e hers. He is worn and thin, and very handsome.

"I am too fortunate to meet you so soon," he says. "Yet I hardly think
I should shake hands with you." Evidently, some thought unknown to her
is in his mind.

"I am glad you have come to that conclusion," she says, "as there is
no desire whatever on my part that our hands should meet."

He is plainly puzzled.

"What a strange welcome!" he says, reproachfully. "My letters during
the past week should have explained everything to you."

"I have had none," says Clarissa, shortly.

"No? Was that why I received no answers? I have risen from a sick-bed
to come to you, and demand the reason of your silence."

"I am sorry you troubled yourself so far. Ruth Annersley could have
given you the answer you require."

His face blanches perceptibly; and his eyes, in their usual stealthy
fashion, seek the ground.

"What have I to do with her?" he says, sullenly.

"Coward!" says Miss Peyton, in a low tone. "Do you, then, deny even
all knowledge of the woman you have so wronged?"

"Take care! do not go too far," cries he, passionately, laying his
hand upon her bridle, close to the bit. "Have you no fear?"

"Of you? none!" returns she, with such open contempt as stings him to
the quick. "Remove your hand, sir."

"When I have said all I wish to say," returns he, coarsely, all his
real brutality coming to the surface. "You shall stay here just as
long as I please, and hear every word I am going to say. You
shall----"

"Will you remove your hand?"

"When it suits me," returns he; "not before."

Passionate indignation conquers her self-control. Raising her arm, she
brings down her riding-whip, with swift and unexpected violence, upon
his cheek. The blow is so severe that, for the moment, he loses his
presence of mind, and, swaying backward, lets the bridle go. Clarissa,
finding herself free, in another moment is out of his reach and on her
way to Sartoris.

As she reaches the gate, she meets James Scrope coming out, and,
drawing rein, looks at him strangely.

"Have you seen a ghost?" asks he, slipping from his saddle, and coming
up to her. "Your face is like death."

"I have, the ghost of an old love, but, oh, how disfigured! Jim, I
have seen Horace."

She hides her face with her hands. She remembers the late scene with
painful distinctness, and wonders if she has been unwomanly, coarse,
undeserving of pity. She will tell him,--that is, Scrope,--and, if he
condemns her