that Burton could tell himself that it would be well that his sister should escape even though her way of escape must lie through the fire and water of outraged love.  That Harry Clavering was a gentleman, that he was clever, that he was by nature affectionate, soft in manner, tender of heart, anxious to please, good-tempered, and of high ambition, Burton knew well; and he partly recognized the fact that Harry had probably fallen into his present fault more by accident than by design.  Clavering was not a skilled and practiced deceiver.  At last, as he drew near to his own door, he resolved on the line of conduct he would pursue.  He would tell his wife everything, and she should receive Harry alone.

He was weary when he reached home, and was a little cross with his fatigue.  Good man as he was, he was apt to be fretful on the first moment of his return to his own house, hot with walking, tired with his day’s labor, and in want of his dinner.  His wife understood this well, and always bore with him at such moments, coming down to him in the dressing-room behind the back parlor, and ministering to his wants.  I fear he took some advantage of her goodness, knowing that at such moments he could grumble and scold without danger of contradiction.  But the institution was established, and Cecilia never rebelled against its traditional laws.  On the present day he had much to say to her, but even that he could not say without some few symptoms of petulant weariness.

“I’m afraid you’ve had a terrible long day,” she said.

“I don’t know what you call terribly long.  I find the days terribly short.  I have had Harry with me, as I told you I should.”

“Well, well.  Say in one word, dear, that it is all right—­if it is so.”

“But it is not all right.  I wonder what on earth the men do to the boots, that I can never get a pair that do not hurt me in walking.”  At this moment she was standing over him with his slippers.

“Will you have a glass of sherry before dinner, dear; you are so tired?”

“Sherry—­no!”

“And what about Harry?  You don’t mean to say—­”

“If you’ll listen, I’ll tell you what I do mean to say.”  Then he described to her as well as he could, what had really taken place between him and Harry Clavering at the office.

“He cannot mean to be false, if he is coming here,” said the wife.

“He does not mean to be false; but he is one of those men who can be false without meaning it, who allow themselves to drift away from their anchors, and to be carried out into seas of misery and trouble, because they are not careful in looking to their tackle.  I think that he may still be held to a right course, and therefore I have begged him to come here.”

“I am sure that you are right, Theodore.  He is so good and so affectionate, and he made himself so much one of us!”

“Yes; too easily by half.  That is just the danger.  But look here, Cissy.  I’ll tell you what I mean to do.  I will not see him myself; at any rate, not at first.  Probably I had better not see him at all.  You shall talk to him.”