poor thing ever conjures up, and a little weakness at the knees, meant for a courtesy. "So very glad to see you,"--as, indeed, she is.