“That is just what I said,” said Miss Somers; “and oh, my dear, don’t be unhappy, as if it were death or----, when it is only money. I always say---- And then he is so young; he may marry, or a hundred things. So, Arthur is Edgar now? but he is not your---- I don’t understand it, Clare. He is a great deal more like you, and all that; but he was born years before your poor, dear mamma---- Oh, I remember quite well--before the old Squire was married--so it is impossible he could be your---- I daresay I shall have it clear after a while. Edgar is found out to be Arthur, and Arthur Edgar, but only not your---- And then, Clare, if you will but think--how could they be changed at nurse? for Arthur was a big fellow when your poor, dear mamma---- You could not mistake a big boy of ten, with boots and all that, you know, for a little baby---- Oh, I am so fond of little babies! I remember Edgar, he was such a---- But Arthur was a troublesome, mischievous boy---- I can’t make out, I assure you, how it could be----” Again Clare made no reply. She sat and pursued her own thoughts, leaving the invalid in her confused musings to make the matter out as best she could. It was better to be here, even with Miss Somers’ babble in her ears, than alone in the awful solitude of the Rectory, with nothing to break the current of her thoughts. Miss Somers waited a few minutes for an answer, but, receiving none, returned to her own way of making matters out. “If Edgar is in want--of--anything, Clare---- I mean, you know---- Money is always nice, my dear. Whatever one may want---- Oh, I know very well it cannot buy---- but still---- And then there is that nice chair: he was so very kind---- Clare,” she said, sitting up erect, “if it is all true about their being changed, and all that, why, it was Arthur’s money, not Edgar’s; and I am sure if I had been shut up for a hundred years---- I am not saying anything against your cousin---- but it would never have occurred to him, you know---- Clare, perhaps I ought to send it back----” “I hope you don’t think my cousin is a miser or a tyrant,” said Clare, flushing suddenly to her very hair. “Oh, no, no, dear---- But then one never knows---- Mr. Arthur Arden is not a miser, I know. I should not like to say---- He is fond of what belongs to him, and---- He is not at all like---- My dear, I never knew any one like Edgar. Other gentlemen may be kind---- I daresay Mr. Arthur Arden is kind---- but these things would never come into his head---- He is a man that is very fond of---- Well, my dear, it is no harm. One ought to be rather fond of oneself---- But Edgar---- Clare----” “Edgar is a fool!” cried Clare, with passion. “He is not an Arden; he would give away everything--his very life, if it would serve anybody. Such men cannot live in the world; it is wicked--it is wrong. When God sent us into the world, surely He meant we were to take care of ourselves.”