He has quite regained his self-control by this time, and having
conquered emotion, speaks dispassionately. Clarissa, as he has said,
does not understand the terrible struggle it costs him to utter these
words in an ordinary tone, and with a face which, if still pale,
betrays no mental excitement.

She smiles. Her tears vanish. She sighs contentedly, and moves the
hand that rests in his.

"I am so glad we are friends again," she says. "And now tell me why
you were so horrid at first: you might just as well have begun as you
have ended: it would have saved trouble and time, and" (reproachfully)
"all my tears."

"Perhaps I value you so highly that I hate the thought of losing you,"
says Scrope, palliating the ugliness of his conduct as best he may.
His voice is very earnest.

"How fond you are of me!" says Miss Peyton, with some wonder and much
pleasure.

To this he finds it impossible to make any answer.

"Whenever I wish I had had a brother, I always think of you," goes on
she, pleasantly, "you are so--so--quiet, and your scoldings so
half-hearted. Now, even though rather late, wish me joy."

"My dear, dear girl," says Scrope, "if I were to speak forever, I
could not tell you how I long for and desire your happiness. If your
life proves as calm and peaceful as I wish it, it will be a desirable
life indeed! You have thought of me as your brother: let me be your
brother indeed,--one in whom you can confide and trust should trouble
overtake you."

He says this very solemnly, and again Clarissa's eyes fill with tears.
She does now what she has not done since she was a little, impulsive,
loving girl: she lifts her head and presses her lips to his cheek.

For one brief moment he holds her in his arms, returning her caress,
warmly, it is true, but with ineffable sadness. To her, this embrace
is but the sealing of a fresh bond between them. To him it is a silent
farewell, a final wrenching of the old sweet ties that have endured so
long.

Up to this she has been everything to him,--far more than he ever
dreamed until the rude awakening came,--the one bright spot in his
existence; but now all is changed, and she belongs to another.

He puts her gently from him, and, with a kindly word and smile, leads
her to the garden gate, and so round to where her ponies are
impatiently awaiting her coming: after which he bids her good-by, and,
turning, goes indoors, and locks himself into his own private den.

CHAPTER X