“No,” cried Clare passionately; “it is not worse for him. Look, he is able to eat--to take comfort--he does not feel it. Half the goodness of you good people is because you don’t feel it. But I---- It will kill me----” And she thrust back her chair from the table, and burst into passionate tears, of which she was soon ashamed. “Edgar does not mind,” she cried; “that is worst of all. He looks at me with his grieved face, and he does not understand me. He is not an Arden, as I am. It is not death to him, as it is to me.” Edgar had risen and was going to her, but he stopped short at the name of Arden. It felt to him like a stab--the first his sister had given him. “I hope I shall not learn to hate the name of Arden,” he said between his closed lips; and then he added gently, “So long as I am not guilty, nothing can be death to me. One can bear it when one is but sinned against, not sinning; and you have been an angel to me, Clare----” “No,” she cried, “I am no angel; I am an Arden. I know you are good; but if you had been wicked and concealed it, and stood by your rights, I should have felt with you more!” It was in the revulsion of her over-excited feelings that she spoke, but yet it was true. Perhaps it was more true than when she had stood by Edgar and called him her dearest brother; but it was the hardest blow he had yet had to bear. He sat down again, and covered his face with his hands. Poor fellow! the little comfort he had been so ready to enjoy, the quietness and friendliness, the food and rest, had lost all savour for him now. Mr. Fielding took his hand and pressed it, but that was only a mild consolation. After a moment he rose, rousing himself for the last step, which up to this moment he had shrunk from. “I have a further revelation to make to you,” he said in an altered voice; “but I have not had the courage to do it. I have to tell you who I really belong to. I think I have the courage now.” “Edgar!” she cried, in alarm, raising her head, holding out her hand to him with a little cry of distress, “Will you not always belong to me?” He shook his head; he was incapable of any further explanation. “I will go and bring my mother----” he said, with a half sob. The other two sat amazed, and looked after him as he went away. “Do you know what he means?” asked Clare, in a voice so low as to be scarcely audible. Mr. Fielding shook his head. “I don’t know what he means, or if his mind is giving way, poor boy--poor boy, that thinks of everybody but himself; and you have been hard, very hard upon him, Clare.”