much. My poor Mary! That is what comes of doing what I like instead
of what you like. Why don't you always have your own way? Let me
come; nay, if you will not, at least let Clara go with you, and come
back.'

Mary roused herself at last to speak, as she moved downstairs--'You
need not think of me; there is nothing the matter with me. I
promised Aunt Melicent to come home. She is very kind--it is not
that.'

'You must not tell me not to think. I shall come to inquire. I
shall be with you the first thing tomorrow.'

'Yes, you must come to-morrow,' said Mary, in a tone he could not
interpret, and a tight lingering grasp on his hand, as he put her
into his father's carriage.

He stood hesitating for a moment as it drove off; then, instead of
entering the house, walked off quickly in the same direction.

Clara had stood all the time like a statue on the stairs, waiting to
see if she were wanted, and gazing intently, with her fingers
clasped. When both were gone she drew a long breath, and nodded with
her head, whispering to herself, in a grave and critical voice--'That
is love!'

She did not see Fitzjocelyn again till nearly dinner-time; and, as he
caught her anxious interrogating eye, he came to her and said, very
low, 'I was not let in; Miss Ponsonby was engaged. Miss Mary lying
down--I believe they never told her I was there.'