r smoking a cigar. Well, he could, he believed, submit
to much, perhaps all, of these, but he could n't, at least he did n't
fancy he could, be "spooney." He came to Mrs. Morris with confessions of
this kind, and she undertook to consider his case.

Lastly, there was Sir William to consult her about his son and his ward.
He saw several nice and difficult points in their so-called engagement
which would require the delicate hand of a clever woman; and where
could he find one more to the purpose than Mrs. Penthony Morris?

With a skill all her own, she contrived to have confidential intercourse
almost every day with each of the family. If she wished to see Sir
William, it was only to pretend to write a letter, or look for some
volume in the library, and she was sure to meet him. May was always in
her own drawing-room, or the flower-garden adjoining it; and Charles
passed his day rambling listlessly about the stables and the farm-yard,
or watching the peasants at their work beneath the olive-trees. To
aid her plans, besides, Clara could always be despatched to occupy and
engage the intention of some other. Not indeed, that Clara was as she
used to be. Far from it. The merry, light-hearted, capricious child,
with all her strange and wayward ways, was changed into a thoughtful,
pensive girl, loving to be alone and unnoticed. So far from exhibiting
her former dislike to study, she was now intensely eager for it, passing
whole days and great part of the night at her books. There was about her
that purpose-like intentness that showed a firm resolve to learn. Nor
was it alone in this desire for acquirement that she was changed, but
her whole temper and disposition seemed altered. She had grown more
gentle and more obedient. If her love of praise was not less, she
accepted it with more graceful modesty, and appeared to feel it rather
as a kindness than an acknowledged debt. The whole character of her
looks, too, had altered. In place of the elfin sprightliness of her
ever-laughing eyes, their expression was soft even to sadness; her
voice, that once had the clear ringing of a melodious bell, had grown
low, and with a tender sweetness that gave to each word a peculiar
grace.

"What is the matter with Clara?" said Sir William, as he found himself,
one morning, alone with Mrs. Morris in the library. "She never sings
now, and she does not seem the same happy creature she used to be."

"Can you not detect the cause of this, Sir Wil