But the letter did not “fetch” him; nor am I prepared to agree with Mr. Morton that he was a poor creature for not being “fetched.”  There are things which the heart of a man should bear without whimpering, but which it cannot bear in public with that appearance of stoical indifference which the manliness of a man is supposed to require.  Were he to go, should he be jovial before the wedding party or should he be sober and saturnine?  Should he appear to have forgotten his love, or should he go about lovelorn among the wedding guests?  It was impossible,—­at any rate impossible as yet,—­that he should fall into that state of almost brotherly regard which it was so natural that she should desire.  But as he had determined to forgive her, he went across that afternoon to the house and was the bearer of his own answer.  He asked Mrs. Hopkins who came to the door whether she were alone, and was then shown into an empty room where he waited for her.  She came to him as quickly as she could, leaving Lady Ushant in the middle of the page she was reading, and feeling as she tripped downstairs that the colour was rushing to her face.  “You will come, Larry,” she said.

“No, Miss Masters.”

“Let me be Mary till I am Mrs. Morton,” she said, trying to smile.  “I was always Mary.”  And then she burst into tears.  “Why,—­why won’t you come?”

“I should only stalk about like a ghost.  I couldn’t be merry as a man should be at a wedding.  I don’t see how a man is to do such a thing.”  She looked up into his face imploring him,—­not to come, for that she felt now to be impossible, but imploring him to express in some way forgiveness of the sin she had committed against him.  “But I shall think of you and shall wish you well.”

“And after that we shall be friends?”

“By and bye,—­if he pleases.”

“He will please;—­he does please.  Of course he saw what I wrote to you.  And now, Larry, if I have ever treated you badly, say that you pardon me.”

“If I had known it—­” he said.

“How could I tell you,—­till he had spoken?  And yet I knew it myself!  It has been so,—­oh,—­ever so long!  What could I do?  You will say that you will forgive me.”

“Yes; I will say that.”

“And you will not go away from Chowton?”

“Oh, no!  They tell me I ought to stay here, and I suppose I shall stay.  I thought I’d just come over and say a word.  I’m going away to-morrow for a month.  There is a fellow has got some fishing in Ireland.  Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, Larry.”

“And I thought perhaps you’d take this now.”  Then he brought out from his pocket at little ruby ring which he had carried often in his pocket to the attorney’s house, thinking that perhaps then might come the happy hour in which he could get her to accept it.  But the hour had never come as yet, and the ring had remained in the little drawer beneath his looking-glass.  It need hardly be said that she now accepted the gift.