ave thought. Nobody has had any right
to think about it at all."

"That is nonsense, Clara. You know that I expected it;--that you
expected it yourself."

"No;--no, no!"

"Clara,--how can you tell me that?"

"Papa, I knew that she intended to leave me nothing. She told me so
when I was there in the spring."

"She told you so?"

"Yes, papa. She told me that Frederic Aylmer was to have all her
property. She explained to me everything that she meant to do, and I
thought that she was right."

"And why was not I told when you came home?"

"Dear papa!"

"Dear papa, indeed. What is the meaning of dear papa? Why have I been
deceived?"

"What good could I do by telling you? You could not change it."

"You have been very undutiful; and as for her, her wickedness and
cruelty shock me,--shock me. They do, indeed. That she should have
known your position, and had you with her always,--and then have
made such a will as that! Quite heartless! She must have been quite
heartless."

Clara now began to find that she must in justice to her aunt's memory
tell her father something more. And yet it would be very difficult
to tell him anything that would not bring greater affliction upon
him, and would not also lead her into deeper trouble. Should it come
to pass that her aunt's intention with reference to the fifteen
hundred pounds was mentioned, she would be subjected to an endless
persecution as to the duty of accepting that money from Captain
Aylmer. But her present feelings would have made her much prefer
to beg her bread upon the roads than accept her late lover's
generosity. And then again, how could she explain to her father Mrs.
Winterfield's mistake about her own position without seeming to
accuse her father of having robbed her? But nevertheless she must
say something, as Mr. Amedroz continued to apply that epithet of
heartless to Mrs. Winterfield, going on with it in a low droning
tone, that was more injurious to Clara's ears than the first full
energy of his anger. "Heartless,--quite heartless;--shockingly
heartless,--shockingly heartless!"

"The truth is, papa," Clara said at last, "that when my aunt told
me about her will, she did not know but what I had some adequate
provision from my own family."

"Oh, Clara!"

"That is the truth, papa;--for she explained the whole thing to me.
I could not tell her that she was mistaken, and thus ask for her
money."

"But she knew everything about that poor wretched bo