Florence in the meanwhile was sitting alone in Onslow Terrace.  She knew now that Harry was ill at Clavering—­that he was indeed very ill, though Mrs. Clavering had assured her that his illness was not dangerous; for Mrs. Clavering had written to herself—­addressing her with all the old familiarity and affection—­with a warmth of affection that was almost more than natural.  It was clear that Mrs. Clavering knew nothing of Harry’s sins.  Or, might it not be possible, Cecilia had suggested, that Mrs. Clavering might have known, and have resolved potentially that those sins should be banished, and become ground for some beautifully sincere repentance?  Ah! how sweet it would be to receive that wicked sheep back again into the sheepfold, and then to dock him a little of his wandering powers, to fix him with some pleasant clog, to tie him down as a prudent domestic sheep should be tied, and make him the pride of the flock!  But all this had been part of Cecilia’s scheme, and of that scheme poor Florence knew nothing.  According to Florence’s view, Mrs. Clavering’s letter was written under a mistake.  Harry had kept his secret at home, and intended to keep it for the present.  But there was the letter, and Florence felt that it was impossible for her to answer it without telling the whole truth.  It was very painful to her to leave unanswered so kind a letter as that, and it was quite impossible that she should write of Harry in the old strain.  “It will be best that I should tell her the whole,” Florence had said, “and then I shall be saved the pain of any direct communication with him.”  Her brother, to whom Cecilia had repeated this, applauded his sister’s resolution.  “Let her face it and bear it, and live it down,” he had said.  “Let her do it at once, so that all this maudlin sentimentality may be at an end.”  But Cecilia would not accede to this, and as Florence was in truth resolved, and had declared her purpose plainly, Cecilia was driven to the execution of her scheme more quickly than she had intended.  In the mean time, Florence took out her little desk and wrote her letter.  In tears, and an agony of spirit which none can understand but women who have been driven to do the same, was it written.  Could she have allowed herself to express her thoughts with passion, it would have been comparatively easy; but it behooved her to be calm, to be very quiet in her words—­almost reticent even in the language which she chose, and to abandon her claim not only without a reproach, but almost without an allusion to her love.  While Cecilia was away, the letter was written, and re-written and copied; but Mrs. Burton was safe in this, that her sister-in-law had promised that the letter should not be sent till she had seen it.