would have her yet! He was a man who had not read much of romance. To
him all the imagined mysteries of passion had not been made common by
the perusal of legions of love stories but still he knew enough of the
game to be aware that women had been won in spite, as it were, of their
own teeth. He knew that he could not now run away with her, taking her
off by force; but still he might conquer her will by his own. As he
remembered the tears in her eyes, and the tone of her voice, and the
pressure of her hand, and the gratitude that had become tender in its
expression, he could not hut think that he would be wise to love her
still. Wise or foolish, he did love her still; and it should not be
owing to fault of his if she did not become his wife. As he drove along
he saw little of the Quantock hills, little of the rich Somersetshire
pastures, little of the early beauty of the August morning. He saw
nothing but her eyes, moistened with bright tears, and before he
reached Taunton he had rebuked himself with many revilings in that he
had parted from her and not kissed her.

Clara stood at the door watching the gig till it was out of sight
watching it as well as her tears would allow. What a grand cousin he
was! Had it not been a pity a thousand pities that that grievous
episode should have come to mar the brotherly love, the sisterly
confidence, which might otherwise have been so perfect between them?
But perhaps it might all be well yet. Clara knew, or thought that she
knew, that men and women differed in their appreciation of love. She,
having once loved, could not change. Of that she was sure. Her love
might be fortunate or unfortunate. It might be returned, or it might
simply be her own, to destroy all hope of happiness for her on earth.
But whether it were this or that, whether productive of good or evil,
the love itself could not be changed. But with men she thought it might
be different. Her cousin, doubtless, had been sincere in the full