the cheap brooch which he had thrown to her as a joke, and which she had sworn that she would value the most of all because she could wear it every day; and there was the pencil-case which he had fixed on to her watch-chain, while her fingers were touching his fingers, caressing him for his love while her words were rebuking him for his awkwardness.  He remembered it all as the things lay strewed upon his bed.  And he re-read every word of his own words.  “What a fool a man makes of himself!” he said to himself at last, with something of the cheeriness of laughter about his heart.  But as he said so he was quite ready to make himself a fool after the same fashion again, if only there were not in his way that difficulty of recommencing.  Had it been possible for him to write again at once in the old strain, without any reference to his own conduct during the last month, he would have begun his fooling without waiting to finish his dressing.

“Did you open the parcel?” his mother asked him, some hour or so before it was necessary that Jem should be started on his mission.

“Yes, I thought it best to open it.”

“And have you made it up again?”

“Not yet, mother.”

“Put this with it, dear.”  And his mother gave him a little jewel, a cupid in mosaic surrounded by tiny diamonds, which he remembered her to wear ever since he had first noticed the things she had worn.  “Not from me, mind.  I give it to you.  Come—­will you trust me to pack them?” Then Mrs. Clavering again made up the parcel, and added the trinket which she had brought with her.

Harry at last brought himself to write a few words.

Dearest, dearest Florence:—­They will not let me out, or I would go to you at once.  My mother has written, and though I have not seen her letter, I know what it contains.  Indeed, indeed you may believe it all.  May I not venture to return the parcel?  I do send it back, and implore you to keep it.  I shall be in town, I think, on Monday, and will go to Onslow Crescent—­instantly.

    Your own, H. C.

Then there was scrawled a postscript which was worth all the rest put together—­was better than his own note, better than his mother’s letter, better than the returned packet.  “I love no one better than you—­no one half so well—­neither now, nor ever did.”  These words, whether wholly true or only partially so, were at least to the point, and were taken by Cecilia Burton, when she heard of them, as a confession of faith that demanded instant and plenary absolution.

The trouble which had called Harry down to Clavering remained I regret to say, almost in full force now that his prolonged visit had been brought so near its close.  Mr. Saul, indeed, had agreed to resign his curacy, and was already on the look-out for similar employment in some other parish.  And, since his interview with Fanny’s father, he had never entered the rectory or spoken to Fanny.  Fanny