“His thoughts were always kind and good,” said Clare, hastily; and it was hard, very hard for her in the agitation of the moment to resist a girlish inclination to burst into tears. It was so ungrateful, she would have said--so cruel and unkind. What! because a kind service was done, which brought on painful results, was it the benefactor that was to be blamed? “If Jeanie were to be ill now, you might just as well say it was my doing,” she added in her suppressed passion, and felt that she disliked the very looks of this stranger and her monotonous Scotch voice. Then there was a long pause. Clare turned over all the books on the table before her--took up and put down her work--twisted the wools about her fingers till her anger had somewhat evaporated. Mrs. Murray sat at a little distance from her, saying nothing. Her eyes were fixed on a portrait of Clare, taken a year or two before, which hung on the wall. She looked at it with a wondering interest, growing more and more earnest in her attention. “You are like _her_, too,” she said at length, with a certain astonishment. The portrait was not like Clare at that moment. It was Clare in repose, when gentler thoughts were in her mind. “You are like _her_, too,” Mrs. Murray resumed, with a little eagerness. “I could not have thought it. But you’re no one to let your heart be broken without a word, the Lord be praised.” “What do you mean? If it is of mamma you are speaking, it is my brother who is like her,” said Clare, haughtily, “and I should be glad if you would not meddle any further with our affairs.” “Eh, if I could but let them alone, and never think of them more!” The Scotchwoman rose as she said this, with a deep and prolonged sigh. Without another word she went to the door. “I will come to you if you send for me, Miss Arden, if I’m ever wanted in this house,” she said, “but no for any other reason. I would forget if I could that there ever was man or woman bearing your name. But the past cannot be forgotten, and I’ll come if I am ever wanted here.”