Their relations had been peculiar, and to tell him that she did not love him would not suffice in bringing them to an end.  Mr. Copple was odious to her.  She could not have explained why clearly, yet she knew.  And she would have blushed in the attempt to explain why; it would have revealed a detestation of her lot.  Clara had lately discovered the meaning of the word “plebeian”; more, she believed she comprehended its applicableness.  The word was a burr in her thoughts.  Mr. Copple was the personification of the word.  Clara had not repulsed him.  You do not do that sort of thing in a small town.  She knew intuitively that the clergyman would not be satisfied with the statement that he was not loved.  She also knew that he would extract part, at least, of the real reason from her.  It is more painful for a lover to learn that he is not liked than that he is not loved.  Clara did not wish to cause him pain.

She was spared the necessity.  The minister fell from a scaffolding on the new church and was picked up dead.

Clara’s position was pitiful.  Sudden death does not grow less shocking because of its frequency.  Clara shared the common shock, but not the common grief.  Fortunately, as hers was supposed to be a peculiar grief, she could manifest it in a peculiar way.  She chose silence.  The shock had bereft her of much thought.  Death had laid a hand over the mouth of her mind.  But deep down a feeling of relief swam in her heart.  She gave it no welcome, but it would take no dismissal.

About a week after the funeral, Clara, who walked out much alone, was returning home near the outskirts of town.  The houses were far apart, and between them stretched deep lots fringed with flowered weeds man-high.  A level sun shot long golden needles through the blanched maple-trees, and the street beneath them was filled with lemon-colored light.  The roll of a light vehicle approaching from behind grew distinct enough to attract Clara’s attention.  “It is Mrs. Custer coming back from the Poor Farm,” she thought.  It was Mrs. Everett Custer, who was formerly the younger Miss Rockwood, and she was coming from the Poor Farm.  The phaeton came into Clara’s sight beside her at the curb.  As she remarked it, Mrs. Custer said, in her thin, sympathetic voice, “Miss Leeds, won’t you drive with me back to town?  I wish you would.”

An excuse rose instinctively to Clara’s lips.  She was walking for exercise.  But suddenly a thought came to her, and after a moment’s hesitation, she said:  “You are very kind.  I am a little tired.”  She got into the phaeton, and the sober horse resumed his trot down the yellow street.

Clara’s thought was:  “Why shouldn’t I accept?  She is too well bred to sympathize with me, and perhaps, now that I am free, I can get to know her and show her that I am not just the same as all the rest, and perhaps I’ll get to going with her sort of people.”