“It justifies all your praises,” was the reply; and then, seeing that Clara was not in the mood for display, he took her place at the piano, and rattled away just as Laura requested. Onslow tried to engage Clara in conversation; but a cloud, as if from some impending ill, was palpably over her. Kenrick sat by in silence, deaf to the brilliant music. Clara’s presence, with its subtle magnetism, had steeped his own thoughts in the prevailing hue of hers. Suddenly he turned to her, and whispered: “You want help. What is it? Grant me the privilege of a brother. What can I do for you?” The glance Clara turned upon him was so full of thanks, so radiant with gratitude, that hope sprang in his heart. But before she could put her reply in words, Laura had come up, and taken her away to the piano for a concluding song. Clara gave them Longfellow’s “Rainy Day” to Dempster’s music. The little gilt clock over the mantel tinkled eleven. Vance rose to go, and said to Laura, “May I call on Miss Brown to-morrow with some new music?” “I’ll answer for her, yes,” replied Laura. “We shall be at home any time after twelve.” The gentlemen all took leave. Onslow made his exit the last. A rose that had been fastened in Clara’s waist dropped on the floor. “May I have it?” he asked, picking it up. “Why not? I wish it were fresher. Good night!” And she put out her hand. Onslow eagerly pressed it; but Clara, lifting his, said, “May this hand never strike except for justice and human freedom!” “Amen to that!” replied Onslow, before he well took in the entire meaning of what she had said. He hastened to rejoin his friends, following them through the corridor. He seemed to tread on air. “I was the only one she offered to shake hands with!” he exultingly soliloquized. The three parted, after an interchange of good nights. Both Onslow and Kenrick betook themselves to their rooms, each with no desire for other companionship than his own rose-colored dreams. CHAPTER XXX. A FEMININE VAN AMBURGH. “She who ne’er answers till a husband cools, Or, if she rules him, never shows she rules.”—_Pope._ The morning after the dinner, Madame Volney rose at sunrise, and was stealing on tiptoe into her dressing-room, when Ratcliff, always a late riser, grumbled, “What’s the matter?” “There’s to be an early church-service,” she replied. “Bah! You’re always going to church!”