What a strange being our lovely Clara was! She grew to our hearts as ivy
to the oak, and the tendrils of her nature entwined us, creeping a
little nearer daily, until the doors of our hearts were covered with
their growing beauty. I should be writing all about her, and not bring
myself into my story at all, but the promise I made you must be
fulfilled. At some other time I may write out for you the life and work
of this beautiful friend. My own experience seems to me only a
background against which her picture ought to rest. I have been
rambling, for you remember I began to tell you about the coming of Hal's
artist friend from Chicago. I believe it was the fifteenth of November
when he came, and his presence was not a burden as I feared, for he
found and filled a place held in reserve for him, and all united with me
in saying: "What a splendid man he is!"

Brother Ben, who was now at an interesting age, called him "a man to
study," and he seemed to be fascinated by him. His eyes followed every
motion, and his ear was keenly alive to every expression of thought. I
sometimes thought Hal wished Ben did not like him as well, for he was
constantly availing himself of his society. Some work fortunately had to
be done, else Hal would have been very much troubled to gain an
audience. Clara did not like the artist quite as well as I did, though
she said with the rest, "What a splendid man!" and betrayed by no word
or act any disregard for his feelings, still I intuitively felt a
something she did not say; and when I told her he had made an
arrangement to stay all winter, she clasped her white hands together
tightly, and between two breaths a sigh came fluttering from her lips,
while tears gathered in the blue of her eyes, as the white lids fell to
cover what she would not have me notice. Although a pain and wonder
filled my heart for a moment, I knew if Clara wished me to divine her
feelings she would explain herself, and her silence left me to my own