nting to the words which she had just been singing, I said
something about there being always a fear in happiness such as I had
lately been enjoying, lest it might not last. For a moment she met my
earnest look, and coloured violently; and then fixing her eyes on the
music before her, she said quickly, "Mr Hawthorne, I thought you had a
higher opinion of me than to make me pretty speeches; I have a great
dislike to them." I began to protest warmly against any intention of
mere compliment, when the return of Willingham with his song prevented
any renewal of the subject. I was annoyed and silent, and detected a
tremor in her voice while she sang the words, and saw her cheek paler
than usual. The instant the song was over, she complained with a smile
of being tired, and, without a look at either of us, joined a party who
were noisily recounting the events of the race-course. Nor could I again
that evening obtain a moment's conversation with her. She spoke to me,
indeed, and very kindly; but once only did I catch her eye, when I was
speaking to some one else--the glance was rapidly withdrawn, but it
seemed rather sorrowful than cold.

I was busy with Hanmer the next morning before breakfast, when Dick
Phillips made his appearance, and informed us that the "strangers" had
made up an eleven for the cricket match, and that we were to play at
ten. He was a sort of live circular, despatched to get all parties in
readiness.

"Oh! I have something for you from Clara," said he to me, as he was
leaving; "the words of a song she promised you, I believe."

I opened the sealed envelope, saw that it was _not_ a song, and left
Hanmer somewhat abruptly. When I was alone, I read the following:--

"DEAR MR HAWTHORNE,--Possibly you may have been told that I
have, before now, done things which people call strange--that
is, contrary to some arbitrary notions which are to supersede
our natural sense of right and wrong. But never, until now, did
I follow the dictates of my own feelings in opposition to
conventional rules, with the painful uncertainty as to the
propriety of such a course, which I now feel. And if I had less
confidence than I have in your honour and your kindness, or
less esteem for your character, or less anxiety for your
happiness, I would not write to you now. But I feel that, if
you are what I wish to believe you, it is right that you should
be at once undeceived