“Give Edgar up!” cried Miss Somers in consternation--“I should think not, indeed, when everybody is so proud---- It is so sweet of you, dear, to thank me--as if what I said could ever---- It is all Edgar’s doing--instead of laughing, you know, or that---- And then it makes others think--she cannot be so silly after all--I know that is what they say. But, oh! Clare, I’m not clever--I know it--and not one to----, but I love you with all my heart!----” “Thanks, dear Miss Somers,” cried Clare, and in her weariness and trouble, and the revulsion of her thoughts, she sat down resolving to be very good and kind, and to devote herself to this poor woman, who certainly was not clever, nor clear-sighted, nor powerful in any way, but yet could see further than she herself could into some sacred mysteries. She remained there all the afternoon reading to her, trying to keep up something like conversation, glad to escape from her own thoughts. But Miss Somers was trying for a long stretch. It was hard not to be impatient--hard not to contradict. Clare grew very weary, as the afternoon stole on, but no one came to deliver her. No one seemed any longer to remember her existence. She, who could not move a few days since without brother, suitor, anxious servants to watch her every movement, was left now to wander where she would, and no one took any notice. To be sure, they were all absorbed in more important matters; but then she had been the very most important matter of all, both to Edgar and Arthur, only two days ago. Even, she became sensible, as the long afternoon crept over, that there had been a feeling in her heart that she must be pursued. They would never let her go like this, the two to whom she was everything in the world. They would come after her, plead with her, remonstrate, bid her believe that whosoever had Arden, it was hers most and first of all. But they had not done so. Night was coming on, and nobody had so much as inquired where she was. They had let her go. Perhaps in all the excitement they were glad to be quit of her. Could it be possible? Thus Clare mused, making herself it is impossible to say how miserable and forlorn. Ready to let her go; glad to be rid of her. Oh, how she had been deceived! And it was these two more than any other who had taught her to believe that she was in some sort the centre of the world. Some one did come for Clare at last, making her heart leap with a painful hope; but it was only Mr. Fielding, coming anxiously to beg her to return to dinner. She put on her hat, and went down to him with the paleness of death in her face. Nobody cared where she went, or what she did. They were glad that she was gone. The place that had known her knew her no more. CHAPTER XXVI.