"My child! There, there; we do not know how much we can bear until the burden is laid upon us; and now let us cleave together like soldiers in the battle of life. Claire, child, we must live." She sat holding his hand in hers, with her brow knit, and a far-off look in her eyes. "I am so old and broken," he said musingly; "so helpless. For so many years my miserable energies have been bent solely to this pitiful life, or I would say let us leave here at once, and go where we are not known, to live in some simple fashion; but--I know nothing. I cannot work." "But I can, father," she said, with a look of elation in her eyes. "I am young and strong, and I will work for you as you have worked for me. Let us go." "Where, my child?" he said, as he kissed her hand tenderly. "What work would you do--you, so beautiful, so unfit for the rough toil of life?" "As a teacher--a governess," she cried; but he shook his head, and began to tremble and draw her closer to him. "No, no," he said excitedly; "that would mean separation; and Claire," he whispered, "I am so weak--so broken--that I must have your young spirit to sustain me. I cannot live without you. Left alone--no, no, no, I dare not be left alone." "Hush, dear!" she said, laying her cheek upon his shoulder, and drawing him to her breast, to soothe the agony of dread from which he suffered. "I will not leave you, then, father, I will be your help and stay. Nothing shall separate us now." "No, no." He whispered the words. "I could not live without you, Claire, and I dare not die. My miserable, useless life may prove useful yet. Yes, my child, I feel it--I know it. My work is not yet done. Claire, my course is marked out for me; we must stay here till then." "Till then, father?" "Yes; and live it down. Yes, I am wanted here. You will help me?" "Father, I am your child." "Yes, yes," he cried, resuming his old flippant air so suddenly that Claire, who did not realise the reaction that had set in, gazed at him tremblingly. "I shall live it down as of old. We must begin again, my dear, and those miserable, brainless butterflies will soon forget, and come to me for my help and introductions. We must not leave here, and the old fees will come once more." Claire sighed. "Yes, child, it would have been a happier life to have gone; but it is braver to stay. Let your sweet face show in its dignity how lightly you treat all slander and scandal. Some day, after all, you shall marry well." She did not reply, and he went on excitedly: "Now let me see what friends we have left. The Barclays stand firm as rocks. Those Deans, too--so vulgar, but quite as friendly as before. Mrs Pontardent." "Mrs Pontardent, father?"