clung to her sister's.

"Yes?"

"One feels that one would like to come to him with everything
that--well--that his sister would have, if she married. It's very
silly, of course. Clodagh, do I seem very silly?"

At any other time, Clodagh would have smiled at the ingenuousness of
the words; but now some feeling within herself banished amusement.

"What is it, darling?" she asked. "There's something you are trying to
say."

Nance looked up into her face.

"Clo, it's all this stupid pride. Of course Pierce and Daisy and Mrs.
Estcoit know that I have nothing, except my share in Orristown--which,
of course, _is_ nothing. And I know that for all the rest of my life I
shall be dependent on Pierce for everything. But it's just because of
that, that I want to come to him with all the things--the clothes and
things--that other girls have. Oh, I know it's hateful of me--it's weak
and vain."

Clodagh pressed her hand suddenly.

"No, darling! I understand."

"You do? Oh, Clo! dear Clo! Then you know what the thousand pounds
seems like. A thousand pounds all my own! Money of my own to buy
beautiful things with--things like Daisy's--things like yours! I, who
have never had a penny that really belonged to me! And Clodagh, may I
have it soon? That's what I want to say. May I have it soon? I won't
spend it all, of course--not half--nor quarter----" She laughed. "But
may I have it soon? It--it would be heaven!"

With a swift, involuntary movement, Clodagh freed her hand.

"Clo, I have said too much! I have asked too much!"

"No, darling! No! No!"

"Then I've tired you? Clo, you're tired!" She caught Clodagh's hand
again. "And _you_ wanted to tell _me_ something. Oh, I've been selfish!
Won't you forgive me, and say it now?"

But Clodagh turned from her and walked to the writing-table--the table
on which her father's miniature had rested the night before.

"No, I won't talk to-night, darling," she said, without looking round.
"I--I think I have forgotten what I was going to say."

CHAPTER X

The key-note of Clodagh's character was impulse. She loved, she hated,
she was generous, she was foolish, with a wide impulsiveness.

When Nance had spoken of her engagement, her unselfish joy and relief
in the security it promised had aroused a renewed desire for
self-sacrifice, as represented by confession of her weakness; but a
moment later, when Nance had spoken of Milbanke's legacy--of her
innocent joy in its existe