his reconciliation. Instead of this,
the hours that he spent that evening in Onslow Terrace were hours of one
long ovation. He was, as it were, put upon a throne as a king who had
returned from his conquest, and those two women did him honor, almost
kneeling at his feet. Cecilia was almost as tender with him as Florence,
pleading to her own false heart the fact of his illness as his excuse.
There was something of the pallor of the sick-room left with him--a
slight tenuity in his hands and brightness in his eye which did him
yeoman's service. Had he been quite robust, Cecilia might have felt that
she could not justify to herself the peculiar softness of her words.
After the first quarter of an hour he was supremely happy. His
awkwardness had gone, and as he sat with his arm round Florence's waist,
he found that the little pencil-case had again been attached to her
chain, and as he looked down upon her he saw that the cheap brooch was
again on her breast. It would have been pretty, could an observer have
been there, to see the skill with which they both steered clear of any
word or phrase which could be disagreeable to him. One might have
thought that it would have been impossible to avoid all touch of a
rebuke. The very fact that he was forgiven would seem to imply some
fault that required pardon. But there was no hint at any fault. The tact
of women excels the skill of men and so perfect was the tact of these,
that not a word was said which wounded Harry's ear. He had come again
into their fold, and they were rejoiced and showed their joy. He who had
gone astray had repented, and they were beautifully tender to the
repentant sheep.

Harry staid a little too long with his love--a little longer, at least,
than had been computed, and, in consequence, met Theodore Burton in the
Crescent as he was leaving it. This meeting could hardly be made without
something of pain, and perhaps it was well for Harry that he should have
such an opportunity as this for getting over it quickly. But when he saw
Mr. Burton under the bright gas-lamp, he would very willingly have
avoided him, had it been possible.

"Well, Harry," said Burton, giving his hand to the repentant sheep.

"How are you, Burton?" said Harry, trying to speak with an unconcerned
voice. Then, in answer to an inquiry as to his health, he told of his
own illness, speaking of that confounded fever having made him very low.
He intended no deceit, but he made more of the fev