“I know what it is to have no mother,” continued the large lady, “and to be left alone. I was an only daughter myself; and when I looked at all mine, and me spared to them, and thought ‘Oh, that poor dear girl, all by herself!’ I could have cried over you; I could, indeed.” “You were very kind,” said Edgar once more, and Clare uttered another faint murmur, as if echoing him, unable to originate any sentiment of her own. “But I fear Miss Arden has poor health,” Mrs. Pimpernel continued, fixing her eyes, which had been contemplating the company in general, upon Clare. And Mr. Pimpernel, who had been inspecting the room with some curiosity, looked too at the young lady of the house; and the slim daughter gave her a succession of shy glances, so that she was hemmed in on every side, and could no longer meet with silence, or with her haughty little bow, those expressions of friendly interest. “Indeed I am very well--quite well,” she said. “I must have been getting sympathy on false pretences. There is no lack of society had I wanted it. It was my choice to be alone.” “Oh, my dear, _that_ I have no doubt of,” said Mrs. Pimpernel; “in your position, of course, you can pick and choose; but still, when you are not in good spirits, nor feeling up to much exertion---- However, I do hope you will waive ceremony, and come in a friendly way with your brother to dine at the Red House on Monday. It would give me so much pleasure. And Alice has been looking forward to making your acquaintance for so long.” “Oh, yes; for a very long time,” said pretty Alice, under her breath. She was as pretty as Clare herself, though in a different way; and sat a little behind her mother, looking from one to the other of her parents, like a silent chorus, softly backing them with smiles and sympathy. When she caught Edgar’s eyes during this little performance, she blushed and cast down her own, and played with the fringe of her parasol; and with a certain awe now and then, her looks strayed to Clare’s beautiful, closed-up, repellent face. She was shy of the brother, but downright frightened for the sister; and besides these two sentiments, and a faith as yet unbroken in her father and mother, showed no personal identity at all. “I do not go out at present,” said Clare, looking at her black dress; upon which Mrs. Pimpernel rushed into remonstrance and entreaty. Edgar sat looking on, feeling almost as much bewildered as Alice; for, notwithstanding her black dress, Clare had shown no particular unwillingness to go to Thorne. “For the sake of your health you ought not to shut yourself up,” urged Mrs. Pimpernel; “a young creature at your age should enjoy life a little; and for the sake of your friends, who would be so glad to have you--and for your brother’s sake, my dear, if you will let me say so--I speak freely, because I have daughters of my own.”