“Did he?” said Miss Somers, softly. She was roused out of her usual broken talk. “Oh, Clare, I am not clever, to talk to you. But if that is what God meant, it was not what our Saviour did. He never took care of Himself---- He took care---- Oh, my dear, is not Edgar more like---- Don’t you understand?” Once more Clare made no reply. A cloud enveloped her, mentally and physically--a _sourd_ misery, inarticulate, not defining itself. Why should Edgar, why should any one, thus resign their own happiness? Happiness was the better part of life, and ought there not to be a canon against its renunciation as well as against self-murder? Self-murder was nothing to it. To give up your identity, your real existence, all the service you could do to God or man, was not that worse than simply taking your own life? So Clare asked herself. And this was what Edgar had done. He had not considered his duty at all in the matter. He had acted on a foolish, generous impulse, and thrown away more than his existence. Then, as she sat and pursued the current of her thoughts, she remembered that but for her, Edgar, in the carelessness of his security, would never have looked at those papers, would never have thought of them. It was she, and she only, who was to blame. Oh, what fancies had been in her mind--visions of wrong to Arthur, of the duty that was upon herself to right him! To right him who cared nothing for her, who was ready to let her sink into the abyss, whose heart did not impel him towards her, whose hand had never sought hers since he knew---- It was her fault, not Edgar’s, after all. “I am not one to preach,” said Miss Somers, faltering. “I know I never was clever; but oh, Clare, when one only thinks---- What a fuss we make about ourselves, even me, a helpless creature! We make such a fuss--and then---- As if it mattered, you know. But our Saviour never made any fuss--never minded what happened. Oh, Clare! If Edgar were like that--and he is so, _so_---- Oh, I don’t know how to express myself. Other people come always first with him, not himself. If he was my brother, oh, I would be so---- Not that I am saying a word against the Doctor. The Doctor is very, very---- But not like Edgar. Oh! if I had such a brother, I would be proud----” “And so am I,” said Clare, rising with a revulsion of feeling incomprehensible to herself. “He _is_ my brother. Nothing can take him away from me. I will do as he does, and maintain him in everything. Thank you, dear Miss Somers. I will never give Edgar up as long as I live----”