her belong to the world, nor wish to have any thing to do with its
fashions."

"By my soul, Clara, I will make you repent this!" said Mowbray, with
more violence than he usually exhibited where his sister was concerned.

"You cannot, dear John," she coolly replied, "unless by beating me; and
that I think you would repent of yourself."

"I do not know but what it were the best way of managing you," said
Mowbray, muttering between his teeth; but, commanding his violence, he
only said aloud, "I am sure, from long experience, Clara, that your
obstinacy will at the long run beat my anger. Do let us compound the
point for once--keep your old habit, since you are so fond of making a
sight of yourself, and only throw the shawl round your shoulders--it has
been exceedingly admired, and every woman in the house longs to see it
closer--they can hardly believe it genuine."

"Do be a man, Mowbray," answered his sister; "meddle with your
horse-sheets, and leave shawls alone."

"Do you be a woman, Clara, and think a little on them, when custom and
decency render it necessary.--Nay, is it possible!--Will you not
stir--not oblige me in such a trifle as this?"

"I would indeed if I could," said Clara; "but since you must know the
truth--do not be angry--I have not the shawl. I have given it
away--given it up, perhaps I should say, to the rightful owner.--She has
promised me something or other in exchange for it, however. I have given
it to Lady Penelope."

"Yes," answered Mowbray, "some of the work of her own fair hands, I
suppose, or a couple of her ladyship's drawings, made up into
fire-screens.--On my word--on my soul, this is too bad!--It is using me
too ill, Clara--far too ill. If the thing had been of no value, my
giving it to you should have fixed some upon it.--Good-even to you; we
will do as well as we can without you."

"Nay, but, my dear John--stay but a moment," said Clara, taking his arm
as he sullenly turned towards the door; "there are but two of us on the
earth--do not let us quarrel about a trumpery shawl."

"Trumpery!" said Mowbray; "It cost fifty guineas, by G--, which I can
but ill spare--trumpery!"

"O, never think of the cost," said Clara; "it was your gift, and that
should, I own, have been enough to have made me keep to my death's day
the poorest rag of it. But really Lady Penelope looked so very
miserable, and twisted her poor face into so many odd expressions of
anger and chagrin, that I resigned it