“Mercy,” Miss Somers said, hastily interrupting her, “I must have some more wool to finish these little--white Andalusian---- Mrs. Horsfall at the post-office--you must run now. Only fancy if I had not enough to finish--and that dear little---- Run--there’s a good woman, now. O Clare, my dear!” she added, out of breath, as the maid sulkily withdrew; “it isn’t that I would take upon me---- Who am I that I should find fault? but other people’s feelings, you know--though you were only a servant---- What was I saying, my dear?--that Edgar was the best, the very best---- And so he is. I never saw any one--not any one--so unselfish, and so---- O Clare! nobody should know it so well as you.” “Nobody knows it so well as me,” said Clare. She had come with a kind of half hope of sympathy, thinking at least that it would be a relief to let her old friend run on, and talk the whole matter over as pleased her. But now her heart closed up--her pride came uppermost. She could not bear the idea of being discussed, and made the subject of talk to all the village. “But I object to being gossiped about,” she said. “Dear,” said Miss Somers, in her soft voice, “it is not gossip when--and I love you both. I feel as if I was both your mothers. Oh, Clare! when I used to have my little dreams sometimes--when I thought I had quite a number, you know, all growing up--there were always places for Edgar and you. Oh, Clare! I don’t understand. The Doctor you know--he has so many things to think of--and then gentlemen are so strange--they expect you to know everything without---- Oh, what is it that has happened? Something about Edgar--that he was changed at nurse--or something. I am not very clever, I know, but you understand everything, Clare. Oh, what is it?--Arthur Arden and Edgar--but it is not Arthur that is your----? It is Edgar that was--and something about that Scotch person and Mr. Fazakerly, and--oh, Clare, it makes the whole house swim, and my poor head----” “I cannot speak of it,” said Clare. “Oh, Miss Somers, don’t you understand?--how can I speak of it. I would like to forget it all--to die, or to go away----” “Oh, hush, my dear--oh, hush,” said Miss Somers, with a scared face; “don’t speak of such--and then, why should you? You will marry, you know, you will be quite, quite--and all this will pass away. Oh, as long as you are young, Clare--anything may happen. Brothers are very nice,” said Miss Somers, shaking her head softly, “but to give yourself up, you know--and then they may marry; the Doctor never did--if he had brought home a wife, I think often---- Though, to be sure, it might have been better, far better. But a brother is never like--he may be very nice; and I am sure Edgar---- But, on the whole, Clare, my dear, a house of your own----”