“I said I was not going to read any of the letters, that I was only looking for--now, Helen, you know--I told you there was something hard in the parcel, something more than papers, I was sure what it must be--the miniature--the miniature of you, which I painted, you know, that I might have it when you were gone, and which _he_ stole, and pretended before my mother to be admiring as your likeness, but he kept it only because it was my painting. I opened the paper in which it was folded; Clarendon darted upon it--‘It is Helen!’ and then he said. ‘How like! how beautiful! how unworthy of that man!’ “But, oh, Helen, think of what an escape I had next. There was my name--my initials C. D. at the bottom of the picture, as the painter; and that horrible man, not content with his initials opposite to mine, had on the back written at full length, ‘For Henry D’Aubigny.’--Clarendon looked at it, and said between his teeth. ‘He is dead.’--‘Thank God!’ said I. “Then he asked me, how I came to paint this picture for that man; I answered--oh how happy then it was for me that I could tell the whole truth about that at least!--I answered that I did not do the picture for Colonel D’Aubigny; that it never was given to him; that he stole it from my portfolio, and that we both did what we could to get it back again from him, but could not. And that you even wanted me to tell my mother, but of that I was afraid; and Clarendon said, ‘You were wrong there, my dear Cecilia.’ “I was so touched when I heard him call me his dear Cecilia again, and in his own dear voice, that I burst into tears. That was a great relief to me, and I kept saying over and over again, that I was wrong--very wrong indeed! and then he kneeled down beside me, and I so felt his tenderness, his confiding love for me--for me, unworthy as I am.” The tears streamed from Lady Cecilia’s eyes as she spoke--“Quite unworthy!” “No, no, not quite unworthy,” said Helen; “my poor dear Cecilia, what you must have felt!” “Once!” continued Cecilia--“once! Helen, as my head was lying on his shoulder, my face hid, I felt so much love, so much remorse, and knowing I had done nothing really bad, I was tempted to whisper all in his ear. I felt I should be so much happier for ever--ever--if I could!” “Oh that you had! my dear Cecilia, I would give anything upon earth for your sake, that you had.” “Helen, I could not--I could not. It was too late, I should have been undone if I had breathed but a word. When he even suspected the truth! that look--that voice was so terrible. To see it--hear it again! I could not--oh, Helen, it would have been utter ruin--madness. I grant you, my dear Helen, it might have been done at first, before I was married; oh would to heaven it had! but it is useless thinking of that now. Helen, my whole earthly happiness is in your hands, this is all I have to say, may I--may I depend on you?” “Yes, yes, depend upon me, my dearest Cecilia,” said Helen; “now let me go.”