ton
Street, thinking no evil, till--till--till something of the old feeling
had come back upon him. He meant to be true in his story, but I doubt
whether he told all the truth. How could he tell it all? How could he
confess that the blaze of the woman's womanhood, the flame of her
beauty, and the fire engendered by her mingled rank and suffering, had
singed him and burned him up, poor moth that he was? "And then at last I
learned," said he, "that--that she had loved me more than I had
believed."

"And is Florence to suffer because she has postponed her love of you to
her love of money?"

"Mrs. Burton, if you do not understand it now, I do not know that I can
tell you more. Florence alone in this matter is altogether good. Lady
Ongar has been wrong, and I have been wrong. I sometimes think that
Florence is too good for me."

"It is for her to say that, if it be necessary."

"I have told you all now, and you will know why I have not come to you."

"No, Harry; you have not told me all. Have you told that--woman that she
should be your wife?" To this question he made no immediate answer, and
she repeated it. "Tell me: have you told her you would marry her?"

"I did tell her so."

"And you will keep your word to her?" Harry, as he heard the words, was
struck with awe that there should be such vehemence, such anger, in the
voice of so gentle a woman as Cecilia Burton. "Answer me, sir, do you
mean to marry this--countess?" But still he made no answer. "I do not
wonder that you cannot speak," she said. "Oh, Florence--oh, my darling;
my lost, broken-hearten angel!" Then she turned away her face and wept.

"Cecilia," he said, attempting to approach her with his hand, without
rising from his chair.

"No, sir; when I desired you to call me so, it was because I thought you
were to be a brother. I did not think that there could be a thing so
weak as you. Perhaps you had better go now, lest you should meet my
husband in his wrath, and he should spurn you."

But Harry Clavering still sat in his chair, motionless--motionless, and
without a word. After a while he turned his face toward her, and even in
her own misery she was striken by the wretchedness of his countenance.
Suddenly she rose quickly from her chair, and coming close to him, threw
herself on her knees before him. "Harry," she said, "Harry; it is not
yet too late. Be our own Harry again; our dearest Harry. Say that it
shall be so. What is this woman to you? What h