had promised that there should be no such speaking, and, indeed, no danger of that kind was feared.  Whatever Mr. Saul might do, he would do openly—­nay, audaciously.  But, though there existed this security, nevertheless things as regarded Fanny were very unpleasant.  When Mr. Saul had commenced his courtship, she had agreed with her family in almost ridiculing the idea of such a lover.  There had been a feeling with her as with the others, that poor Mr. Saul was to be pitied.  Then she had come to regard his overtures as matters of grave import—­not, indeed, avowing to her mother anything so strong as a return of his affection, but speaking of his proposal as one to which there was no other objection than that of a want of money.  Now, however, she went moping about the house as though she were a victim of true love, condemned to run unsmoothly forever—­as though her passion for Mr. Saul were too much for her, and she were waiting in patience till death should relieve her from the cruelty of her parents.  She never complained.  Such victims never do complain.  But she moped and was wretched, and when her mother questioned her, struggling to find out how strong this feeling might in truth be, Fanny would simply make her dutiful promises—­promises which were wickedly dutiful—­that she would never mention the name of Mr. Saul any more.  Mr. Saul, in the mean time, went about his parish duties with grim energy, supplying the rector’s shortcomings without a word.  He would have been glad to preach all the sermons and read all the services during these six months, had he been allowed to do so.  He was constant in the schools—­more constant than ever in his visitings.  He was very courteous to Mr. Clavering when the necessities of their position brought them together.  For all this, Mr. Clavering hated him—­unjustly.  For a man placed as Mr. Saul was placed, a line of conduct exactly level with that previously followed is impossible, and it was better that he should become more energetic in his duties than less so.  It will be easily understood that all these things interfered much with the general happiness of the family at the rectory at this time.

The Monday came, and Harry Clavering, now convalescent, and simply interesting from the remaining effects of his illness, started on his journey for London.  There had come no further letters from Onslow Terrace to the parsonage, and, indeed, owing to the intervention of Sunday, none could have come unless Florence had written by return of post.  Harry made his journey, beginning with some promise of happiness to himself; but becoming somewhat uneasy as his train drew near to London.  He had behaved badly, and he knew that in the first place he must own that he had done so.  To men such a necessity is always grievous.  Women not unfrequently like the task.  To confess, submit, and be accepted as confessing and submitting, comes naturally to the feminine mind.  The cry of peccavi sounds soft and pretty when made by sweet