“No?” A quiver ran through the young man’s frame.

“No, Mr. Florence!  That rested as silently in my own bosom as in yours.”

“Who, then, informed her?”

“No one.”

“Has she not heard of it?”

“No.”

“Why, then, did she change towards me?”

“You changed, first, towards her.”

“Me!”

“Yes.  From the day of her arrival in New York, she perceived in you a certain coldness and reserve, that increased with each repeated interview.”

“Oh, no!”

“It is true.  I saw it myself.”

Florence clasped his hands together, and bent his eyes in doubt and wonder upon the floor.

“Did she complain of coldness and change in me?” he inquired.

“Yes, often.  And returned, last night, to leave you free, doubting not that you had ceased to love her.”

“Ceased to love her!  While this sad work has been going on, I have loved her with the agony of one who is about losing earth’s most precious thing.  Oh! write to her for me, and explain all.  How strange has been my infatuation.  Will you write for me?”

“Yes.”

“Say that my heart has not turned from her an instant.  That her imagined coldness has made me of all men most wretched.”

“I will do so.  But why not write yourself?”

“It will be better to come from you.  Ask her to return.  I would rather meet her here than in her uncle’s house.  Urge her to come back.”

Mrs. Hartley promised to do so, according to the wish of Mr. Florence.  Two days passed, and there was no answer.  On the morning of the third day, the young man, in a state of agitation from suspense called at the house of his friend.  After sending up his name, he sat anxiously awaiting the appearance of Mrs. Hartley.  The door at length opened, and, to his surprise and joy, Clara entered.  She came forward with a smile upon her face, extending her hand as she did so.  Edwin sprang to meet her, and catching her hand, pressed it eagerly to his lips.

“Strange that we should have so erred in regard to each other,” said Clara, as they sat communing tenderly.  “I trust no such error will come in the future to which I look forward with so many pleasing hopes.”

“Heaven forbid!” replied the young man, seriously.

“But we are in a world of error.  Ah! if we could only pass through life without a mistake.  If the heavy weight of repentance did not lie so often and so long upon our hearts—­this would be a far pleasanter world than it is.”

“Do not look so serious,” remarked Clara, as she bent forward and gazed affectionately into the young man’s face.  “To err is human.  No one here is perfect.  How often, for hours, have I mourned over errors; yet grief was of no avail, except to make my future more guarded.”