er below was master of
its speed and course. One of the mightiest of the instincts which rule the
human race had made her entirely its own. She was not herself; she was
Thurstane; she was love. The love incarnate is itself, and not the person
in whom it is embodied.

There was but one answer possible to Clara. Somehow, either by look or
word, she must say to Thurstane, "Yes." Prudential considerations might
come afterward--might come too late to be of use; no matter. The only
thing now to be done, the only thing which first or last must be done, the
only thing which fate insisted should be done, was to say "Yes."

It was said. Never mind how. Thurstane heard it and understood it. Clara
also heard it, as if it were not she who uttered it, but some overruling
power, or some inward possession, which spoke for her. She heard it and
she acquiesced in it. The matter was settled. Her destiny had been
pronounced. The man to whom her heart belonged had his due.

Clara passed through a minute which was in some respects like a lifetime,
and in some respects like a single second. It was crowded and encumbered
with emotions sufficient for years; it was the scholastic needle-point on
which stood a multitude of angels. It lasted, she could not say how long;
and then of a sudden she could hardly remember it. Hours afterwards she
had not fully disentangled from this minute and yet monstrous labyrinth a
clear recollection of what he had said and what she had answered. Only the
splendid exit of it was clear to her, and that was that she was his
affianced wife.

"But oh, my friend--one thing!" she whispered, when she had a little
regained her self-possession. "I must ask Munoz."

"Your grandfather? Yes."

"But what if he refuses?" she added, looking anxiously in his eyes. She
was beginning to lay her troubles on his shoulders, as if he were already
her husband.

"I will try to please him," replied the young fellow, gazing with almost
equal anxiety at her. It was the beautiful union of the man-soul and
woman-soul, asking courage and consolation the one of the other, and not
only asking but receiving.

"Oh! I think you must please him," said Clara, forgetting how Munoz had
driven out his daughter for marrying an American. "He can't help but like
you."

"God bless you, my darling!" whispered Thurstane, worshipping her for
worshipping him.

After a while Clara thought of Texas Smith, and shuddered out, "But oh,
how many dangers! O