‘Here,’ said Caldigate, pulling it out of the breast-pocket of his coat.  If he had had the presence of mind to say that he had lent the book to another young lady, and that she had never returned it, there might probably have been an end of this little trouble at once.  But when the little volume appeared, just as though it had been kept close to his heart during all these four years, of course she was entitled to hope.  He had never opened the book since that morning in his cabin, not caring for the academic beauties of Thomson’s ’Seasons;’—­had never looked at it till it had occurred to him as proper that he should take it with him to Pollington.  Now he brought it out of his pocket, and she put out her hand to receive it from him.  ‘You are not going to take it back again?’

‘Certainly not if it be of any value to you?’

‘Do you not value the presents which your friends make you?’

‘If I care for the friends, I do.’

‘As I care very much for this friend I shall keep the book.’

‘I don’t think that can be true, Mr. Caldigate?’

He was painfully near the blaze;—­determined not to be burned, and yet with no powers of flying away from the candle into the farthest corner of the room.  ’Why not true?  I have kept it hitherto.  It has been with me in many very strange places.’

Then there was a pause,—­while he thought of escaping, and she of utilising the occasion.  And yet it was not in her nature to be unmaidenly or aggressive Only if he did like her it would be so very nice, and it is so often the case that men want a little encouragement!  ‘I dare say you thought more of the book than the donor.’

‘That is intended to be unkind.’

’No;—­certainly not.  I can never be unkind to a friend who has been so very good as you were to poor Dick.  Whatever else may happen, I shall,—­never,—­forget—­that.’  By this time there was a faint sound of sobbing to be heard, and then she turned away her face that she might wipe a tear from her eyes.  It was a real tear, and a real sob, and she really thought that she was in love with him.

‘I know I ought not to have come here,’ he said.

‘Why not?’ she asked energetically.

’Because my coming would give rise to so much sadness about your brother.’

’I am so glad you have come,—­so very glad.  Of course we wanted to hear.  And besides——­’

‘What besides?’

’Papa and mamma, and all of them, are so glad to see you.  We never forget old friends.’  Then again there was silence.  ‘Never,’ she repeated, as she rose from her chair slowly and went out of the room.  Though he had fluttered flamewards now and again, though he had shown some moth-like aptitudes, he had not shown himself to be a downright, foolish, blind-eyed moth, determined to burn himself to a cinder as a moth should do.  And she;—­she was weak.  Having her opportunity at command, she went away and left him, because she did not know what more to say.  She went away to her own bedroom, and cried, and had a headache, during the remainder of the day.  And yet there was no other day!