She wondered very much whether he suspected the preference which she felt sure Clara entertained for him; and, as the subject recurred to her, she looked troubled.
"What is the matter?" he asked, accustomed to reading her expressive face.
"Nothing that can be remedied, sir."
"How do you know that? Suppose you let me be the judge."
"You could not judge of it, sir; and, besides, it is no concern of mine."
A frigid smile fled over his face, and for some time he appeared lost in thought. His companion was thinking too; wondering how Clara could cope with such a nature as his; wondering why people always selected persons totally unsuited to them; and fancying that if Clara only knew her guardian's character as well as she did the gentle girl would shrink in dread from his unbending will, his habitual, moody taciturnity. He was generous and unselfish, but also as unyielding as the Rock of Gibraltar. There was nothing pleasurable in this train of thought, and, taking up a book, she soon ceased to think of the motionless figure opposite. No sooner were her eyes once fastened on her book than his rested searchingly on her face. At first she read without much manifestation of interest, regularly and slowly passing her hand over the black head which Charon had laid on her lap. After a while the lips parted eagerly, the leaves were turned quickly, and the touches on Charon's head ceased. Her long, black lashes could not veil the expression of enthusiastic pleasure. Another page fluttered over, a flush stole across her brow; and, as she closed the volume, her whole face was irradiated.
"What are you reading?" asked Dr. Hartwell, when she seemed to sink into a reverie.
"Analects from Richter."
"De Quincey's!"
"Yes, sir."