folio about Jewish antiquities lying on it, which, years and years ago, Clara and I were sometimes allowed to look at, as a special treat, on Sunday afternoons; and which we always examined and re-examined with never-ending delight—­standing together on two chairs to reach up to the thick, yellow-looking leaves, and turn them over with our own hands.  And there, in the recess between two bookcases, still stood the ancient desk-table, with its rows of little inlaid drawers; and on the bracket above it the old French clock, which had once belonged to my mother, and which always chimed the hours so sweetly and merrily.  It was at that table that Ralph and I always bade my father farewell, when we were going back to school after the holidays, and were receiving our allowance of pocket-money, given to us out of one of the tiny inlaid drawers, just before we started.  Near that spot, too, Clara—­then a little rosy child—­used to wait gravely and anxiously, with her doll in her arms, to say good-bye for the last time, and to bid us come back soon, and then never go away again.  I turned, and looked abruptly towards the window; for such memories as the room suggested were more than I could bear.

Outside, in the dreary strip of garden, the few stunted, dusky trees were now rustling as pleasantly in the air, as if the breeze that stirred them came serenely over an open meadow, or swept freshly under their branches from the rippling surface of a brook.  Distant, but yet well within hearing, the mighty murmur from a large thoroughfare—­the great mid-day voice of London—­swelled grandly and joyously on the ear.  While, nearer still, in a street that ran past the side of the house, the notes of an organ rang out shrill and fast; the instrument was playing its liveliest waltz tune—­a tune which I had danced to in the ball-room over and over again.  What mocking memories within, what mocking sounds without, to herald and accompany such a confession as I had now to make!

Minute after minute glided on, inexorably fast; and yet I never broke silence.  My eyes turned anxiously and slowly on my father.

He was still looking away from me, still cutting the leaves of the books before him.  Even in that trifling action, the strong emotions which he was trying to conceal, were plainly and terribly betrayed.  His hand, usually so steady and careful, trembled perceptibly; and the paper-knife tore through the leaves faster and faster—­cutting them awry, rending them one from another, so as to spoil the appearance of every page.  I believe he felt that I was looking at him; for he suddenly discontinued his employment, turned round towards me, and spoke—­

“I have resolved to give you your own time,” he said, “and from that resolve I have no wish to depart—­I only ask you to remember that every minute of delay adds to the suffering and suspense which I am enduring on your account.”  He opened the books before him again, adding in lower and colder tones, as he did so—­“In your place, Ralph would have spoken before this.”