When Mrs. Clavering received the letter and parcel on the next morning, Harry Clavering was still in bed.  With the delightful privilege of a convalescent invalid, he was allowed in these days to get up just when getting up became more comfortable than lying in bed, and that time did not usually come till eleven o’clock was past; but the postman reached the Clavering parsonage by nine.  The letter, as we know, was addressed to Mrs. Clavering herself, as was also the outer envelope which contained the packet; but the packet itself was addressed in Florence’s clear handwriting to Harry Clavering, Esq.

“That is a large parcel to come by post, mamma,” said Fanny.

“Yes, my dear; but it is something particular.”

“It’s from some tradesman, I suppose,” said the rector.

“No, it’s not from a tradesman,” said Mrs. Clavering.  But she said nothing further, and both husband and daughter perceived that it was not intended that they should ask further questions.

Fanny, as usual, had taken her brother his breakfast, and Mrs. Clavering did not go up to him till that ceremony had been completed and removed.  Indeed it was necessary that she should study Florence’s letter in her own room before she could speak to him about it.  What the parcel contained she well knew, even before the letter had been thoroughly read; and I need hardly say that the treasure was sacred in her hands.  When she had finished the perusal of the letter there was a tear—­a gentle tear—­in each eye.  She understood it all, and could fathom the strength and weakness of every word which Florence had written.  But she was such a woman—­exactly such a woman—­as Cecilia Burton had pictured to herself.  Mrs. Clavering was good enough, great enough, true enough, clever enough to know that Harry’s love for Florence should be sustained, and his fancy for Lady Ongar overcome.  At no time would she have been proud to see her son prosperous only in the prosperity of a wife’s fortune; but she would have been thoroughly ashamed of him had he resolved to pursue such prosperity under his present circumstances.

But her tears—­though they were there in the corners of her eyes—­were not painful tears.  Dear Florence!  She is suffering bitterly now.  This very day would be a day of agony to her.  There had been for her, doubtless, many days of agony during the past month.  That the letter was true in all its words Mrs. Clavering did not doubt.  That Florence believed that all was over between her and Harry, Mrs. Clavering was as sure as Florence had intended that she should be.  But all should not be over, and the days of agony should soon be at an end.  Her boy had promised her, and to her he had always been true.  And she understood, too, the way in which these dangers had come upon him, and her judgment was not heavy upon her son—­her gracious boy, who had ever been so good to her!  It might be that he had been less diligent at his work than he should have been—­that on that account further delay would still be necessary; but Florence would forgive that, and he had promised that Florence should not be deserted.