self-possession. The silence was so complete, while we sat together at
the table, that the fall of the rain outside (which had grown softer
and thicker as the morning advanced), and the quick, quiet tread of
the servants, as they moved about the room, were audible with a
painful distinctness. The oppression of our last family breakfast in
London, for that year, had an influence of wretchedness which I cannot
describe--which I can never forget.

At last the hour of starting came. Clara seemed afraid to trust
herself even to look at me now. She hurriedly drew down her veil the
moment the carriage was announced. My father shook hands with me
rather coldly. I had hoped he would have said something at parting;
but he only bade me farewell in the simplest and shortest manner. I
had rather he would have spoken to me in anger than restrained himself
as he did, to what the commonest forms of courtesy required. There was
but one more slight, after this, that he could cast on me; and he did
not spare it. While my sister was taking leave of me, he waited at the
door of the room to lead her down stairs, as if he knew by intuition
that this was the last little parting attention which I had hoped to
show her myself.

Clara whispered (in such low, trembling tones that I could hardly hear
her):

"Think of what you promised in your study, Basil, whenever you think
of _me:_ I will write often."

As she raised her veil for a moment, and kissed me, I felt on my own
cheek the tears that were falling fast over hers. I followed her and
my father down stairs. When they reached the street, she gave me her