But we must return for a moment to the wonderful interview which has been mentioned.  Florence, during her sojourn at Clavering, had become intimate with Mr. Saul, as well as with Fanny.  She had given herself for the time heartily to the schools, and matters had so far progressed with her that Mr. Saul had on one occasion scolded her soundly.  “It’s a great sign that he thinks well of you,” Fanny had said.  “It was the only sign he ever gave me, before he spoke to me in that sad strain.”  On the afternoon of this, her last day at Clavering, she had gone over to Cumberly Green with Fanny, to say farewell to the children, and walked back by herself; as Fanny had not finished her work.  When she was still about half a mile from the Rectory, she met Mr. Saul, who was on his way out to the Green.

“I knew I should meet you,” he said, “so that I might say good-by.”

“Yes, indeed, Mr. Saul—­for I am going, in truth, to-morrow.”

“I wish you were staying.  I wish you were going to remain with us.  Having you here is very pleasant, and you do more good here, perhaps, than you will elsewhere.”

“I will not allow that.  You forget that I have a father and mother.”

“Yes; and you will have a husband soon.”

“No, not soon; some day, perhaps, if all goes well.  But I mean to be back here often before that.  I mean to be here in October, just for a little visit, if mamma can spare.”

“Miss Burton,” he said, speaking in a very serious tone—.  All his tones were serious, but that which he now adopted was more solemn than usual.  “I wish to consult you on a certain matter, if you can give me five minutes of your time.”

“To consult me, Mr. Saul?”

“Yes, Miss Burton.  I am hard pressed at present, and I know no one else of whom I can ask a certain question, if I cannot ask it of you.  I think that you will answer me truly, if you answer me at all.  I do not think you would flatter me, or tell me an untruth.”

“Flatter you!  How could I flatter you?”

“By telling me—­; but I must ask you my question first.  You and Fanny Clavering are dear friends now.  You tell each other everything.”

“I do not know,” said Florence, doubting as to what she might best say, but guessing something of that which was coming.

“She will have told you, perhaps, that I asked her to be my wife.  Did she ever tell you that?” Florence looked into his face for a few moments without answering him, not knowing how to answer such a question.  “I know that she has told you,” said he.  “I can see that it is so.”

“She has told me,” said Florence.

“Why should she not?  How could she be with you so many hours, and not tell you that of which she could hardly fail to have the remembrance often present with her.  If I were gone from here, if I were not before her eyes daily, it might be otherwise; but seeing me as she does from day to day, of course she has spoken of me to her friend.”