“What a pity you couldn’t have put him up a little higher.”

“I used to think so too;—­only I couldn’t.  If anybody loved you as he did me,—­offered you everything he had in the world,—­thought that you were the best in the world, would have given his life for you, would not you be grateful?”

“I don’t know that I need wish to ask such a person to my wedding.”

“Yes, you would, if in that way you could build a bridge to bring him back to happiness.  And, Reg, though you used to despise him—­”

“I never despised him.”

“A little I think—­before you knew him.  But he is not despicable.”

“Not at all, my dear.”

“He is honest and good, and has a real heart of his own.”

“I am afraid he has parted with that”

“You know what I mean, and if you won’t be serious I shall think there is no seriousness in you.  I want you to tell me how it can be done.”

Then he was serious, and tried to explain to her that he could not very well do what she wanted.  “He is your friend you know rather than mine;—­but if you like to write to him you can do so.”

This seemed to her to be very difficult, and, as she thought more of it, almost impossible.  A written letter remains, and may be taken as evidence of so much more than it means.  But a word sometimes may be spoken which, if it be well spoken,—­if assurance of its truth be given by the tone and by the eye of the speaker,—­ shall do so much more than any letter, and shall yet only remain with the hearer as the remembrance of the scent of a flower remains!  Nevertheless she did at last write the letter, and brought it to her husband.  “Is it necessary that I should see it?” he asked.

“Not absolutely necessary.”

“Then send it without”

“But I should like you to see what I have said.  You know about things, and if it is too much or too little, you can tell me.”  Then he read her letter, which ran as follows: 

Dear Mr. Twentyman,

Perhaps you have heard that we are to be married on Thursday, May 6th.  I do so wish that you would come.  It would make me so much happier on that day.  We shall be very quiet; and if you would come to the house at eleven you could go across the park with them all to the church.  I am to be taken in a carriage because of my finery.  Then there will be a little breakfast.  Papa and mamma and Dolly and Kate would be so glad;—­and so would Mr. Morton.  But none of them will be half so glad as your old, old, affectionate friend
                         Mary Masters.

“If that don’t fetch him,” said Reginald, “he is a poorer creature than I take him to be.”

“But I may send it?”

“Certainly you may send it” And so the letter was sent across to Chowton Farm.