“Now, Clare, my love--the idea! How could I complain of young Mr. Denbigh, who is always the civillest and nicest---- Of course, I mean my brother. He says these German baths are very good; but I would not mention it to him for worlds, for I am sure he would be unhappy if he had to leave home only with me.” Edgar and Clare looked at each other as Miss Somers, to use her own expression, ran on. Clare was annoyed and impatient, as young people so often are of the little follies of their seniors; but Edgar’s brown eyes shone with fun, just modified by a soft affectionate sympathy. “Dear Miss Somers,” he said, half in joke half in earnest, “don’t trouble yourself about your mind. You talk just as you always did. If I had heard you outside without knowing you were here, I should have recognised you at once. Don’t worry yourself about your mind.” “Do you think not, Edgar?--do you really think not? Now that is what I call a real comfort,” said Miss Somers; “for you are not like the people that are always with me; you would see in a moment if I was really weakened. Well, you know, I could not make up my mind to take him away--could I? For after all it does not matter so much about me. If I were young it would be different. Dear Edgar, no one has been civil enough to ask you to sit down. Bring a chair for yourself here beside me. Do you know, Clare, I don’t think, if you put it to me in a confidential way, that he has grown. He is not so tall as the rest of you Ardens. I was saying to my brother just the other day--I don’t care for your dreadfully tall people; for you have always to stoop coming into a room, and look as if you were afraid the sky was falling. And oh, my dears, what a long time it is since we have had any rain!” “Any rain?” said Edgar, who was a little taken by surprise. “What the farmers will do I can’t think, for you can’t water the fields like a few pots of geraniums. That last cutting you sent me, Clare, has got on so well. Do you mean to keep up all the gardens and everything as it used to be, Edgar? You must make her go to the Holmfirth flower show. You did not go last year, Clare, nor the year before; and I saw such a pretty costume, too, in the last fashions-book--all grey and black--just the very thing for you. You ought to speak to her, Edgar. She has worn that heavy deep mourning too long.” “Don’t, please,” said Clare, turning aside with a look of pain on her face.