“Do they not look beautiful!” cried Alice, entering at that moment; “Clara’s riding-dress is so becoming to her perfect form. She sits like a queen. And then Brentford--I hardly know which to admire most, him or his horse--and that is saying a great deal.” “Your comparison is very apt, Alice,” said her mother, laughing: “for Mr. Brentford’s beauty is very much of the same character as that of the noble brute he bestrides. They certainly are both extremely handsome.” “Well, I wouldn’t care if he were as ugly as Caliban, if I could only ride his magnificent gray. Oh! if I were only old enough to be invited! But I must to my quadratic equations! Oh, I had forgotten--this note Clara left for you.” Mrs. Gregory hastily opened it, and read thus, “Clara’s father is not in the habit of troubling himself with the inspection of her affairs; and Mrs. Gregory is entreated not to burden her mind with any undue solicitude. C. L. Gregory.”” The tears sprang to the step-mother’s eyes as she read these lines; but she brushed them away, for she heard footsteps at her door. It opened, and there stood Dr. Gregory himself. A right joyous meeting was there. “And where are the children?” he asked. “Alice left me but a moment ago, Neddie is in the garden, at play, I believe, and Clara has gone to ride.” “To ride?--With whom?” “With Mr. Brentford, a young man who came to town about the time you left, and has become somewhat intimate here. I should like to have you make his acquaintance.” “Why, what is he?” “You will see for yourself,” answered his wife, with a smile. “But you have told me nothing about your poor sister yet.” It was not long before Dr. Gregory had an opportunity of meeting the stranger, and holding quite a long conversation with him in his own house. “That is the man you spoke of?” said he abruptly to his wife, as the door closed on the visitor. She assented. “A _man_, indeed, if hair and cloth can make one. It is a pity he hadn’t a brain inside his comely cranium.” Clara flashed a vengeful glance on her step-mother, as the doctor thus characteristically uttered himself, and sailed majestically out of the room. CHAPTER VII. The last rays of a June sun were streaming into Clara’s chamber through the open window at which she sat. “There goes father into his office!” she exclaimed. “He is alone. Now or never!” and snatching her sun-bonnet, she ran quickly down the stairs and across the garden to the little white vine-covered office that stood at its foot. A moment’s hesitation, as she laid her hand on the latch, and then, with a sudden air of resolution, she opened the door and went in. Her father, who sat at the window, reading, glanced at her as she entered, nodded slightly, and went on with his book.