lips in a loving voice.  But a man who can own that he has done amiss without a pang—­who can so own it to another man, or even to a woman—­is usually but a poor creature.  Harry must now make such confession, and therefore he became uneasy.  And then, for him, there was another task behind the one which he would be called upon to perform this evening—­a task which would have nothing of pleasantness in it to redeem its pain.  He must confess not only to Florence—­where his confession might probably have its reward—­but he must confess also to Julia.  This second confession would, indeed, be a hard task to him.  That, however was to be postponed till the morrow.  On this evening he had pledged himself that he would go direct to Onslow Terrace, and this he did as soon after he had reached his lodgings as was possible.  It was past six when he reached London, and it was not yet eight when, with palpitating heart, he knocked at Mr. Burton’s door.

I must take the reader back with me for a few minutes, in order that we may see after what fashion the letters from Clavering were received by the ladies in Onslow Terrace.  On that day Mr. Burton had been required to go out of London by one of the early trains, and had not been in the house when the postman came.  Nothing had been said between Cecilia and Florence as to their hopes or fears in regard to an answer from Clavering—­nothing, at least, since that conversation in which Florence had agreed to remain in London for yet a few days; but each of them was very nervous on the matter.  Any answer, if sent at once from Clavering, would arrive on this morning, and, therefore, when the well-known knock was heard, neither of them was able to maintain her calmness perfectly.  But yet nothing was said, nor did either of them rise from her seat at the breakfast table.  Presently the girl came in with apparently a bundle of letters, which she was still sorting when she entered the room.  There were two or three for Mr. Burton, two for Cecilia, and then two besides the registered packet for Florence.  For that a receipt was needed, and as Florence had seen the address and recognized the writing, she was hardly able to give her signature.  As soon as the maid was gone Cecilia could keep her seat no longer.  “I know those are from Clavering,” she said, rising from her chair, and coming round to the side of the table.  Florence instinctively swept the packet into her lap, and, leaning forward, covered the letters with her hands.  “Oh, Florence, let us see them—­let us see them at once.  If we are to be happy, let us know it.”  But Florence paused, still leaning over her treasures, and hardly daring to show her burning face.  Even yet it might be that she was rejected.  Then Cecilia went back to her seat, and simply looked at her sister with beseeching eyes.  “I think I’ll go up stairs,” said Florence.  “Are you afraid of me, Flo?” Cecilia answered reproachfully.  “Let me see the outside of them.”  Then Florence brought them round the table, and put