“I think no ill of him,” said Florence, proudly.

“That is well.  But I am sure you do not.  You are not one to think evil, as I take it, of any body, much less of him whom you love.  When he saw me again, free as I am, and when I saw him, thinking him also to be free, was it strange that some memory of old days should come back upon us?  But the fault, if fault there has been, was mine.”

“I have never said that there was any fault.”

“No, Miss Burton, but others have said so.  No doubt I am foolish to talk to you in this way, and I have not yet said that which I desired to say.  It is simply this—­that I do not begrudge you your happiness.  I wished the same happiness to be mine, but it is not mine.  It might have been, but I forfeited it.  It is past, and I will pray that you may enjoy it long.  You will not refuse to receive my congratulations?”

“Indeed I will not.”

“Or to think of me as a friend of your husband’s?”

“Oh no.”

“That is all, then.  I have shown you the gardens, and now we may go in.  Some day, perhaps, when you are Lady Paramount here, and your children are running about the place, I may come again to see them—­if you and he will have me.”

“I hope you will, Lady Ongar.  In truth I hope so.”

“It is odd enough that I said to him once that I would never go to Clavering Park again till I went there to see his wife.  That was long before those two brothers perished—­before I had ever heard of Florence Burton.  And yet, indeed, it was not very long ago.  It was since my husband died.  But that was not quite true, for here I am, and he has not yet got a wife.  But it was odd, was it not?”

“I can not think what should have made you say that.”

“A spirit of prophecy comes on one sometimes, I suppose.  Well, shall we go in?  I have shown you all the wonders of the garden, and told you all the wonders connected with it of which I know aught.  No doubt there would be other wonders more wonderful, if one could ransack the private history of all the Claverings for the last hundred years.  I hope, Miss Burton, that any marvels which may attend your career here may be happy marvels.”  She then took Florence by the hand, and, drawing close to her, stooped over and kissed her.  “You will think me a fool, of course,” said she, “but I do not care for that.”  Florence now was in tears, and could make no answer in words; but she pressed the hand which she still held, and then followed her companion back into the house.  After that the visit was soon brought to an end, and the three ladies from the rectory returned across the park to their house.

Chapter LII

Conclusion