he sisters than heretofore.

A very few words will suffice to explain this: When Florence recovered
from the shock Calvert had occasioned her on the memorable night of his
visit, she had nothing but the very vaguest recollection of what had
occurred. That some terrible tidings had been told her--some disastrous
news in which Loyd and Calvert were mixed up: that she had blamed
Calvert for rashness or indiscretion; that he had either shown a letter
he ought never to have shown, or not produced one which might have
averted a misfortune; and, last of all, that she herself had done or
said something which a calmer judgment could not justify--all these were
in some vague and shadowy shape before her, and all rendered her anxious
and uneasy. On the other hand, Emily, seeing with some satisfaction that
her sister never recurred to the events of that unhappy night, gladly
availed herself of this silence to let them sleep undisturbed. She was
greatly shocked, it is true, by the picture Calvert's representation
presented of Loyd. He had never been a great favourite of her own; she
recognised many good and amiable traits in his nature, but she deemed
him gloomy, depressed, and a dreamer--and a dreamer, above all, she
regarded as unfit to be the husband of Florence, whose ill health had
only tended to exaggerate a painful and imaginative disposition. She
saw, or fancied she saw, that Loyd's temperament, calm and gentle
though it was, deemed to depress her sister. His views of life were very
sombre, and no effort ever enabled him to look forward in a sanguine
or hopeful spirit If, however, to these feelings an absolute fault of
character were to be added--the want of personal courage--her feelings
for him could no longer be even the qualified esteem she had hitherto
experienced. She also knew that nothing could be such a shock to
Florence, as to believe that the man she loved was a coward; nor could
any station, or charm, or ability, however great, compensate for such
a defect As a matter, therefore, for grave after-thought, but not
thoroughly "proven," she retained this charge in her mind, nor did she
by any accident drop a hint or a word that could revive the memory of
that evening.

As for Miss Grainger, only too happy to see that Florence seemed to
retain no trace of that distressing scene, she never went back to it,
and thus every event of the night was consigned to silence, if not
oblivion. Still, there grew out of that reserv