"No," I replied; "there was only one will, and that was Sir Barnard's."

A great calm fell over her. After some minutes she looked at me again.

"Was there any mention in that will of me?"

I told her none. Once more she raised those resistless eyes to mine.

"Then I am, indeed, alone in the world--alone and forsaken."

"Nay, nay!" I cried, eagerly; "do not say so. Clare will take care of
you."

"And you?" she asked, in a voice that must have melted an anchorite.

"I will help her--or, rather, I will take care of you both."

"What is your sister like?" she asked, eagerly. "Is she very
clever--very beautiful? Shall I be frightened at her?"

"She is the sweetest and most gentle of girls--doubly gentle from her
great affliction."

"What affliction?" she asked eagerly, "you did not tell me there was
anything the matter with her."

"She has a spinal complaint," I replied, "and is unable to move."

"Is it quite incurable?" she asked again.