"Clemency, why did you run away?"
"Because I—I was afraid!"
"Of Chichcster?"
"No!" she cried in sudden scorn, "him I only—hate!"
"Then—whom did you fear?"
Clemency was silent, but, all at once, Barnabas saw a burning flush that crept up, over rounded throat and drooping face, until it was lost in the dark shadow of her hair.
"Was it—the Viscount?" Barnabas demanded suddenly.
"No—no, I—I think it was—myself. Oh, I—I am very wretched and—lonely!" she sobbed, "I want—my father!"
"And he shall be found," said Barnabas, "I promise you! But, until then, will you trust me, Clemency, as—as a sister might trust her brother? Will you let me take you from this dreary place,—will you, Clemency? I—I'll buy you a house—I mean a—a cottage—in the country—or anywhere you wish."
"Oh, Mr. Beverley!" she sighed, looking up at him with tear-dimmed eyes, but with the ghost of a smile hovering round her scarlet lips, "I thank you,—indeed, indeed I do, but how can I? How may I?"