misery in his countenance, called for all their
sympathy and kindness.

"I have scarcely strength to thank you!"
he said to them, in a faint voice. Though the
words were addressed to both, the glance he
gave towards Florence sent the blood to her
pale cheeks, and made her turn away in some
confusion.

"You'll have some tea, and rest yourself, and
when you feel once quiet and undisturbed here,
you'll soon regain your strength," said Emily, as
she turned towards the tea-table. While Florence,
after a few moments' hesitation, seated herself
on the sofa beside him.

"Has she told you what has befallen me?"
whispered he to her.

"In part—that is, something of it. As much
as she could in a word or two; but do not
speak of it now."

"If I do not now, Florence, I can never have
the courage again."

"Then be it so," she said, eagerly. "I am
more anxious to see you strong and well again,
than to hear how you became wretched and
unhappy."

"But if you do not hear the story from
myself, Florence, and if you should hear the tale
that others may tell of me—if you never know
how I have been tried and tempted—with a
temper that never was made for trial or temptation—"

"There, there—don't agitate yourself, or I
must leave you; and, see, Milly is remarking our
whispering together."

"Does she grudge me this much of your
kindness?"

"No; but—there—here she comes with your
tea." She drew a little table in front of him,
and tried to persuade him to eat.

"Your sister has just made me a very generous
promise, Emily," said he. "She has pledged
herself— even without hearing my exculpation—
to believe me innocent; and although I have told
her that the charges that others will make against
me may need some refutation on my part, she
says she'll not listen to them. Is not that very
noble—is it not truly generous?"

"It is what I should expect from Florence."

"And what of Florence's sister?" said he,
with a half furtive glance towards her.

"I hope, nothing less generous."

"Then I am content," said he, with a faint
sigh. "When a man is as thoroughly ruined
as I am, it might be thought he would be
indifferent to opinion in every shape—and so I
am, beyond the four walls of this room; but
here," and he looked at each in turn, "are the
arbiters of my fate; if you will but be to me
dear sisters—kind, compassionate, forgiving
sisters—you will do more for this crushed and
wounded heart, than all the sympathy of the
whole world beside."

"We only ask to be such to you," cried
Florence, eagerly; "and we feel how proud we
could be of such a brother; but, above all, do
not distress yourself now, by a theme so painful
to touch on. Let the unhappy events of the
last few weeks lie, if not forgotten, at least
unmentioned, till you are calm and quiet enough
to talk of them as old memories."

"Yes! but how can I bear the thought of
what others may say of me—meanwhile?"

" Who are these others—we see no one, we
go into no society?"

"Have you not scores of dear friends, writing
by every post to ask if this atrocious duellist be
'your' Mr. Calvert, and giving such a narrative,
besides, of his doings, that a galley-slave would
shrink from contact, with such a man? Do I
not know well how tenderly people deal with
the vices that are not their own? How severe
the miser can be on the spendthrift, and how
mercilessly the coward condemns the hot blood
that resents an injury, and how gladly they
would involve in shame the character that
would not brook dishonour?"

"Believe me, we have very few 'dear friends'
at all," said Florence, smiling, "and not one,
no, not a single one, of the stamp you speak
of."

"If you were only to read our humdrum
letters," chimed in Emily, "you'd see how
they never treat of anything but little domestic
details of people who live as obscurely as
ourselves. How Uncle Tom's boy has got into
the Charterhouse; or Mary's baby taken the
chicken-pox."

"But Loyd writes to you—and not in this
strain?"

"I suspect Joseph cares little to fill his pages
with what is called news," said Emily, with a
laughing glance at her sister, who had turned
away her head in some confusion.

"Nor would he be one likely to judge you
harshly," said Florence, recovering herself. "I
believe you have few friends who rate you more
highly than he does."

"It is very generous of him!" said Calvert,
haughtily; and then, catching in the proud glance
of Florry's eyes a daring challenge of his words,
he added, in a quieter tone, "I mean, it, is
generous of him to overlook how unjust I have been
to him. It is not easy for men so different to
measure each other, and I certainly formed an
unfair estimate of him."

"Oh! may I tell him that you said so?" cried
she, taking his hand with warmth.

"I mean to do it for myself, dearest sister.
It is a debt I cannot permit another to acquit
for me."

"Don't you think you are forgetting our
guest's late fatigues, and what need he has of
rest and quietness, girls?" said Miss Grainger,
coming over to where they sat.

"I was forgetting everything in my joy,
aunt," cried Florence. "He is going to write
to Joseph like a dear, dear brother as he is, and
we shall all be so happy, and so united."

"A brother? Mr. Calvert a brother?" said
the old lady, in consternation at such a liberty
with one of that mighty house, in which she had
once lived as an humble dependent.

"Yes," cried he. "It is a favour I have
begged, and they have not denied me."