“Mr Linnell, my dear?”
“Yes, but only to tell me that he is not much hurt—you said so, did you not?” cried Claire.
“Yes, my dear; he’s not much hurt. But, Claire, my dear, wouldn’t it be better if you—so pretty and young as you are—did care very much for some one as nice and good as he is?”
“No, no,” cried Claire excitedly. “Pray, pray say no more. It is impossible.”
“Well, you know best, my dear,” said Mrs Barclay sadly; “and you want me to talk about something else. Well, I’ll talk about you, only you must not mind if I say something stupid. It’s my way.”
“I am sure you would not say anything to wound me,” said Claire, kissing her.
“Indeed I wouldn’t, my dear: and, do you know, ever since I found out how you people here were situated, through Mr Denville coming to see my Josiah, who is the real best of men, I seemed to take to you like. I went home and had a good cry after I’d been here the first time, and seen you managing your poor father, and your sister and brother so well.”
Claire’s brow grew troubled, but her visitor prattled on.
“You had another brother, hadn’t you, my dear, who couldn’t agree with your father like, and then went away?”
“Yes,” said Claire, bowing her head to hide her face.