More of the flowers that Florence held, fell scattering on the ground; those that remained were wet, but not with dew; and her face dropped upon her laden hands.

`Poor Florence! Dear, good Florence!' cried the child.

`Do you know why I have told you this, Kate?' said the lady.

`That I may be very kind to her, and take great care to try to please her. Is that the reason, aunt?'

`Partly,' said the lady, `but not all. Though we see her so cheerful; with a pleasant smile for every one; ready to oblige us all, and bearing her part in every amusement here: she can hardly be quite happy, do you think she can, Kate?'

`I am afraid not,' said the little girl.

`And you can understand,' pursued the lady, `why her observation of children who have parents who are fond of them, and proud of them--like many here, just now--should make her sorrowful in secret?'

`Yes, dear aunt,' said the child, `I understand that very well. Poor Florence!'

More flowers strayed upon the ground, and those she yet held to her breast trembled as if a wintry wind were rustling them.

`My Kate,' said the lady, whose voice was serious, but very calm and sweet, and had so impressed Florence from the first moment of her hearing it, `of all the youthful people here, you are her natural and harmless friend; you have not the innocent means, that happier children have--'

`There are none happier, aunt!' exclaimed the child, who seemed to cling about her.

`--As other children have, dear Kate, of reminding her of her misfortune. Therefore I would have you, when you try to be her little friend, try all the more for that, and feel that the bereavement you sustained-- thank Heaven! before you knew its weight--gives you claim and hold upon poor Florence.'

`But I am not without a parent's love, aunt, and I never have been,' said the child, `with you.'

`However that may be, my dear,' returned the lady, `your misfortune is a lighter one than Florence's; for not an orphan in the wide world can be so deserted as the child who is an outcast from a living parent's love.'

The flowers were scattered on the ground like dust; the empty hands were spread upon the face; and orphaned Florence, shrinking down upon the ground, wept long and bitterly.

But true of heart and resolute in her good purpose, Florence held to it as her dying mother held by her upon the day that gave Paul life. He did not know how much she loved him. However long the time in coming, and however slow the interval, she must try to bring that knowledge to her father's heart one day or other. Meantime she must be careful in no thoughtless word, or look, or burst of feeling awakened by any chance circumstance, to complain against him, or to give occasion for these whispers to his prejudice.

Even in the response she made the orphan child, to whom she was attracted strongly, and whom she had such occasion to remember, Florence was mindful of him. If she singled her out too plainly (Florence thought) from among the rest, she would confirm--in one mind certainly: perhaps in more--the belief that he was cruel and unnatural. Her own delight was no set-off to this. What she had overheard was a reason, not for soothing herself, but for saving him; and Florence did it, in pursuance of the study of her heart.