een so good
to her! It might be that he had been less diligent at his work than he
should have been--that on that account further delay would still be
necessary; but Florence would forgive that, and he had promised that
Florence should not be deserted.

Then she took the parcel in her hands, and considered all its
circumstances--how precious had once been its contents, and how precious
doubtless they still were, though they had been thus repudiated! And she
thought of the moments--nay, rather the hours--which had been passed in
the packing of that little packet. She well understood how a girl would
linger over such dear pain, touching the things over and over again,
allowing herself to read morsels of the letters at which she had already
forbidden herself even to look, till every word had been again seen and
weighed, again caressed and again abjured. She knew how those little
trinkets would have been fondled! How salt had been the tears that had
fallen on them, and how carefully the drops would have been removed.
Every fold in the paper of the two envelopes, with the little morsels of
wax just adequate for their purpose, told of the lingering, painful care
with which the work had been done. Ah! the parcel should go back at once
with words of love that should put an end to all that pain. She who had
sent these loved things away, should have her letters again, and should
touch her little treasures with fingers that should take pleasure in the
touching. She should again read her lover's words with an enduring
delight. Mrs. Clavering understood it all, as though she were still a
girl with a lover of her own.

Harry was beginning to think that the time had come in which getting up
would be more comfortable than lying in bed, when his mother knocked at
his door and entered his room. "I was just going to make a move,
mother," he said, having reached that stage of convalescence in which
some shame comes upon the idler.

"But I want to speak to you first, my dear," said Mrs. Clavering. "I
have got a letter for you, or rather a parcel." Harry held out his hand,
and, taking the packet, at once recognized the writing of the address.

"You know from whom it comes, Harry?"

"Oh yes, mother."

"And do you know what it contains?" Harry, still holding the packet,
looked at it, but said nothing. "I know," said his mother, "for she has
written and told me. Will you see her letter to me?" Again Harry held
out his hand, but his mothe