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“Henry,” exclaimed Mrs. Mears, her voice and countenance expressing the painful surprise she felt, “why did you not immediately repair the wrong you had done?”

“How could I, without exposing myself, and causing perhaps a serious collision between me and Fisher?”

“You should have braved every consequence,” replied Mrs. Mears, firmly, “rather than permitted two loving hearts to remain severed, when a word from you would have reunited them. How could you have hesitated a moment as to what was right to do? But it may not be too late yet. Clara must know the truth.”

“Think what may be the consequence,” said Nears.

“Think, rather, what have been the consequences,” was the wife’s reply.

It was in vain that Mears argued with his wife about the policy of letting the matter rest where it was. She was a woman, and could only feel how deeply Clara had been wronged, as well as the necessity for an immediate reparation of that wrong. For more than an hour, she argued the matter with her husband who finally consented that she should see Clara, and correct the serious error under which she had been labouring. Early on the next day, Mrs. Mears called upon the unhappy girl. A closer observation of her face than she had before made revealed deep marks of suffering.

“And all this ‘for the fun of it!'” she could not help saying to herself with a feeling of sorrow. After conversing a short time with Clara, Mrs. Mears said–

“I heard something, last night, so nearly affecting your peace, that I have lost no time in seeing you.”

“What is that?” asked Clara, a flush passing over her face.

“Two years ago, you were engaged in marriage to Mr. Fisher?”

Clara made no reply, but the flush faded from her face and her lips quivered slightly for a moment.

“From hearing two persons who were conversing about him make disparaging remarks, you were led to break off that engagement.”

The face of Clara grew still paler, but she continued silent.

“By one of them, I am authorized to tell you that all they said was in mere jest. They knew you could hear what they said, and made the remarks purposely for your ear, in order to have a little sport. They never dreamed of your taking it so seriously.”

A deep groan heaved the bosom of Clara; her head fell back, and her body drooped nervelessly. Mrs. Mears extended her hands quickly and saved her from falling to the floor.

“This, too, ‘for the fun of it!'” she said to herself, bitterly, as she lifted the inanimate body of the poor girl in her arms, and laid it upon the sofa.

Without summoning any of the family, Mrs. Mears made use of every effort in her power to restore the circle of life. In this she was at last successful. When the mind of Clara had become again active, and measurably calm, she said to her–

“It was a cruel jest, and the consequences have been most painful. But I trust it is not yet too late to repair the wrong thus done, although no compensation can be made for the suffering to which you have been subjected.”

“It is too late, Mrs. Mears–too late!” replied Clara, in a mournful voice.

“Say not so, my dear young friend.”

But Clara shook her head.

It was in vain that Mrs. Mears strove earnestly to lift up her drooping heart. The calmness with which she had been able to bear the destruction of all her hopes, because there had seemed an adequate cause for the sacrifice she had made, was all gone now. There had been no adequate cause for the sacrifice. Her lover was as excellent and honourable as she at first believed him to be, and she had cast him off on the authority of a heartless jest. To all that her friend could say, she had but one reply to make–

“It is too late now!”

“Not too late, I trust,” said Mr. Mears, a good deal disturbed by his wife’s relation of her interview with Clara. “I must ascertain where Fisher is, and write to him on the subject. Did she say any thing that led you to believe that she recognised the voices of the persons whom she heard conversing? Do you think she suspects me in the matter?”