errands; the house was empty and still; and as the rattling of the

cab died away down Gloucester Street, and Harry continued to ascend

the stair with his burthen, he heard close against his shoulders

the same faint and muffled ticking as before. The lady, still

preceding him, opened the door of her room, and helped him to lower

the box tenderly in the corner by the window.

'And now,' said Harry, 'what is wrong?'

'You will not go away?' she cried, with a sudden break in her voice

and beating her hands together in the very agony of impatience. 'O

Harry, Harry, go away! Oh, go, and leave me to the fate that I

deserve!'

'The fate?' repeated Harry. 'What is this?'

'No fate,' she resumed. 'I do not know what I am saying. But I

wish to be alone. You may come back this evening, Harry; come

again when you like; but leave me now, only leave me now!' And

then suddenly, 'I have an errand,' she exclaimed; 'you cannot

refuse me that!'

'No,' replied Harry, 'you have no errand. You are in grief or

danger. Lift your veil and tell me what it is.'

'Then,' she said, with a sudden composure, 'you leave but one

course open to me.' And raising the veil, she showed him a

countenance from which every trace of colour had fled, eyes marred

with weeping, and a brow on which resolve had conquered fear.

'Harry,' she began, 'I am not what I seem.'

'You have told me that before,' said Harry, 'several times.'

'O Harry, Harry,' she cried, 'how you shame me! But this is the

God's truth. I am a dangerous and wicked girl. My name is Clara

Luxmore. I was never nearer Cuba than Penzance. From first to

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