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--"

"There, there--don't agitate yourself, or I must leave you; and, sec,
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 pai