The next day we remained at home.  Clara was too much fatigued to walk out, and none of us would leave her.  What a day of happiness that was!  I knew something of music, and could sing a second.  Clara was delighted at this, for the others had not cultivated singing much.  We therefore spent the whole morning in this way.  Then she produced her sketch-book, and I brought out mine, and we had a mutual interchange of prisoners.  What cutting out of leaves and detaching of rice-paper landscapes!  The she came out upon the lawn to see my pony leap, and promised to ride him the following day.  She patted the greyhounds, and said Gipsy, which was mine, was the prettiest.  In a word, before night fell Clara had won my heart in its every fibre, and I went to my room the very happiest of mortals.

I need not chronicle my next three days—­to me the most glorious “trois jours” of my life.  Clara had evidently singled me out and preferred me to all the rest.  It was beside me she rode—­upon my arm she leaned in walking—­and, to comble me with delight unutterable, I overheard her say to my uncle, “Oh, I doat upon poor Harry!  And it is so pleasant, for I’m sure Mortimer will be so jealous.”

“And who is Mortimer,” thought I; “he is a new character in the piece, of whom we have seen nothing.”

I was not long in doubt upon this head, for that very day, at dinner, the identical Mortimer presented himself.  He was a fine, dashing-looking, soldier-like fellow, of about thirty-five, and with a heavy moustache, and a bronzed cheek—­rather grave in his manner, but still perfectly good-natured, and when he smiled showing a most handsome set of regular teeth.  Clara seemed less pleased (I thought) at his coming than the others, and took pleasure in tormenting him by a thousand pettish and frivolous ways, which I was sorry for, as I thought he did not like it; and used to look half chidingly at her from time to time, but without any effect, for she just went on as before, and generally ended by taking my arm and saying, “Come away, Harry; you always are kind, and never look sulky.  I can agree with you.”  These were delightful words for me to listen to, but I could not hear them without feeling for him, who evidently was pained by Clara’s avowed preference for me; and whose years—­for I thought thirty-five at that time a little verging upon the patriarchal—­entitled him to more respect.

“Well,” thought I, one evening, as this game had been carried rather farther than usual, “I hope she is content now, for certainly Mortimer is jealous;” and the result proved it, for the whole of the following day he absented himself, and never came back till late in the evening.  He had been, I found, from a chance observation I overheard, at the bishop’s palace, and the bishop himself, I learned, was to breakfast with us in the morning.

“Harry, I have a commission for you,” said Clara.  “You must get up very early to-morrow, and climb the Cader mountain, and bring me a grand bouquet of the blue and purple heath that I liked so much the last time I was there.  Mind very early, for I intend to surprise the bishop to-morrow with my taste in a nosegay.”