up in canvas, sealed in red wax with his father’s seal, and directed in his father’s hand to ‘Mrs. Angel Clare.’
‘It is a little wedding-present for you, Tess,’ said he, handing it to her. ‘How thoughtful they are!’
Tess looked a little flustered as she took it.
‘I think I would rather have you open it, dearest,’ said she, turning over the parcel. ‘I don’t like to break those great seals; they look so serious. Please open it for me!’
He undid the parcel. Inside was a case of morocco leather, on the top of which lay a note and a key.
The note was for Clare, in the following words:
My Dear Son,—Possibly you have forgotten that on the death of your godmother, Mrs. Pitney, when you were a lad, she—vain kind woman that she was—left to me a portion of the contents of her jewel-case in trust for your wife, if you should ever have one, as a mark of her affection for you and whomsoever you should choose. This trust I have fulfilled, and the diamonds have been locked up at my banker’s ever since. Though I feel it to be a somewhat incongruous act in the circum-
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