"Neither will I ever ask you to approach so sacred a rite with lightness, much less with repugnance; but, at the same time, you ought to understand, that your attentions have been sufficiently pointed, to make people suppose that you only wanted a convenient opportunity of declaring yourself." "Impossible! Who ever heard of a man's making serious love in such a manner. You at least do not believe it." "Now, certainly I do not, for your words bear a different interpretation, and, if I mistake not, the opinion you now entertain of her, arises from comparison with another character of a higher standard." Clair colored, but he answered quickly. "If you have so far read my thoughts, do you find it possible to blame me. Could I be insensible to the attractions of a girl of such uncommon excellence?" "Alas, I do blame you," replied Mr. Ware, sadly, "for you have been acting a doubly deceitful part, but I cannot withhold my pity, for you must meet the difficulties with which you have entangled yourself." "I must think uncle, I must think," said Clair, stopping, "you put my mind into complete confusion--I believed I was going to act for the best; now, I do not know what to be at, though my chief consolation is that Lucy Villars never cared a straw for me. I know you lay bare the wounds of conscience only to heal them, and though you have spoken severely I know you feel for me. What am I to do under these circumstances? I feel I have been wrong, and would willingly make any atonement, but remember, how many struggles there are in the world to make us wretched, without our adding a desolate hearth, and a miserable home to make everything else doubly hard. I must go and think alone." "And remember," said Mr. Ware, "that Miss Lucy may deserve some allowance for her feelings. I am not quite certain that she is so much a trifler as you would make yourself believe." "Why you will drive me out of my senses, uncle, I cannot increase my difficulties by thinking that to be possible. I know women too well--but, for the present, good bye," he said, laying his hand on the stile which divided the path to the Aston woods from the road, "but do not, at least till we meet again, think even so hardly of me as I deserve," he added, in a tone of gentle persuasion, which often screened him from blame, or, if not altogether so, had obtained the love of those with whose esteem he often trifled. Then, with a light bound, he cleared the stile, and, walking quickly onwards, he was soon lost in the windings of the path he had chosen for the scene of his meditations. CHAPTER XIII. My friend, your house is made of glass, As any one may see, I pray you, therefore, have a care, How you throw stones at me. CULVER ALLEN.