reseen--Yes,
brother, I have often foreseen that you would make your sister the
subject of your plots and schemes, so soon as other stakes failed you.
That hour is come, and I am, as you see, prepared to meet it."

"And where may you propose to retire to?" said Mowbray. "I think that I,
your only relation and natural guardian, have a right to know that--my
honour and that of my family is concerned."

"Your honour!" she retorted, with a keen glance at him; "your interest,
I suppose you mean, is somehow connected with the place of my
abode.--But keep yourself patient--the den of the rock, the linn of the
brook, should be my choice, rather than a palace without my freedom."

"You are mistaken, however," said Mowbray, sternly, "if you hope to
enjoy more freedom than I think you capable of making a good use of. The
law authorizes, and reason, and even affection, require, that you should
be put under restraint for your own safety, and that of your character.
You roamed the woods a little too much in my father's time, if all
stories be true."

"I did--I did indeed, Mowbray," said Clara, weeping; "God pity me, and
forgive you for upbraiding me with my state of mind--I know I cannot
sometimes trust my own judgment; but is it for you to remind me of
this?"

Mowbray was at once softened and embarrassed.

"What folly is this?" he said; "you say the most cutting things to
me--are ready to fly from my house--and when I am provoked to make an
angry answer, you burst into tears!"

"Say you did not mean what you said, my dearest brother!" exclaimed
Clara; "O say you did not mean it!--Do not take my liberty from me--it
is all I have left, and, God knows, it is a poor comfort in the sorrows
I undergo. I will put a fair face on every thing--will go down to the
Well--will wear what you please, and say what you please--but O! leave
me the liberty of my solitude here--let me weep alone in the house of my
father--and do not force a broken-hearted sister to lay her death at
your door.--My span must be a brief one, but let not your hand shake the
sand-glass!--Disturb me not--let me pass quietly--I do not ask this so
much for my sake as for your own. I would have you think of me,
sometimes, Mowbray, after I am gone, and without the bitter reflections
which the recollection of harsh usage will assuredly bring with it. Pity
me, were it but for your own sake.--I have deserved nothing but
compassion at your hand--There are but two of us on ea