As he said this they came to a turn in the road which brought the parsonage gate within their view.  Fanny knew that she would leave him there and go in alone, but she knew also that she must say something further to him before she could thus escape.  She did not wish to give him an assurance of her positive indifference to him—­and still less did she wish to tell him that he might hope.  It could not be possible that such an engagement should be approved by her father, nor could she bring herself to think that she could be quite contented with a lover such as Mr. Saul.  When he had first proposed to her she had almost ridiculed his proposition in her heart.  Even now there was something in it that was almost ridiculous—­and yet there was something in it also that touched her as being sublime.  The man was honest, good and true—­perhaps the best and truest man that she had ever known.  She could not bring herself to say to him any word that should banish him forever from the place he loved so well.

“If you know your own heart well enough to answer me, you should do so,” he went on to say.  “If you do not, say so, and I will be content to wait your own time.”

“It would be better, Mr. Saul, that you should not think of this any more.”

“No, Miss Clavering; that would not be better—­not for me, for it would prove me to be utterly heartless.  I am not heartless.  I love you dearly.  I will not say that I cannot live without you; but it is my one great hope as regards this world, that I should have you at some future day as my own.  It may be that I am too prone to hope; but surely, if that were altogether beyond hope, you would have found words to tell me so by this time.”  They had now come to the gateway, and he paused as she put her trembling hand upon the latch.

“I cannot say more to you now,” she said.

“Then let it be so.  But, Miss Clavering, I shall not leave this place till you have said more than that.  And I will speak the truth to you, even though it may offend you.  I have more of hope now than I have ever had before—­more hope that you may possibly learn to love me.  In a few days I will ask you again whether I may be allowed to speak upon the subject to your father.  Now I will say farewell, and may God bless you; and remember this—­that my only earthly wish and ambition is in your hands.”  Then he went on his way toward his own lodgings, and she entered the parsonage garden by herself.

What should she now do, and how should she carry herself?  She would have gone to her mother at once, were it not that she could not resolve what words she would speak to her mother.  When her mother should ask her how she regarded the man, in what way should she answer that question?  She could not tell herself that she loved Mr. Saul; and yet if she surely did not love him—­if such love were impossible—­why had she not said as much to him?  We, however, may declare that that inclination to ridicule his passion, to think of him as a man who had no right to love, was gone forever.  She conceded to him clearly that right, and knew that he had exercised it well.  She knew that he was good and true and honest, and recognized in him also manly courage and spirited resolution.  She would not tell herself that it was impossible that she should love him.