“And I know they are not true in other ways,” cried Clare, flushing wildly as she went on. “If Edgar was not my brother, do you think I could have felt for him as I do? I should have hated him, had he been an impostor, as he says. Oh, he is no impostor! He is not like the rest of us--not like us in the face--but what does that matter? He is a thousand times better than any of us. I was not brought up with him to get into any habit of liking him, and yet I love him with all my heart. Could that be anything but nature? If he were not my true brother, I would have hated him. And, on the contrary, I love him, and trust him, and believe in him. Say anything you please--make out what you please from these horrible letters, or any other lie against him; but I shall still feel that he is my own brother--my dearest brother--in my heart!” Clare did not conclude with a burst of tears, solely because she was past weeping. She was past herself altogether; she was not conscious of anything but the decision about to be come to--the verdict that was to be given by this awful tribunal. She sank back into her chair, keeping her eyes fixed upon them, too anxious to lose a single gesture or look. “Bring her some water,” said Dr. Somers; “give her air, Edgar; no, let her alone--let her alone; that is best. Just now, you may be sure, she will take no harm.” And then there came another pause--a pause in which every sound seemed to thud and beat against the anxious ears that waited and listened. Arthur Arden had taken his seat again. He was moved, too, to the very depths of his being. He covered his face with his hands, unable to look at the two at the head of the table, who were both gazing at the company waiting for their fate. Edgar had taken Clare’s hand, and was holding it fast between his own. He was saying something, of which he was not himself conscious. “Thanks, Clare! courage, Clare!” he was repeating at intervals, as he might have murmured any other babble in the excitement of the moment. Mr. Fazakerly was the only one who stirred. He broke open the seals of the packet with agitated haste, muttering also under his breath. “Parcel of young fools!” was what Mr. Fazakerly was saying. He let the papers drop out in a heap upon the table, and picked up one here and one there, running it over with evident impatience and irritation. Then he tossed them down, and pushed his spectacles off his forehead, and wrathfully regarded the little company around him. “What am I expected to do with these?” he asked. “They are private letters of the late Mr. Arden, not, so far as I am aware, brought before us by any circumstances that call for attention. I don’t know what is intended to be done with them, or who produces them, or why we are called together. Mr. Edgar, I think you might provide better entertainment for your old friends than a mare’s nest like this. What is the meaning of it all? My opinion is, they had better be replaced in the old bureau from which