They are now drawing near to the Rectory gates, and Susan’s fingers are stealing into her pocket and out again with nervous rapidity. Oh, she must give it to him now or never! To-morrow it will be too late. One can’t give a birthday gift the day after the birthday. But it is such a ridiculous little bag, and she has seen so many of his presents up at the Hall, and all so lovely, and in such good taste. Still, to let him think, after all his kindness, that she had not even remembered his birthday—— ‘Mr. Crosby,’ says she, and now the hand that comes from the pocket has something in it. ‘I—all day, I’—tremulously—‘have been wanting to give you something for your birthday. I know’—she pauses, and slowly and reluctantly, and in a very agony of shyness, now holds out to him the little silken bag filled with fragrant lavender—‘I know’—tears filling her eyes—‘after what I saw to-day ... those other gifts, that it is not worth giving, but—I made it for you.’ She holds it out to him, and Crosby, who has coloured a dark red, takes it from her, but never a word comes from him. The dear, darling child! To think of her having done this for him!... To Susan his silence sounds fatal. ‘Of course,’ says she, ‘I knew you wouldn’t care for it. But——’ ‘Care for it! Oh, Susan! To call yourself my friend and so misjudge me! I care for it a good deal more, I can tell you, than for all those other things up there put together.’ There is no mistaking the genuine ring in his tone. Indeed, his delight and secret emotion amaze even himself. Susan’s spirits revive. ‘Oh no,’ protests she. ‘Yes, though! No one else,’ says Crosby, ‘took the trouble to make me anything! That’s the difference, you see. To make it for me—with your own hands. It is easy to buy a thing—there is no trouble there.’ He looks at her present, turning and twisting it with unmistakable gratification. ‘What a lovely little bag, and filled with lavender, eh?’ ‘It is to put in your drawer with your handkerchiefs,’ says Susan, shyly still; but she is smiling now, and looking frankly delighted. ‘Betty made me one last year, and I keep it with mine.’ ‘So we have a bag each,’ says Crosby, and somehow he feels a ridiculous pleasure in the knowledge that he and she have bags alike, and that both their handkerchiefs will be made sweet with the same perfume. And now his eyes fall on the worked words that lie criss-cross in one of the corners: ‘Mr. Crosby, from Susan.’ ‘Do you mean to say you actually did that too?’ asks he, with such extreme astonishment that Susan grows actually elated. ‘Oh yes,’ says she, taking a modest tone, though her conceit is rising; ‘it is quite easy.’ ‘To me it seems impossible. To do that, and only with one’s fingers; it beats typewriting,’ says he. ‘It is twice as legible. Do you mean to say you wrote—worked, I mean—that with a common needle and thread?’