himself on her behalf at her sister’s instance; and how cold she had been to him, offending him by her silence and sombre pride.  “False woman!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton.  “Oh, Cecilia, do not abuse her—­do not say a word till you know all.”  “I know that she is false,” said Mrs. Burton, with vehement indignation.  “She is not false,” said Harry; “if there be falsehood, it is mine.”  Then he went on, and said how different she was when next he saw her.  How then he understood that her solemn and haughty manner had been almost forced on her by the mode of her return, with no other friend to meet her.  “She has deserved no friend,” said Mrs. Burton.  “You wrong her.” said Harry; “you do not know her.  If any woman has been ever sinned against, it is she.”  “But was she not false from the very first—­false, that she might become rich by marrying a man that she did not love?  Will you speak up for her after that?  Oh, Harry, think of it.”

“I will speak up for her,” said Harry; and now it seemed for the first time that something of his old boldness had returned to him.  “I will speak up for her, although she did as you say, because she has suffered as few women have been made to suffer, and because she has repented in ashes as few women are called on to repent.”  And now as he warmed with his feeling for her, he uttered his words faster and with less of shame in his voice.  He described how he had gone again and again to Bolton 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.