"My dear Clara," ejaculated Mrs. Charlston, grasping her affectionately by the hand, tears dimming her eyes also, "I shall have pity upon you; and although your friends should become enemies to you, I shall adhere to you, my dear child, like an affectionate mother and a faithful friend." "Thank you, thank you," exclaimed Clara, "but my heart is unable to express its gratitude." "Try to compose your feelings, my dear, with the assurance I have given you of my fidelity." "Yes, my dearest of friends, I shall endeavor to do so," said Clara. Then grasping each other more firmly and affectionately by the hand they sat together until they had sobbed out the sorrowful uprisings of their hearts. CHAPTER V. On the following morning, Mrs. Charlston found an opportunity of speaking privately to Fred about the unfortunate affair. She told him all that Clara had said, at the same time endeavoring to make as favorable impression in her behalf as the circumstances of the case would allow; and also earnestly beseeching him to come into good terms at once with Clara. "_Never! never!_" ejaculated Fred. "Why should you talk so determinately, Fred, I'm sure that Clara has given sufficient reasons to justify the circumstances of an unpremeditated act, apparently so innocent, as to be undeserving of censure." "Were it only the first innocent act, as you consider it, I would not have attached any importance to it," said he. "Have you really been made aware of a previous intercourse between Charles and Clara?" "Why, yes, I have heard of it a dozen times--I was informed by letter when at Tiverton that Clara was flirting with Charlie, or as the writer expressed it: 'In your absence your old friend, Charlie Holstrom, is playing at "_catch the beau_" with your affectionate Clara.'" "Now Fred, you must tell me who was the writer of that letter." "It was Harry Walton." "I just thought so. I'm sure, Fred, you are aware that Harry is noted for manufacturing falsehoods. If you believe him you are the only person in London who does so." "But I have heard it from others, and they cannot all be liars. There is Mrs. Tennyson, for instance, an old respected friend of your own. One day she hinted sufficient to make me feel suspicious. Fernando Jones squirted a few dry jokes in that way. Sylvester Kennelworth termed me a hen-pecked bachelor. Even Julia Marks, Sylvina Oldham, and Sarah Silverstone bothered me almost to death one evening recently about Clara's intention of presenting me shortly with a 'ticket of leave.'"