“I will leave you awhile,” said the sister. “If you want anything, you can ring.” Left to herself, Clara rose and promenaded the apartment, her thoughts intently turned inward to a survey of her position. Why had she been removed to this new abode? Plainly because Semmes feared she would be aided by her companions in baffling his vigilance and effecting her escape. Clara knelt by the bedside and prayed for light and guidance; and an inward voice seemed to say to her: “You talk of trusting God, and yet you only half trust him.” What could it mean? Clara meditated upon it long and anxiously. What had been her motive in procuring the dagger! A mixed motive and vague. Perhaps it was to take her own life, perhaps another’s. Had she not reached that point of faith that she could believe God would save her from both these alternatives? Yes; she would doubt no longer. Walking to the back window she drew the dagger from its sheath and threw it far out into a clump of rose-bushes that grew rank in the centre of the area. The key turned in the door, and Sister Agatha appeared. “Mr. Semmes is here. Can he come in?” “Yes. I’ve been waiting for him.” The sister withdrew and the gentleman entered. “Sit down,” said Clara. “For what purpose am I confined here?” “My dear young lady, you desire to be treated with frankness. You are sensible,—you are well educated,—you are altogether charming; but you are a slave.” “Stop there, sir! How do you know I’m a slave?” “Of course I am bound to take the testimony of my client, an honorable gentleman, on that point.” “Have you examined the record! Can Mr. Ratcliff produce any evidence that the child he bought was white? Look at me. Look at this arm. Do you believe my parentage is other than pure Saxon? If that doesn’t shake your belief, let me tell you that I have proofs that I am the only surviving child of that same Mr. and Mrs. Berwick who were lost more than fourteen years ago in a steamboat explosion on the Mississippi.” “Proofs? You have proofs? Impossible! What are they?” “That I do not choose to tell you. Only I warn you that the proofs exist, and that you are lending yourself to a fraud in helping your client to hold me as a slave.” “My dear young lady, don’t encourage such wild, romantic dreams. Some one, for a wicked purpose, has put them into your head. The only child of Mr. and Mrs. Berwick was lost with them, as was clearly proved on the trial that grew out of the disaster, and their large property passed into the possession of a distant connection.” “But what if the story of the child’s loss was a lie,—what if she was saved,—then kidnapped,—then sold as a slave? What if she now stands before you?” “As a lawyer I must say, I don’t see it. And even if it were all true, what an incalculable advantage the man who has millions in possession will have over any claimant who can’t offer a respectable fee in advance! Who holds the purse-strings, wins. ’T is an invariable rule, my child.”