“I always loved you, Edgar,” she cried, eagerly; “and then I used to wonder if it was my fault--if I got all the love because I was like the family, and a girl--taking it from you. I wish we had been a little bit like, do you know--just a little, so that people should say--‘Look at that brother and sister.’ Sometimes one sees a boy and a girl so like--just a beard to one and long hair to the other, to make the necessary difference; and then one sees they belong to each other at the first glance.” “Never mind,” said Edgar with a smile, “so long as we resemble each other in our hearts.” “But not in our minds,” said Clare, sorrowfully. “I can see how it will be. You will always be thinking one thing when I am thinking another. Whatever there may be to consider, you and I will always take different views of it. You are for the present, and I am for the past. I know only our own Arden ways, and you know the ways of the world. It is so hard, Edgar; but, dear, I don’t for a moment say it is your fault,” she said, holding his arm clasped between her hands, and looking up with her blue eyes at their softest, into his face. He looked down upon her at the same time with a curious, tender, amused smile. Clare, who knew only Arden ways, was so sure they must be right ways, so certain that there was a fault somewhere in those who did not understand them--but not Edgar’s fault, poor fellow! He had been brought up away from home, and was to be pitied, not blamed. And this was why her brother looked down upon her with that curious amused smile. “No,” he said, “it was not my fault; but I think you should take my theory on the subject into consideration, Clare. Suppose I had been sent off on purpose to inaugurate a new world?” Clare gave a little shudder, but she did not speak. She was troubled even that he could joke on such a matter, or suggest theories, as if it had been a mere crotchet on the part of her father, who was incapable of anything of the kind; but she could not make a direct reply, for, by tacit mutual consent, neither of them named the old Squire. “Let us think so at least,” he answered gaily, “for the harm is done, I fear; and it would not be so bad to be a deserter from Arden ways, if one had been educated for that purpose, don’t you think? So here we are at the village! Don’t tell me anything. I remember every bit of it as well as if I had been here yesterday. Where is the old lathe-and-plaster house that used to stand here?”