“And I shall be at hand, if you want anything,” said Arthur. Was it possible he was to get his wish so easily? This poor little lamb did not even wait to be asked, she thrust her milk-white head into the wolf’s mouth. The papers; not only those old papers which he had pretended to want, but any windfall of modern letters that might fall in his way--and not only this, but Clare’s society, and full opportunity to work upon her as he might. He could not believe it was true as he went away. It was his first visit, and he would not stay too long, nor run any risk. He left her, as it were, on the verge of a new world. To-morrow even might bring forth results more important than anything that had yet dawned on his life--to-morrow he might discover something which would put Arden within his reach--or to-morrow’s chances might place Clare within his reach, the next thing to Arden. His head throbbed with excitement and his heart with hope. As for Clare, she too was on the verge of a new world--but it was one of excitement and emotion only. Her dull life quickened into sudden radiance. She looked out again from the window, and saw the silvery water gleaming, and the branches waving, and all the face of nature gay. The day had brightened, the world grown cheery--and to-morrow, with new things in it, new companionship, new work, new interests, smiled and invited her. She did not say even to herself “I shall see him again.” On the contrary, she thought of her father and his papers, and the melancholy pleasure of setting them in order. It would be, of course, a melancholy pleasure; and yet she caught herself singing as she ran upstairs to get her hat, and go out for a walk. Could it be this prospect only which made her heart so light and so gay? CHAPTER XI. The next day was one of excitement for Clare. She began it with feelings so changed from that of the previous morning, when life had seemed nothing but tedium and heaviness to her, that it was difficult to imagine that she was the same creature. The calm composure of her earlier days, when no new incident was wanted to break the pleasant blank of existence, was as different from this new exhiliration as it was from the heavy, leaden dulness of the time which was just over. She had wanted nothing in the first serenity of her youth. She had seemed to want everything in the monotony of her loneliness after her brother and her cousin had left her. And now, again, she wanted nothing--except----