She was the only human creature on the scene--the only being capable of this pain and anguish. She drew her veil close, and went her way, with an indignation, a resentment, a rush of shame, greater than anything she had felt in all her life. She had called him, and he had not come. She had stooped her pride, and humbled herself, and made that effort, and there had been no response. Now, it was, it must be, over for ever, and life henceforward contained nothing for her worth the trouble of existing for. It was thus that Clare left Arden, the old home of her race, her birthplace, the place which was, she would have said, everything to her--without even thinking of it or caring for it, or making any more account of it than had it been the veriest hired house. She was not aware of her own extraordinary indifference. Had any one met her, had her feelings been brought under her own notice, she would have said, beyond any dispute, that her heart was breaking to leave her home. But nobody met her to thrust any such question upon her, and the stronger feeling swallowed up the weaker, as it always does. All the way down the avenue not a creature, not even a servant, or a pensioner from the village--though on ordinary occasions there was always some one about--broke the long silent expanse of way. She was suffered to go without a remonstrance, without a question, from any living creature. Already it appeared the tie was broken between her and the dwelling so familiar to her--the place which had known her already began to know her no more. Mr. Fielding was in his study when Clare went in upon him veiled and cloaked--a figure almost funereal. She gave him a great start and shock, which was scarcely softened when she raised her veil. “Something more has happened?” he said; “something worse--Edgar has gone away? My poor child, tell me what it is----” “It is nothing,” said Clare. “Edgar is quite safe, so far as I know. But I have left Arden, Mr. Fielding. I have left it for ever. Till my brother can make some arrangement for me, may I come here?” “Here!” cried the good Rector, in momentary dismay. “Yes--you have so often said you felt me like a child of your own; I will be your child, dear Mr. Fielding. Don’t make me feel I have lost everything--everything, all in a day.” “My dear! my dear!” cried Mr. Fielding, taking her into his old arms, “don’t cry so, Clare; oh, my poor child, don’t cry. Of course, you shall come here--I shall be too happy, too pleased to have you. Of that you may be quite sure. Clare, my darling, it is not like you--oh, don’t cry!” “It is a relief,” she said. “Think--I have left Arden, where I was born, and where I have lived all my life; and you are the only creature I can come to now.”