never been told that there is anything better than to work with
one's hands and earn daily bread!' But she could not renounce the
claims that Nature had planted in her, that her guardians had
fostered. The better she understood how difficult was every way of
advancement, the more fiercely resolute was she to conquer
satisfactions which seemed beyond the sphere of her destiny.

Of late she had thought much of her childish successes in reciting
poetry. It was not often that she visited a theatre (her father had
always refused to let her go with any one save himself or Sidney),
but on the rare occasions when her wish was gratified, she had
watched each actress with devouring interest, with burning envy, and
had said to herself, 'Couldn't I soon learn to do as well as that?
Can't I see where it might be made more lifelike? Why should it be
impossible for me to go on the stage?' In passing a shop-window
where photographs were exposed, she looked for those of actresses,
and gazed at them with terrible intensity. 'I am as good-looking as
she is. Why shouldn't _my_ portrait be seen some day in the
windows?' And then her heart throbbed, smitten with passionate
desire. As she walked on there was a turbid gloom about her, and in
her ears the echoing of a dread temptation. Of all this she spoke to
nobody.

For she had no friends. A couple of years ago something like an
intimacy had sprung up between her and Bessie Jones (since married
and become Bessie Byass), seemingly on the principle of contrast in
association. Bessie, like most London workgirls, was fond of the
theatre, and her talk helped to nourish the ambition which was
secretly developing in Clara. But the two could not long harmonise.
Bessie, just after her marriage, ventured to speak with friendly