On the next evening the young man called.  Mrs. Hartley, the bride of his friend, endeavored to forget the past, and to receive him with all the external signs of forgetfulness.  But, in this she did not fully succeed, and, of course, the visit of Florence was painfully embarrassing, at least, to himself.  From that time until the arrival of Miss Weldon, he felt concerned and unhappy.  That Mrs. Hartley would fully communicate or covertly hint to Clara certain events of his former life, he had too much reason to fear; and, were this done, he felt that all his fond hopes would be scattered to the winds.  In due time, Miss Weldon arrived.  In meeting her, Florence was conscious of a feeling of embarrassment, never before experienced in her presence.  He understood clearly why this was so.  At each successive visit his embarrassment increased; and, the more so, from the fact that he perceived a change in Clara ere she had been in the city a week.  As to the cause of this change, he had no doubts.  It was evident that Mrs. Hartley had communicated certain matters touching his previous history.

Thus it went on day after day, for two or three weeks, by which time the lovers met under the influence of a most chilling constraint.  Both were exceedingly unhappy.

One day, in calling as usual, Mr. Florence was surprised to learn that Clara had gone back to Albany.

“She said, nothing of this last night,” remarked the young man to Mrs. Hartley.

“Her resolution was taken after you went away,” was replied.

“And you, no doubt, advised the step,” said Mr. Florence, with ill-concealed bitterness.

“Why do you say that?” was quickly asked.

“How can I draw any other inference?” said the young man, looking at her with knit brows.

“Explain yourself, Mr. Florence!”

“Do my words need explanation?”

“Undoubtedly!  For, I cannot understand them.”

“There are events in my past life—­I will not say how bitterly repented—­of which only you could have informed her.”

“What events?” calmly asked the lady.

“Why lacerate my feelings by such a question?” said Florence, while a shadow of pain flitted over his face, as Memory presented a record of the past.

“I ask it with no such intention.  I only wish to understand you,” replied Mrs. Hartley.  “You have brought against me a vague accusation.  I wish it distinct, that I may affirm or deny it.”

“Edith Walter,” said Edwin Florence, in a low, unsteady voice, after he had been silent for nearly a minute.

Mrs. Hartley looked earnestly into his face.  Every muscle was quivering.

“What of her?” she inquired, in tones quite as low as those in which the young man had spoken.

“You know the history.”

“Well?”

“And, regardless of my suffering and repentance, made known to Clara the blasting secret.”

“No!  By my hopes of heaven, no!” quickly exclaimed Mrs. Hartley.