How heavenly is the love of a sister towards a brother!  Clara was now everything to me.  Having said thus much to me on the subject of my fault (and it must be confessed that she had not been niggardly in the article of words), she never named the subject again, but sought by every means in her power to amuse and to comfort me.  She listened to my exculpation; she admitted that our meeting at Bordeaux was as unpremeditated as it was unfortunate; she condemned the imprudence of our travelling together, and still more the choice of a residence for Eugenia and her son.

Clara’s affectionate attention and kind efforts were unavailing.  I told her so, and that all hopes of happiness for me in this world were gone for ever.

“My dear, dear brother,” said the affectionate girl, “answer me one question.  Did you ever pray?”

My answer will pretty well explain to the reader the sort of religion mine was:—­

“Why, Clara,” said I, “to tell you the truth, though I may not exactly pray, as you call it, yet words are nothing.  I feel grateful to the Almighty for his favours when he bestows them on me; and I believe a grateful heart is all he requires.”

“Then, brother, how do you feel when he afflicts you?”

“That I have nothing to thank him for,” answered I.

“Then, my dear Frank, that is not religion.”

“May be so,” said I; “but I am in no humour to feel otherwise, at present, so pray drop the subject.”

She burst into tears.  “This,” said she, “is worse than all.  Shall we receive good from the hand of the Lord, and shall we not receive evil?”

But seeing that I was in that sullen and untameable state of mind, she did not venture to renew the subject.

As soon as I was able to quit my room, I had a long conversation with my father, who, though deeply concerned for my happiness, said he was quite certain that any attempt at reconciliation would be useless.  He therefore proposed two plans, and I might adopt whichever was the most likely to divert my mind from my heavy affliction.  The first was, to ask his friends at the Admiralty to give me the command of a sloop of war; the second, that I should go upon the continent, and, having passed a year there, return to England, when there was no knowing what change of sentiment time and absence might not produce in my favour.  “For,” said he, “there is one very remarkable difference in the heart of a man and of a woman.  In the first, absence is very often a cure for love.  In the other, it more frequently cements and consolidates it.  In your absence, Emily will dwell on the bright parts of your character, and forget its blemishes.  The experiment is worth making, and it is the only way which offers a chance of success.”