uests. She was tying
the last but one, when she heard slow footsteps and low voices passing
on the outside of the arbour. Not too low, however, for two sentences
to be audible inside,--words which blanched Clare's cheek, and made her
trembling fingers loose their hold, till the gathered flowers slid away
one by one, and lay a fragrant mass on the ground at her feet.

The remarks which she overheard were limited to a fervent appeal and a
low reply. The appeal--which was a declaration of love--was uttered in
the familiar accents of Arthur Tremayne; and the answer--a vague
disclaimer of merit which sounded like a shy affirmative--came in the
low, soft voice of Lucrece Enville.

Clare was totally ignorant of the fate which her mother had designed for
her; nor had she ever realised until that evening that she cared more
for Arthur than she did for Jack. They were both like brothers to her:
but now she suddenly felt that if it had been Jack whose voice she had
heard uttering similar words, it would have mattered little or nothing
to her.

The hardest thought of all was that of resigning him to Lucrece.
Fourteen years had elapsed since that day of their childhood on which
Clare had witnessed the first instance of Lucrece's duplicity; but she
had never been able to forget it, and it had infused a sort of vague
discomfort and constraint into all their intercourse.

"Oh, if it had been Lysken!" said Clare to her own heart. "I could have
borne it better."

And it had to be borne, and in utter silence. _This_ trouble could not
be carried to Mrs Tremayne; and the idea of betraying Lucrece, as that
young lady had herself betrayed Blanche, would have seemed black
treachery to Clare. No, things must take their course: and let them
take it, so long as that would make Arthur happy, and would be for his
good. In her inmost heart Clare was sorely doubtful about both items.
Well, she could ask God to grant them.

It was half an hour later than she had expected when Clare carried her
nosegays into the hall. She went on mechanically putting them in order,
and finding, when she had finished, that there was one more than was
needed, she carried it to her mother's boudoir.

"How late thou art, Clare!" said Lady Enville, looking up from Sir
Philip Sidney's Arcadia, which she was lazily reading. "Sir Piers may
come now at any minute. Hast made an end in the hall?"

"Ay, Madam."

"Hast one posy left o'er? Set it here, by my c