"He is in England, I hope, aunt?" said the child.
"I believe so. Yes; I know he is, indeed."
"Has he ever been here?"
"I believe not. No."
"Is he coming here to see her?"
"I believe not."
"Is he lame, or blind, or ill, aunt?" asked the child.
The flowers that Florence held to her breast began to fall when she heard those words, so wonderingly spoke. She held them closer; and her face hung down upon them.
"Kate," said the lady, after another moment of silence, "I will tell you the whole truth about Florence as I have heard it, and believe it to be. Tell no one else, my dear, because it may be little known here, and your doing so would give her pain."
"I never will!" exclaimed the child.
"I know you never will," returned the lady. "I can trust you as myself. I fear then, Kate, that Florence’s father cares little for her, very seldom sees her, never was kind to her in her life, and now quite shuns her and avoids her. She would love him dearly if he would suffer her, but he will not—though for no fault of hers; and she is greatly to be loved and pitied by all gentle hearts."
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 everyone; 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."
