till the return of Lord Ongar’s widow.  Up to that time everything had been fair between us.  I had told Florence of my former attachment, and she probably thought but little of it.  Such things are so common with men!  Some change happens as had happened with me, and a man’s second love is often stronger and more worthy of a woman’s acceptance than the first.  At any rate, she knew it, and there was, so far, an end of it.  And you understood, also, how very anxious I was to avoid delay in our marriage.  No one knows that better than you—­not even Florence—­for I have talked it over with you so often; and you will remember how I have begged you to assist me.  I don’t blame my darling Florence.  She was doing what she deemed best; but oh, if she had only been guided by what you once said to her!

Then Lord Ongar’s widow returned; and dear Mrs. Burton, though I fear you think ill of her, you must remember that as far as you know, or I, she has done nothing wrong, has been in no respect false, since her marriage.  As to her early conduct to me, she did what many women have done, but what no woman should do.  But how can I blame her, knowing how terrible has been my own weakness!  But as to her conduct since her marriage, I implore you to believe with me that she has been sinned against grievously, and has not sinned.  Well; as you know, I met her.  It was hardly unnatural that I should do so, as we are connected.  But whether natural or unnatural, foolish or wise, I went to her often.  I thought at first that she must know of my engagement, as her sister knew it well, and had met Florence.  But she did not know it; and so, having none near her that she could love, hardly a friend but myself, grievously wronged by the world and her own relatives, thinking that with her wealth she could make some amends to me for her former injury, she—.  Dear Mrs. Burton, I think you will understand it now, and will see that she at least is free from blame.

I am not defending myself; of course, all this should have been without effect on me.  But I had loved her so dearly!  I do love her still so dearly!  Love like that does not die.  When she left me it was natural that I should seek some one else to love.  When she returned to me—­when I found that in spite of her faults she had loved me through it all, I—­I yielded and became false and a traitor.

I say that I love her still; but I know well that Florence is far the nobler woman of the two.  Florence never could have done what she did.  In nature, in mind, in acquirement, in heart, Florence is the better.  The man who marries Florence must be happy if any woman can make a man happy.  Of her of whom I am now speaking, I know well that I cannot say that.  How then, you will ask, can I be fool enough, having had such a choice, to doubt between the two!  How is it that man doubts between vice and virtue, between heaven and hell?

But all this is nothing to you.