She started and dropped her book. George Fairfax dismounted, tied
his horse's bridle to the churchyard gate, and picked up the little
sketch-book.
"My portrait!" he cried, recognizing the carelessly-pencilled bead. "Then
you do think of me a little, Clarissa! Do you know that I have been
prowling about Arden for the last two hours, waiting and watching for you?
I have ridden past your father's cottage twenty times, I think, and was on
the point of giving up all hope and galloping back to Hale, when I caught
sight of a familiar figure from that road yonder."
He had taken a knife from his pocket, and was deliberately cutting out the
leaf from Miss Lovel's sketch-book.
"I shall keep this, Clarissa,--this one blessed scrap of evidence that you
do sometimes think of me."
"I think of a good many people in the same manner," she said, smiling, with
recovered self-possession. "I have very few acquaintance whose likenesses I
have not attempted in some fashion."
"But you have attempted mine very often," he answered, looking over the
leaves of the book. "Yes, here is my profile amongst bits of foliage, and
scroll-work, and all the vagabond thoughts of your artistic brain. You
shall not snub me, Clarissa. You do think of me--not as I think of you,
perhaps, by day and night, but enough for my encouragement, almost enough
for my happiness. Good heavens, how angry I have been with you during the
last few weeks!"
"What right had you to be angry with me, Mr.
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