She had lost her father for ever; she could no longer think of him as she had once done; his image was driven away into the innermost depths of her heart, where she cherished, and wept over, and loved it, but could not reverence any longer. And her brother was her brother no more. He had done nothing to forfeit her love or her respect, but he was not her brother--different blood flowed in his veins. His very best qualities, his virtues and excellences, were not like the Ardens. He was a stranger to her and her race. Thus Clare was left alone and unsupported in the world. And Arthur! He had wounded her, slighted her, failed to understand her, or, understanding, scorned. Everything seemed to close round her, every door at which she might have knocked for sympathy. Her heart was sick, and sore, and weary with suffering, but not resigned. How could she ever be resigned to give up everything that was dearest to her, and all that made her prize her life? It was for this reason that she stole out in the dullest hour of the afternoon, when the heart is faintest, and the vital stream flows lowest. She had a thick veil over her face, and a cloak which completely enveloped her figure. She left her maid behind to explain to her brother--whom she still called her brother, though she was forsaking him--how and where she had gone. “He will give you your orders about my things,” she said to Barbara, who was in the highest state of restrained excitement, feeling, as all the household had begun to feel, that something strange must have happened. “Oh, Miss Clare, you’ve never gone and quarrelled with master?” the girl cried, ready to weep. “No; I will never quarrel with him. I could not quarrel with him,” cried Clare. “How could you think so. Did you ever see so kind a brother?” “Never, Miss!” cried Barbara, fervently; and Clare paused and cried: but then drew the veil over her face, and set out alone--into a new world.