"Do you know what you are throwing away?" Then, checking himself, "No, no, I spoke angrily--like a thoughtless boy. Don't take any notice of my words, but think--pray think of your father--of your sister. How you could help them in the position you would hold." "Lord Carboro'," said Claire, "I am weak, heart-sick and worn with watching. I can hardly find words to thank you, and I want you to think me grateful, but what you ask is impossible. It can never be." The old man rose angrily and took a turn or two about the room, as he strove hard to fight down his bitter mortification. Twice over he stopped before her, and his lips parted to speak, but he resumed his hurried walk, ending by catching her hands and kissing them. "Good-bye," he said abruptly. "I shall try to be your friend, and--and I never loved you half so much as I do now." He left the room, and Claire heard his footsteps on the path, and then, in spite of herself, she stole towards the window from which she saw him go slowly along the Parade, looking bent, and as if his coming had aged him ten years at least. The opening of the drawing-room door roused Claire, and turning, she saw that her father had entered, and that he was trembling as he gazed at her with a curiously wistful look that was one long question. Claire shook her head slowly as she returned his gaze, with her thoughts reverting to the night when she sank fainting where she stood, and the notes of the serenade floated in at the window. "No, father," she said softly; "it would be impossible." "Yes," he said feebly; "impossible!" Volume Three, Chapter X. THE STORM-CLOUD BURSTS. That night, as Claire sat by the open window of her bedroom, where May lay sleeping, and the flowers that she had tended so carefully in the past for the most part withered and dry, her thoughts went back to the morning's interview with Lord Carboro', and there was a feeling of regret in her breast as she thought of the old man's chivalrous devotion. Then her heart seemed to stand still, and again beat with a wild tumult as she told herself that the silent reproach she had felt was not justified; that it was her own doing, that Richard Linnell was not at her side. For that was his step, and she knew that he would stop opposite to her darkened window and gaze upwards before passing on. There was pleasure and yet pain in the thought, for she felt that though it was impossible that they could ever even be friends, he must believe in her and she must dwell in his heart. How often might he not have passed like that, and looked up, thinking of her! It was a pleasant thought, but one that she dismissed at once, as if it were a temptation.