As he remembered the tears in her eyes, and the tone of her voice, and the pressure of her hand, and the gratitude that had become tender in its expression, he could not but think that he would be wise to love her still.

Wise or foolish, he did love her still; and it should not be owing to fault of his if she did not become his wife.

As he drove along he saw little of the Quantock hills, little of the rich Somersetshire pastures, little of the early beauty of the August morning.

He saw nothing but her eyes, moistened with bright tears, and before he reached Taunton he had rebuked himself with many revilings in that he had parted from her and not kissed her.
Clara stood at the door watching the gig till it was out of sight,--watching it as well as her tears would allow.

What a grand cousin he was! Had it not been a pity,--a thousand pities,--that that grievous episode should have come to mar the brotherly love, the sisterly confidence, which might otherwise have been so perfect between them?
But perhaps it might all be well yet.