“Why, I understand Martha to say that Lovel was here,” Clare said inconsequently. Olver seemed to find no reply; he stood, holding the mirror, and scrutinizing Clare as though he beheld an unbelievable vision, and yet wished to be certain of recollecting that vision in every detail. In the diversion of the mirror he had momentarily forgotten not only his work, but also the ulterior motive for which he had come. He now remembered both. So this was the lass that Nicco wanted! Olver, envisaging such desires with the utmost crudeness, was not in the least surprised. He would not have cared for the lass himself,--she was too limber of build for him,--but he could see her very well as the complement of Nicco, his swarthiness and her fairness side by side. “He could not come; I am here for him,” he replied at last, thinking himself very artful for saying “he could not” instead of “he would not.” “Was he busy?” asked Clare. “No,” said Olver heedlessly, for he was now thinking of the mirror and wondering how he could dispose of it before she should observe it in his hand, “he has stayed at home.” “Oh,” said Clare. She saw the mirror. “Why, what are you doing with that?” she asked, amused, and she looked brightly and interrogatively at him. Seeing that she was not angry, he gave a shy smile and looked into the mirror once again, laughing delightedly at the little picture of his own face, and glancing at Clare. “Do you like it? you may have it for your own if you like,” she said, partly because he was simple, and partly because he was her friend Lovel’s brother, and she knew that he would show it to Lovel. “For my own? But can you give it to me?” said Olver, clasping his treasure and grinning. “Yes, it is mine, so I can give it to you. Would you like it?” “But this is Mr. Warrener’s room.” “Yes, but the mirror is mine for all that--_was_ mine, I should say, since it is yours now.” “Really and truly mine? to take home with me? to break if I like?” “Really and truly yours; but you must try not to break it: a broken mirror brings bad luck on a house.” “There is bad luck enough on our house already without that,” said Olver, suddenly gloomy. “Bad luck,--how do you mean?” “I don’t know; Nicco says so sometimes, when he has a black fit on him.” “Nicco?” “My brother.” It was a little shock to her to find that Lovel, whom she knew only as a figure so detached and self-reliant, should own a childish name. It seemed to make him suddenly human; her eyes softened. “Does he often have a black fit on him?” she pursued, but as soon as she had spoken the words her loyalty repented of them, and she said, “No, you should not tell me.”