When she appeared at breakfast, her countenance bore traces of her suffering, but a headache, real enough, though little heeded in the commotion upon whose surface it floated, gave answer to the not very sympathetic solicitude of Florimel. Happily the day of their return was near at hand. Some talk there had been of protracting their stay, but to that Clementina avoided any farther allusion. She must put an end to an intercourse which she was compelled to admit was, at least, in danger of becoming dangerous. This much she had with certainty discovered concerning her own feelings, that her heart grew hot and cold at the thought of the young man belonging more to the mistress who could not understand him than to herself who imagined she could; and it wanted no experience in love to see that it was therefore time to be on her guard against herself, for to herself she was growing perilous. CHAPTER XLIV. THE MIND OF THE AUTHOR. The next was the last day of the reading. They must finish the tale that morning, and on the following set out to return home, travelling as they had come. Clementina had not the strength of mind to deny herself that last indulgence--a long four days’ ride in the company of this strangest of attendants. After that, if not the deluge, yet a few miles of Sahara. “‘It is the opinion of many that he has entered into a Moravian mission, for the use of which he had previously drawn considerable sums,’” read Malcolm, and paused, with book half closed. “Is that all?” asked Florimel. “Not quite, my lady,” he answered. “There isn’t much more, but I was just thinking whether we hadn’t come upon something worth a little reflection--whether we haven’t here a window into the mind of the author of Waverley, whoever he may be, Mr Scott, or another.” “You mean?” said Clementina, interrogatively, and looked up from her work, but not at the speaker. “I mean, my lady, that perhaps we here get a glimpse of the author’s own opinions, or feelings rather, perhaps.” “I do not see what of the sort you can find there,” returned Clementina. “Neither should I, my lady, if Mr Graham had not taught me how to find Shakspere in his plays. A man’s own nature, he used to say, must lie at the heart of what he does, even though not another man should be sharp enough to find him there. Not a hypocrite, the most consummate, he would say, but has his hypocrisy written in every line of his countenance and motion of his fingers. The heavenly Lavaters can read it, though the earthly may not be able.” “And you think you can find him out?” said Clementina, dryly. “Not the hypocrite, my lady, but Mr Scott here. He is only round a single corner. And one thing is--he believes in a God.” “How do you make that out?” “He means this Mr Tyrrel for a fine fellow, and on the whole approves of him--does he not, my lady?” “Certainly.”