“Oh, no, no,” she said: “do not speak to me so, Edgar. This has shown me what I am. I have been more like a devil. I have nothing but pride, and ill-temper, and suspicion to look back upon. Nothing, nothing else! Remember, I might have burned them myself. If I had been worthy to live, if I had been fit for my place in this house, if I had been such a woman as some are--my father’s daughter--your sister, Edgar--I should have burned them myself.” “My--sister,” he cried, with again a pause, and in a softened tremulous tone. “That is the worst; that is the worst! What are you doing, Clare?” “My duty now,” she said wildly, “to him and to you!” Then there was a pause. Arthur Arden would have given everything he possessed in the world for the power of looking inside--but he dared not. He sat on the window-sill with all his faculties concentrated in his ears. What was she doing? There was some movement in the room, but sounds of gentle feet upon a Turkey carpet betray little. The first thing audible was a broken sobbing cry from Clare. “Let me do it! I will go down on my knees to you. I will bless you for it, Edgar! Edgar! You will be more my brother than ever you were in my life!” Another silence--nothing but the sobbing of intense excitement and a faint rustle as if the girl worn out had thrown herself into a chair; and then a sound of the rustling and folding of paper. Oh, if he could but see! The half-closed shutter jarred a little, moved by the wind; and Arthur, roused, found a little chink, the slenderest crevice by which he could see in. All that he saw was Edgar sealing a packet. The wax fell upon it unsteadily, showing emotion which was not otherwise visible in his look. Then he wrote some name upon the packet, and put it in the breast-pocket of his coat. “There it is,” he said cheerfully; “I have directed it to Mr. Fazakerly, and that settles the whole business. We must not struggle any more about it. Do you think I have had no temptation in the matter? Do you think I have got through without a struggle? The Thornleighs came back to-day--and to-morrow I was going to Thorne to ask her to be my wife.” When he said these words, Edgar for the moment overcome with his conflict, dropped his head upon his hands and covered his face. All the levity, all the ease and secondary character of his feelings towards Gussy had disappeared now. He felt the pang of giving up this sweetness as he had not yet felt anything. All rushed upon him at once--all the overwhelming revelations he had to make. Edgar was brave, and he had kept the thought at bay. But now--Gussy, Clare, himself--all must go--every love he had any right to, or any hope of--every companionship that had ever been his, or that he had expected to become his--“Oh God!” he said in the depths of his overthrow. It was the first cry that had come from his lips.