Captain Clifton rode away full of thought—speculating more upon Catherine’s reserve than became a gentleman of his station and importance. What was it to him that a rustic girl was too shy to express in person, her thanks for a favor received, even though she had “screwed her courage to the sticking place” to write to him and solicit it? Many people, more conversant with the world than Catherine, can write that which they never can bring their lips to say. Besides it was no matter—what was that lowly maiden to him, the heir of Clifton, and the prospective husband of the highest and haughtiest lady in the land? Yes—what to him except an object of his high patronage could be that girl of—not only “humble parentage,” but indubitably _low birth_? He rode on dissatisfied, he knew not wherefore, with her and himself. As for Catherine, she stood—lost—where he had left her—lost to the consciousness of her grandfather’s and of Carl’s presence—with her eyes fixed upon the ground, blaming herself for her awkwardness and seeming ingratitude; wondering if _he_ blamed her too; wondering why it was that when she saw him enter she grew cold and trembled so; and when he spoke to her in that gentle tone, and looked at her with that gentle gaze—her whole nature shrank away in fear and trepidation—and though she would have given the world for the ability to express her gratitude and regard, all power of uttering a grateful word or of lifting a grateful glance to his face, deserted, and left her pale and trembling before the man whom she had no cause to fear, and every reason to trust. Catherine stood with her mind deep in this problem, until the harsh voice of Carl startled her, saying, in rasping tones— “Well! are you going to stand there burrowing your eyes in the ground all day? A pretty way you have behaved! Please goodness, you’ve got no more manners than a dumb brute. I take my oath I am ashamed of you! Now there was Captain Clifton, a gentleman of so high rank, condescending to come here and tell us himself of the place he had got for us, even after your unmannerly refusal of that first place—and here were you with not one _word_ of thanks to give—no! please Heaven, not so much as one civil _look_! I wonder what he’ll think of you?” “What, indeed?” repeated Catherine, very meekly. But Carl scarcely recognized her voice. It was no longer the childish treble—it was the deep, full, melodious voice of rich womanhood. “Why, the _kindest_ thought he can have of you, will be to think you are a _fool_—that is all.” “Carl, I was in fear of him.” “In fear of him! In fear of Archer Clifton! A man whom all the country knows to be of the highest honor—and one to whom even _I_, cautious as _I_ am, could trust you with, to go from one end of the world to the other!” “I know that, Carl—I know he is a gentleman of honor, but—but—I tremble before him, and have not courage to lift my eyes—” “But that is so confoundedly ridiculous, now! _why_ are you afraid of him?”