“Mr. Fielding, that is our business,” said Clare, almost sharply. “I don’t understand how you can talk of our people to anybody but Edgar or me.” “I don’t mean the people here,” said Mr. Fielding meekly, “but at the other end of the parish. You know that new village, which is not even on Arden land--on that corner which belongs to old Stirzaker--where there are so many Irish? I don’t like to trouble you always about these kind of people. And when I have wanted anything----” “Please don’t want anything from them again,” said Clare. “I don’t like it. What is the good of our being lords of the manor if we do not look after our own people? Mr. Fielding, you know I think a great deal of our family. You often blame me for it; but I should despise myself if I did not think of our duties as well. All that is our business. Please--please don’t ask anything of those Pimpernels again!” “Those Pimpernels!” said Mr. Fielding, shaking his head. “Ah, Clare! they are flesh and blood like yourself, and the young lady is a very nice girl; and why should I not permit them to be kind to their fellow-creatures because you think that is your right? Everybody has a right to be good to their neighbours. And then they find us places for our boys and girls.” “I have forgotten about everything since Edgar came,” said Clare, with a blush. “I have not seen old Sarah since the first day. Please come with me, and I will go and see her now. What sort of places? They are much better in nice houses in the country than in Liverpool. The girls get spoiled when they go into a town.” “But they get good wages,” said Mr. Fielding, “and are able to help their people. I have not told you of this, for I knew you were prejudiced. Old Sarah has a lodger now, a relation of Mr. Perfitt--an old Scotchwoman--something quite new. I should like you to see her, Clare. I have seen plenty of Scotch in Liverpool, both workmen and merchants; but I do not understand this old lady. She is a new type to me.” “I suppose being Scotch does not make much difference,” said Clare, discontentedly. “I do not like them much for my part. Is she in want, or can I be of any use to her? I will go and see her in that case----” “Good heavens!” cried Mr. Fielding, in alarm, “Want! I tell you she is a relation of Perfitt’s, and they are all as proud as Lucifer. I almost wonder, Clare,” he added more softly, dropping his voice, “that you, who are so proud yourself, should not have more sympathy with the pride of others.” “Others!” cried Clare, with indignation, and then she stopped, and looked at him with her eyes full. If they had not been in the open air in the village street she would have eased herself by a burst of tears. “I am all wrong since Edgar came home,” she cried passionately out of the depths of her heart. “Since Edgar came home? But my dear child--my dear child!” cried Mr. Fielding, “I thought you were so proud of your brother.”