d the closing of
her eyelids, Mrs. Winterfield might have been judged to be asleep;
but Clara could see the gentle motion of her lips, and was aware that
her aunt was solacing herself with prayer.

Clara was angry with herself, and angry with all the world. She knew
that the old lady who was sitting then before her was very good; and
that all this that had now been said had come from pure goodness, and
a desire that strict duty might be done; and Clara was angry with
herself in that she had not been more ready with her thanks, and
more demonstrative with her love and gratitude. Mrs. Winterfield was
affectionate as well as good, and her niece's coldness, as the niece
well knew, had hurt her sorely. But still what could Clara have done
or said? She told herself that it was beyond her power to burst out
into loud praises of Captain Aylmer; and of such nature was the
gratitude which Mrs. Winterfield had desired. She was not grateful
to Captain Aylmer, and wanted nothing that was to come from his
generosity. And then her mind went away to that other portion of her
aunt's discourse. Could it be possible that this man was in truth
attached to her, and was repelled simply by her own manner? She was
aware that she had fallen into a habit of fighting with him, of
sparring against him with words about indifferent things, and calling
his conduct in question in a manner half playful and half serious.
Could it be the truth that she was thus robbing herself of that which
would be to her,--as to herself she had frankly declared,--the one
treasure which she would desire? Twice, as has been said before,
words had seemed to tremble on his lips which might have settled
the question for her for ever; and on both occasions, as she knew,
she herself had helped to laugh off the precious word that had been
coming. But had he been thoroughly in earnest,--in earnest as she
would have him to be,--no laugh would have deterred him from his
purpose. Could she have laughed Will Belton out of his declaration?

At last the lips ceased to move, and she knew that her aunt was in
truth asleep. The poor old lady hardly ever slept at night; but
nature, claiming something of its due, would give her rest such as
this in her arm-chair by the fire-side. They were sitting in a large
double drawing-room upstairs, in which there were, as was customary
with Mrs. Winterfield in winter, two fires; and the candles were in
the back-room, while the two ladies sat in th