“Then I wouldnʼt give much for your feelings. I mean—I beg your pardon—you know I can never express myself”.
“Of course, I know that”, said Cradock.
“Oh, canʼt I, indeed”? said Amy; “I dare say you think so, Mr. Nowell. You have always thought so meanly of me. But, if I canʼt express my meaning, I am sure my father can. Perhaps you think you know more than he does”.
“Amy”, said Cradock, for all this was so unlike herself, that, loving that self more than his own, he scarce knew what to do with it; “Amy, dear, I see what it is. I suspected it all along”.
“What, if you please, Mr. Nowell? I am not accustomed to be suspected. Suspected, indeed”!
“Miss Rosedew, donʼt be angry with me. I know very well how good you are. It is the last time I shall ever see you, or I would not restore you this”.
The moon, being on her way towards the southeast, looked over the counter–like gravestone, and Cradock placed on the level surface the bracelet found in the wood. Amy knew it in a moment; and she burst out crying—
“Oh, poor Clayton! How proud he was of it! Mr. Nowell, I never could have thought this of you; never, never, never”!
“Thought what of me, Amy? Darling Amy, what on earth have I done to offend you”?