"Yes, sir."

"You found it difficult?"

"Not so difficult as your description led me to imagine."

"Were you lonely while I was away?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why did not Clara come and stay with you?"

"She was engaged in changing her home; has removed to Mrs. Hoyt's

boarding house."

"When did you see her last? How does she bear the blow?"

"I was with her to-day. She is desponding, and seems to grow more so

daily."

She wondered very much whether he suspected the preference which she

felt sure Clara entertained for him; and, as the subject recurred to

her, she looked troubled.

"What is the matter?" he asked, accustomed to reading her expressive

face.

"Nothing that can be remedied, sir."

"How do you know that? Suppose you let me be the judge."

"You could not judge of it, sir; and, besides, it is no concern of

mine."

A frigid smile fled over his face, and for some time he appeared

lost in thought. His companion was thinking too; wondering how Clara

could cope with such a nature as his; wondering why people always

selected persons totally unsuited to them; and fancying that if

Clara only knew her guardian's character as well as she did the

gentle girl would shrink in dread from his unbending will, his

habitual, moody taciturnity. He was generous and unselfish, but also

as unyielding as the Rock of Gibraltar. There was nothing

pleasurable in this train of thought, and, taking up a book, she

soon ceased to think of the motionless figure opposite. No sooner

were her eyes once fastened on her book than his rested searchingly

on her face. At first she read without much manifestation of

interest, regularly and slowly passing her hand over the black head

which Charon had laid on her lap. After a while the lips parted

eagerly, the leaves were turned quickly, and the touches on Charon's

head ceased. Her long, black lashes could not veil the expression of

enthusiastic pleasure. Another page fluttered over, a flush stole

across her brow; and, as she closed the volume, her whole face was

irradiated.

"What are you reading?" asked Dr. Hartwell, when she seemed to sink

into a reverie.

"Analects from Richter."

"De Quincey's!"

"Yes, sir."

"Once that marvelous 'Dream upon the Universe' fascinated me as

completely as it now does you."

Memories of earlier days clustered about him, parting the somber

clouds with their rosy fingers. His features began to soften.




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