means likely to form sound opinions as to her
heroes, Clare Carruthers was endowed with an
unusual allowance of common sense and perception.
She understood Mr. Carruthers of Poynings
thoroughly; so much more thoroughly than
his wife, that she had found out the jealousy
which permeated his character, and recognised it
in action with unfailing accuracy. She had
considerably more tact than girls at her age ordinarily
possess, and she continued to fill a somewhat
difficult position with satisfaction not only
to others, but to herself. She contrived to avoid
wounding her uncle's susceptible self-love, and
to keep within the limits which Mrs. Carruthers's
discretion had set to their intimacy, without
throwing external coldness or restraint into their
relations.

Clare found herself very often doing or not
doing, saying or refraining from saying, some
particular thing, in order to avoid "getting
Mrs. Carruthers into a scrape," and of course
she was aware that the constantly-recurring
necessity for such carefulness argued, at the
least, a difficult temper to deal with in the head
of the household; but she did not let the matter
trouble her much. She would think, when
she thought about it at all, with the irrepressible
self-complacency of youth, how careful
she would be not to marry an ill-tempered
man, or, at all events, she would make up her
mind to marry a man so devotedly attached
to her that his temper would not be of the
slightest consequence, as, of course, she should
never suffer from it. On the whole, it would be
difficult to find a more dangerous condition of
circumstances than that in which Clare Carruthers
was placed when her romantic meeting
with Paul Ward took place—a meeting in
which the fates seemed to have combined every
element of present attraction and future danger.
Practically, Clare was quite alone; she placed
implicit confidence in no one, she had no guide
for her feelings or actions, and she had just
drifted into a position in which she needed careful
direction. She had refrained from mentioning
her meeting with the stranger, more on Mrs.
Carruthers's account than on her own, from the
usual motive—-apprehension lest, by some
unreasonable turn of Mr. Carruthers's temper, she
might be brought "into a scrape." Her curiosity
had been strongly excited by the discovery
that Mrs. Carruthers had some sort of acquaintance
with Paul Ward, or, at least, with his
name; but she adhered to her resolution, and
kept silence for the present.

Mrs. Carruthers's son had always been an
object of tacit interest to Clare. She had not
been fully informed of the circumstances of her.
uncle's marriage, and she understood vaguely
that George Dallas was an individual held in
disfavour by the august master of Poynings; so
her natural delicacy of feeling conquered her
curiosity, and she abstained from mentioning
George to his mother or to Mr. Carruthers,
and also from giving encouragement to the
gossip on the subject which occasionally arose
in her presence.

In Mrs. Carruthers's dressing-room a portrait
hung, which Clare had been told by Mrs. Brookes
was that of her mistress's son, when a fine, brave,
promising boy ten years old. Clare had felt an
interest in the picture, not only for Mrs. Carruthers's
sake, but because she liked the face which
it portrayed—the clear bright brown eyes, the
long curling hair, the brilliant dark complexion,
the bold, frank, gleeful expression. Once or
twice she had said a few words in praise of the
picture, and once she had ventured to ask Mrs.
Carruthers if her son still resembled it. The
mother had answered her, with a sigh, that he
was greatly changed, and no one would now
recognise the picture as a likeness of him.

The dignified and decorous household at
Poynings pursued its luxurious way with less
apparent disunion among its principal members
than is generally to be seen under the most
favourable circumstances, but with little real
community of feeling or of interest. Mrs. Carruthers
was a popular person in society, and Clare was
liked as much as she was admired. As for Mr.
Carruthers, he was Mr. Carruthers of Poynings,
and that fact sufficed for the neighbourhood
almost as completely as it satisfied himself.

The unexpected return of her uncle from York
had caused Clare no particular emotion. She
was standing at the French window of the breakast-
room, feeding a colony of birds, her out-door
pensioners, when the carriage made its appearance.
She had just observed the fact, and was
quietly pursuing her occupation, when Mrs.
Carruthers, who had left the breakfast-room half
an hour before, returned, looking so pale, and
with so unmistakable an expression of terror in
her face, that Clare looked at her in astonishment.

"Your uncle has come back," she said. "I
am not well, I cannot meet him yet. Go to the
door, Clare, and tell him I am not well, and am
still in my room. Pray go, my dear; don't
delay a moment."

"Certainly I will go," answered Clare, leaving
the window and crossing the room as she spoke;
"but——"

"I'll tell you what ails me another time, but
go now—go," said Mrs. Carruthers; and, without
another word, the girl obeyed her. She had
seen the carriage at a turn in the avenue; now
the wheels were grinding the gravel of the sweep
opposite the hall door. In a minute Clare was
receiving her uncle on the steps, and Mrs.
Carruthers, having thrown the bonnet and shawl she
had just taken out for her proposed expedition to
the shrubbery back into the wardrobe, removed
her gown, and replaced it by a dressing-gown,
was awaiting her husband's approach with a
beating heart and an aching head. Had he met
her son? Had he passed him unseen upon the
road? Would Mrs. Brookes succeed, unseen and
unsuspected, in executing the commission with
which she had hurriedly charged her?