Arthur Arden, peering in, saw Clare go to him and throw her arms round him and press his bowed head against her breast. He saw her weep over him, plead with him in all the force of passion. “Give it to me; give it to me; give it to me!” she cried, with the reiteration of violent emotion. “You will make me the most miserable creature on earth. You will take every pleasure out of my life.” “Hush, hush!” he said softly, “Hush! we must make an end of this. Come and breathe the air outside? After all, what is it? An affair of a day. To-morrow or next day we shall have made up our minds to it; and the world cares so little one way or another. Come out with me and take breath, Clare.” “I cannot, I cannot,” she cried. “What do I care for air or anything. Edgar, for the last time, stop and think.” “I have thought till my brain is turning,” said Edgar, rising and drawing her arm within his to the infinite alarm of the listener, who transferred himself noiselessly to the other side of the great clematis bush, which fortunately for him grew out of a great old rose tree which was close against the wall. “For the last time, there is nothing to think about. It is decided now, and for ever.” And immediately a gleam of light fell upon the window-sill where the false kinsman had been listening; and the brother and sister came out, she leaning closely on his arm. They took the other direction, to the spy’s intense relief; but the last words he heard inflicted torture upon him as the two passed out of sight and hearing; they were these: “Arthur Arden loves you, Clare.” CHAPTER XIII.