ow strong this feeling might in
truth be, Fanny would simply make her dutiful promises--promises which
were wickedly dutiful--that she would never mention the name of Mr. Saul
any more. Mr. Saul, in the mean time, went about his parish duties with
grim energy, supplying the rector's shortcomings without a word. He
would have been glad to preach all the sermons and read all the services
during these six months, had he been allowed to do so. He was constant
in the schools--more constant than ever in his visitings. He was very
courteous to Mr. Clavering when the necessities of their position
brought them together. For all this, Mr. Clavering hated him--unjustly.
For a man placed as Mr. Saul was placed, a line of conduct exactly level
with that previously followed is impossible, and it was better that he
should become more energetic in his duties than less so. It will be
easily understood that all these things interfered much with the general
happiness of the family at the rectory at this time.

The Monday came, and Harry Clavering, now convalescent, and simply
interesting from the remaining effects of his illness, started on his
journey for London. There had come no further letters from Onslow
Terrace to the parsonage, and, indeed, owing to the intervention of
Sunday, none could have come unless Florence had written by return of
post. Harry made his journey, beginning with some promise of happiness
to himself; but becoming somewhat uneasy as his train drew near to
London. He had behaved badly, and he knew that in the first place he
must own that he had done so. To men such a necessity is always
grievous. Women not unfrequently like the task. To confess, submit, and
be accepted as confessing and submitting, comes naturally to the
feminine mind. The cry of peccavi sounds soft and pretty when made by
sweet lips in a loving voice. But a man who can own that he has done
amiss without a pang--who can so own it to another man, or even to a
woman--is usually but a poor creature. Harry must now make such
confession, and therefore he became uneasy. And then, for him, there was
another task behind the one which he would be called upon to perform
this evening--a task which would have nothing of pleasantness in it to
redeem its pain. He must confess not only to Florence--where his
confession might probably have its reward--but he must confess also to
Julia. This second confession would, indeed, be a hard task to him.
That, however was