“Because I promised.”

“And, Miss Middleton, you betted a kiss yesterday.”

“I am sure, Crossjay—­no, I will not say I am sure:  but can you say you are sure you were out first this morning?  Well, will you say you are sure that when you left the house you did not see me in the avenue?  You can’t:  ah!”

“Miss Middleton, I do really believe I was dressed first.”

“Always be truthful, my dear boy, and then you may feel that Clara Middleton will always love you.”

“But, Miss Middleton, when you’re married you won’t be Clara Middleton.”

“I certainly shall, Crossjay.”

“No, you won’t, because I’m so fond of your name!”

She considered, and said:  “You have warned me, Crossjay, and I shall not marry.  I shall wait,” she was going to say, “for you,” but turned the hesitation to a period.  “Is the village where I posted my letter the day before yesterday too far for you?”

Crossjay howled in contempt.  “Next to Clara, my favourite’s Lucy,” he said.

“I thought Clara came next to Nelson,” said she; “and a long way off too, if you’re not going to be a landlubber.”

“I’m not going to be a landlubber.  Miss Middleton, you may be absolutely positive on your solemn word.”

“You’re getting to talk like one a little now and then, Crossjay.”

“Then I won’t talk at all.”

He stuck to his resolution for one whole minute.

Clara hoped that on this morning of a doubtful though imperative venture she had done some good.

They walked fast to cover the distance to the village post-office, and back before the breakfast hour:  and they had plenty of time, arriving too early for the opening of the door, so that Crossjay began to dance with an appetite, and was despatched to besiege a bakery.  Clara felt lonely without him:  apprehensively timid in the shuttered, unmoving village street.  She was glad of his return.  When at last her letter was handed to her, on the testimony of the postman that she was the lawful applicant, Crossjay and she put out on a sharp trot to be back at the Hall in good time.  She took a swallowing glance of the first page of Lucy’s writing: 

“Telegraph, and I will meet you.  I will supply you with everything you can want for the two nights, if you cannot stop longer.”

That was the gist of the letter.  A second, less voracious, glance at it along the road brought sweetness:—­Lucy wrote: 

“Do I love you as I did? my best friend, you must fall into unhappiness to have the answer to that.”

Clara broke a silence.

“Yes, dear Crossjay, and if you like you shall have another walk with me after breakfast.  But, remember, you must not say where you have gone with me.  I shall give you twenty shillings to go and buy those bird’s eggs and the butterflies you want for your collection; and mind, promise me, to-day is your last day of truancy.  Tell Mr. Whitford how ungrateful you know you have been, that he may have some hope of you.  You know the way across the fields to the railway station?”