When he found himself alone, or almost alone, in a corner of the library, he covered his face with his hands, and yielded to the crushing influence of this last certainty. Clare was no longer an honoured matron, the possessor of a well-recognized position, the mother of children of whom she was proud, the wife of a man whom at least she had once loved, and who, presumably, had done nothing to make her hate and scorn him. God help her! What was she now? What was her position to be? She had no relations to fall back upon, or to stand by her in her trouble, except himself, who was no relation--only poor Edgar, her loving brother, bound to her by everything but blood; but, alas! he knew that in such emergencies blood is everything, and other ties count for so little. The thought made his heart sick; and he could not be silent, could not hide it from her, dared not shut up this secret in his own mind, as he might have done almost anything else that affected her painfully. There was but one way, but one step before him now. His letters tumbled out of his pocket as he drew out Miss Lockwood’s original paper, and he tried to look at them, by way of giving his overworn mind a pause, and that he might be the better able to choose the best way of carrying out the duty now before him. These letters were--some of them, at least--answers to those which he had written in the excitement and happy tumult of his mind, after Lady Mary’s unintentional revelation. He read them as through a mist; their very meaning came dimly upon him, and he could with difficulty realize the state of his feelings when, all glowing with the prospect of personal happiness, and the profound and tender exultation with which he found himself to be still beloved, he had written these confident appeals to the kindness of his friends. Most likely, had he read the replies with a disengaged mind, they would have disappointed him bitterly, with a dreariness of downfall proportioned to his warmth of hope. But in his present state of mind every sound around him was muffled, every blow softened. One nail strikes out another, say the astute Italians. The mind is not capable of two profound and passionate preoccupations at once. He read them with subdued consciousness, with a veil before his eyes. They were all friendly, and some were warmly cordial. “What can we do for you?” they all said. “If you could take a mastership, I have interest at more than one public school; but, alas! I suppose you did not even take your degree in England,” one wrote to him. “If you knew anything about land, or had been trained to the law,” said another, “I might have got you a land agency in Ireland, a capital thing for a man of energy and courage; but then I fear you are no lawyer, and not much of an agriculturist.” “What can you do, my dear fellow?” said a third, more cautiously. “Think what you are most fit for--you must know best yourself--and let me know, and I will try all I can do.”