But some good angel stood by his side in the moment of temptation and bade him hope.
As often as he saw “little curly-head,” as he called Clara, flitting through the house, his heart smote him, and he gazed upon her averted face with fondness and sadness.
And then the angel by his side whispered hope more loudly than ever.
“I could not think of dragging her into my disgrace,” thought Charley, sentimentally; “it is enough that my name is stained without causing her a life of live-long distrust, poverty and reproach.
“No, I will not address her. I love her, but she can never be my wife.”
Mr. Charley Warbeck’s high-toned ideas of life-long self-sacrifice were very commendable and heroic.
But changes came o’er the spirit of his dream.
“What makes her maintain such provoking privacy, I wonder?” thought he.
“How altered she is of late; how sad-looking and pale! I wonder if Fumbleton has anything to do with it?
“He’s a nice-looking fellow enough, well-to-do, and all that; but I wish he was at the bottom of the sea, and out of the way.