She had committed a grievous theft, and stole his likeness on ivory from Dame Worthington’s back parlour, and having made a case for it, hung it round her neck inside her bosom, and whenever feeling particular sentimental, she would draw it forth, kiss it, put it back again, and then indulge in that inexpensive luxury known to females as “a _good_ cry!” Miss Clara had fully made up her mind to marry Charles when he came forth from prison—that is, if she could get him. But upon that point she sometimes had very serious misgivings. For she knew several young ladies in the neighbourhood, who in former times were “setting their caps” at him. Such disagreeable reflections often threw her into fits of despondency, and on such occasions no one could prevail upon her to sing or play in the parlour, as was her custom of an evening. And she had been known to flounce out of that apartment in high dudgeon, on one occasion, when someone had mentioned the name of Miss Josephine Smith, who lived next door, and enjoyed a great reputation for a pretty figure, and a graceful dancer—two things in which Clara innocently supposed herself to be greatly deficient. On a particular afternoon, Miss Clara had been excruciatingly miserable, and knew not the reasons why. When twilight came she went into the parlour and uncovered the harp, with the intention of playing some pathetic air by way of consolation; but, upon entering the apartment, she perceived Dame Worthington and old Sir Richard Warbeck in earnest conversation in the back parlour, and Charles’s name being mentioned, Clara leaned against the half-opened folding doors and listened. “Well, I _know_ that the affectionate little Dolly likes him, as much as any girl ever _could_ do, but I don’t think he cares so much about _her_, perhaps,” said the old dame. “Say no more about it; if he makes a judicious match I will assist him in the world; but as to mere ’curls, and ‘harp playing,’ and all that superficial nonsense, I know he has an ambition above all _that_. The girl _he_ carries in his heart has greater qualifications than _these_, or I am much mistaken, _I_ know the lady _he_ admires most, and she doesn’t live _more_ than a hundred miles from this house,” Sir Richard said. Clara Haylark could hear no more; she rushed from the apartment in despair. The die was cast! Charles was lost for ever! For several days she kept her rooms, and could not be prevailed upon, despite all importunities, to appear in the parlour after tea.