Shortly after this, I heard a step on the stairs and a knock at my door.—­My father?  No!  Clara.  I tried to speak to her unconcernedly, when she came in.

“Why, you have been walking till it is quite dark, Clara!”

“We have only been in the garden of the Square—­neither papa nor I noticed how late it was.  We were talking on a subject of the deepest interest to us both.”

She paused a moment, and looked down; then hurriedly came nearer to me, and drew a chair to my side.  There was a strange expression of sadness and anxiety in her face, as she continued: 

“Can’t you imagine what the subject was?  It was you, Basil.  Papa is coming here directly, to speak to you.”

She stopped once more.  Her cheeks reddened a little, and she mechanically busied herself in arranging some books that lay on the table.  Suddenly, she abandoned this employment; the colour left her face; it was quite pale when she addressed me again, speaking in very altered tones; so altered, that I hardly recognised them as hers.

“You know, Basil, that for a long time past, you have kept some secret from us; and you promised that I should know it first; but I—­I have changed my mind; I have no wish to know it, dear:  I would rather we never said anything about it.” (She coloured, and hesitated a little again, then proceeded quickly and earnestly:) “But I hope you will tell it all to papa:  he is coming here to ask you—­oh, Basil! be candid with him, and tell him everything; let us all be to one another what we were before this time last year!  You have nothing to fear, if you only speak openly; for I have begged him to be gentle and forgiving with you, and you know he refuses me nothing.  I only came here to prepare you; to beg you to be candid and patient.  Hush! there is a step on the stairs.  Speak out, Basil, for my sake—­pray, pray, speak out, and then leave the rest to me.”

She hurriedly left the room.  The next minute, my father entered it.

Perhaps my guilty conscience deceived me, but I thought he looked at me more sadly and severely than I had ever seen him look before.  His voice, too, was troubled when he spoke.  This was a change, which meant much in him.

“I have come to speak to you,” he said, “on a subject about which I had much rather you had spoken to me first.”

“I think, Sir, I know to what subject you refer.  I—­”

“I must beg you will listen to me as patiently as you can,” he rejoined; “I have not much to say.”

He paused, and sighed heavily.  I thought he looked at me more kindly.  My heart grew very sad; and I yearned to throw my arms round his neck, to give freedom to the repressed tears which half choked me, to weep out on his bosom my confession that I was no more worthy to be called his son.  Oh, that I had obeyed the impulse which moved me to do this!