“Would you like to go to the library at once?” she said. “I have just glanced at the papers poor papa arranged on the top shelves of his bureau. All his own letters and things are below. Shall we go to the library at once?” “I am not in a hurry,” said Arthur; “if you don’t mind, let me wait a little and breathe Arden. It is so sweet after the atmosphere I have been in. I am not ungrateful; pray don’t think so. It was extremely kind of the Pimpernels to give me shelter in my forlorn condition----” “I don’t see why you should ever be in a forlorn condition,” said Clare. “Please don’t suppose I mean to be rude; but I can’t bear to think of an Arden receiving hospitality from people like the Pimpernels.” “My dear cousin,” said Arthur, “an Arden, when he is not actually of the reigning family, must do what he can in this world. The sanctity of the race is not perhaps acknowledged as it ought to be; and I am too much obliged to anybody who gives me shelter in this neighbourhood. One ought to be in town, I suppose; but then I am sick of town, and there is nobody to go to yet in the country. Therefore I say long live the Pimpernels. But all the same, one breathes freer here.” “There is not much to amuse any one here,” said Clare. “Amuse! I know how it will be. You will make me speak as--I ought not to speak, and then you will drive me away; and I cannot bear being driven away. There is a little pucker in the brow of the Lady Clare. May I know why?” “You are like Edgar. He always worries me about that line in my forehead,” said Clare; “as if I could help it! Yes; I have been a little annoyed to-day. I think I may as well tell you, and perhaps you can give me some advice. It is that Mrs. Murray--that Scotchwoman. She has just been here to tell me that she knew papa, and that he went to see her in Scotland two years ago. It is very strange, and very uncomfortable. He used to tell me everything--or at least so I thought.” “Nobody ever does tell everything,” said Arthur, like an oracle. Clare paused, and gazed wistfully into his face. “Not what they are thinking, nor what they feel, but surely what they do. How can you conceal what you do? Some one must be taken into your confidence. Common people must see you, in whom you have no confidence; while your very own----” Here Clare stopped abruptly, feeling that tears were about to come into her voice. “You don’t know what you say,” said Arthur, who was secretly touched. “What one thinks and feels is often the best of one. But what we do---- Was there ever a man who could venture to show a woman everything in his life--a woman like you?” “Yes; papa,” said Clare, boldly. “I am sure he told me everything--except---- Oh! is it not dreadful, is it not horrible, to have this wretched woman coming, when he is no longer here to explain it all, to make me lose my confidence in papa? And then you too!”