Clare was seated in the deep window of the Rectory drawing-room with a book in her hand; but she was not reading the book. She was gazing listlessly out, seeing nothing, going over a hundred recollections. Her life had become far more interesting than any book--too interesting--full of pain and tragic interest. She sat with her eyes fixed on the broad expanse of summer sunshine, the distant gleam of the village street, the Doctor’s house opposite, with its twinkling windows. Everything was still as peace itself. The old gardener was rolling the grass with gentle monotony, as if he might go on doing it for ever; Dr. Somers’ phæton stood at the door awaiting him; old Simon clamped past on his clogs--all so peaceful as if nothing out of the usual routine could ever happen; and yet in that very room Edgar had stood by the side of the old Scotch woman and called her mother! A deep suppressed excitement and resentment were in Clare’s heart. It was not his fault, but notwithstanding she could not forgive him for it. When the door opened she did not turn her head. Most likely it was Edgar, and she did not wish to see him; or Mr. Fielding, with his grieved, disapproving looks. Clare was in such a state of mind that even a look of reproof drove her wild. She could not bear it. Therefore she kept her back turned persistently, and gave no heed to the opening of the door. “Clare!” She looked up with a violent start, rising from her seat, and perceived him standing over her--he whom she had tried to put out of her calculations, and think of no more. She had been planning a proud miserable life retired out of sight of all men, specially hidden from him. She had resolved he should not even know where she was to insult her with his pity--neither he nor Edgar should know; for Clare was quite unaware that the discovery which lost her a brother lost her a fortune too. But now at the moment when she was most miserable, most forlorn, forming the most dreary plans, here he was! The sight of him took away her breath, and almost her senses, for the moment. She said, “Is it you?” faintly, gazing at him with dilated eyes and parched lips, as if he had been a ghost. The surprise was so great that it threw down all her defences, and brought her back to simple reality. She was not glad to see him--these were not the words; but his sudden coming was like life to the dead. And he too was touched by the sight of her utter dejection and solitude. He dropped down on one knee beside her as she reseated herself, and took her hand. “My Clare!” he said, “my Clare! why did you fly from me? Is not my house your house, and my life yours? Is there any one so near to you as me? Even now I have the only claim upon you; and when you are my wife----” “No such word has ever been spoken between us,” said Clare, making an effort to resume her old dignity. “Mr. Arden, rise--you forget----”