Youth weighed her eyelids to sleep, though she was quivering, and quivering she awoke to the sound of her name beneath her window.  “I can love still, for I love him,” she said, as she luxuriated in young Crossjay’s boy’s voice, again envying him his bath in the lake waters, which seemed to her to have the power to wash away grief and chains.  Then it was that she resolved to let Crossjay see the last of her in this place.  He should be made gleeful by doing her a piece of service; he should escort her on her walk to the railway station next morning, thence be sent flying for a long day’s truancy, with a little note of apology on his behalf that she would write for him to deliver to Vernon at night.

Crossjay came running to her after his breakfast with Mrs Montague, the housekeeper, to tell her he had called her up.

“You won’t to-morrow:  I shall be up far ahead of you,” said she; and musing on her father, while Crossjay vowed to be up the first, she thought it her duty to plunge into another expostulation.

Willoughby had need of Vernon on private affairs.  Dr. Middleton betook himself as usual to the library, after answering “I will ruin you yet,” to Willoughby’s liberal offer to despatch an order to London for any books he might want.

His fine unruffled air, as of a mountain in still morning beams, made Clara not indisposed to a preliminary scene with Willoughby that might save her from distressing him, but she could not stop Willoughby; as little could she look an invitation.  He stood in the Hall, holding Vernon by the arm.  She passed him; he did not speak, and she entered the library.

“What now, my dear? what is it?” said Dr. Middleton, seeing that the door was shut on them.

“Nothing, papa,” she replied, calmly.

“You’ve not locked the door, my child?  You turned something there:  try the handle.”

“I assure you, papa, the door is not locked.”

“Mr. Whitford will be here instantly.  We are engaged on tough matter.  Women have not, and opinion is universal that they never will have, a conception of the value of time.”

“We are vain and shallow, my dear papa.”

“No, no, not you, Clara.  But I suspect you to require to learn by having work in progress how important is . . . is a quiet commencement of the day’s task.  There is not a scholar who will not tell you so.  We must have a retreat.  These invasions!—­So you intend to have another ride to-day?  They do you good.  To-morrow we dine with Mrs. Mountstuart Jenkinson, an estimable person indeed, though I do not perfectly understand our accepting.—­You have not to accuse me of sitting over wine last night, my Clara!  I never do it, unless I am appealed to for my judgement upon a wine.”

“I have come to entreat you to take me away, papa.”