Her father was greatly shocked: he was offended and disturbed by the exhibition of Clara's temper, but he detested the cowardly violence of a man who could strike a helpless wife, even through extent of provocation: his first movement was to insist upon her return home. "Return with me to Wetheral, Clara, instantly; I will not see you treated like a slave, or bear that my daughter should be struck down like a dog, by a coward! Clara, return to your home, and I will tell Sir Foster he shall reach you again through my heart." Clara shook her head. "Papa, I detest Sir Foster; and I would willingly fly to the wilds of America, if that distance would free me from his brutal presence--but my mother would speak bitterly to me. She drove me to Ripley by everlasting persuasions, and I will not bear her taunts at my return. My mother has done this by her love of high establishments, and I am married! She told me this morning, anger ruined my appearance; but _she_ has ruined my happiness. Nevertheless, I'll plague his torpid heart, and torment him by day and by night! He shall feel that I can strike, too, in another way!" "Clara," cried her father, "let me not hear such dreadful threatenings from a young woman's lips...." "I will threaten!" interrupted Lady Kerrison, starting to her feet; "and I will do it! Am I to be bearded on every side, without revenge? I am passionate by nature, but I am raging with ill-usage, and I'll torment him--yes, I will retort upon him faithfully!" Such language from a youthful and beautiful creature seemed to stun her father; and Christobelle stood petrified at such a display of female intemperance. Could this be Clara, her own sister? Was this irritable creature the sister of Isabel, of Julia, of Anna Maria? As she stood baring her arm, and fixing her eyes upon her father, she looked a Pythoness unveiling future woes and tribulations to the enemies of her country. Clara was yet standing, when Sir Foster walked into the room, tapping his boot, and humming his usual air: the same smile was upon his lips, and the same vacant expression was upon his features: he nodded familiarly to his guests, as though their parting was but of yesterday, and he sat down in his capacious-cushioned arm-chair as quietly, and with the same enjoyment, as formerly. His eye glanced at Clara, and a chuckling sound proceeded from his throat--the same note of internal gratification which issued in the boudoir, when Lucy Kerrison detailed his prowess with the fishmonger. Clara understood its meaning, and she pointed towards him with a bitter contempt. "There he sits, smiling and curling his audacious lip, as if he was thinking of any thing but cowardice and cruelty! Would you imagine that man could strike a woman to the ground, for upholding justice and right?" Sir Foster winked his eye with the rapidity which denoted observation; his colour rose at Clara's remark, but he did not reply. Why did Clara persevere?