“Cecilia,” he said, attempting to approach her with his hand, without rising from his chair.

“No, sir; when I desired you to call me so, it was because I thought you were to be a brother.  I did not think that there could be a thing so weak as you.  Perhaps you had better go now, lest you should meet my husband in his wrath, and he should spurn you.”

But Harry Clavering still sat in his chair, motionless—­motionless, and without a word.  After a while he turned his face toward her, and even in her own misery she was striken by the wretchedness of his countenance.  Suddenly she rose quickly from her chair, and coming close to him, threw herself on her knees before him.  “Harry,” she said, “Harry; it is not yet too late.  Be our own Harry again; our dearest Harry.  Say that it shall be so.  What is this woman to you?  What has she done for you, that for her you should throw aside such a one as our Florence?  Is she noble, and good, and pure and spotless as Florence is?  Will she love you with such love as Florence’s?  Will she believe in you as Florence believes?  Yes, Harry, she believes yet.  She knows nothing of this, and shall know nothing, if you will only say that you will be true.  No one shall know, and I will remember it only to remember your goodness afterward.  Think of it, Harry; there can be no falseness to one who has been so false to you.  Harry, you will not destroy us all at one blow?”

Never before was man so supplicated to take into his arms youth and beauty and feminine purity!  And in truth he would have yielded, as indeed, what man would not have yielded—­had not Mrs. Burton been interrupted in her prayers.  The step of her husband was heard upon the stairs, and she, rising from her knees, whispered quickly, “Do not tell him that it is settled.  Let me tell him when you are gone.”

“You two have been a long time together,” said Theodore, as he came in.

“Why did you leave us, then, so long?” said Mrs. Burton, trying to smile, though the signs of tears were, as she well knew, plain enough.

“I thought you would have sent for me.”

“Burton,” said Harry, “I take it kindly of you that you allowed me to see your wife alone.”

“Women always understand these things best,” said he.

“And you will come again to-morrow, Harry, and answer me my question?”

“Not to—­morrow.”

“Florence will be here on Monday.”

“And why should he not come when Florence is here?” asked Theodore in an angry tone.

“Of course he will come, but I want to see him again first.  Do I not, Harry?”

“I hate mysteries,” said Burton.

“There shall be no mystery,” said his wife.  “Why did you send him to me, but that there are some things difficult to discuss among three?  Will you come to-morrow, Harry?”

“Not to-morrow; but I will write to-morrow—­early to-morrow.  I will go now, and, of course, you will tell Burton everything that I have said.  Goodnight.”  They both took his hand, and Cecilia pressed it as she looked with beseeching eyes into his face.  What would she not have done to secure the happiness of the sister whom she loved?  On this occasion she had descended low that she might do much.