he had retired in dudgeon, he soon appeared to comprehend, that with the most amiable intentions he had made one of those mistakes which will occasionally arise in the best-regulated dogs’ minds; as a friendly apology for which he stuck himself up on end between the two, in a very hot place in front of the fire, and sat panting at it, with his tongue out, and a most imbecile expression of countenance, listening to the conversation.
It turned, at first, on Florence’s books and favourite pursuits, and on the manner in which she had beguiled the interval since the marriage. The last theme opened up to her a subject which lay very near her heart, and she said, with the tears starting to her eyes:
"Oh, Mama! I have had a great sorrow since that day."
"You a great sorrow, Florence!"
"Yes. Poor Walter is drowned."
Florence spread her hands before her face, and wept with all her heart. Many as were the secret tears which Walter’s fate had cost her, they flowed yet, when she thought or spoke of him.
"But tell me, dear," said Edith, soothing her. "Who was Walter? What was he to you?"
"He was my brother, Mama. After dear Paul died, we said we would be brother and sister. I had known him a long time—from a little child. He knew Paul, who liked him very much; Paul said, almost at the last, 'Take care of Walter, dear Papa! I was fond of him!' Walter had been brought in to see him, and was there then—in this room."
"And did he take care of Walter?" inquired Edith, sternly.
"Papa? He appointed him to go abroad. He was drowned in shipwreck on his voyage," said Florence, sobbing.
"Does he know that he is dead?" asked Edith.
"I cannot tell, Mama. I have no means of knowing. Dear Mama!" cried Florence, clinging to her as for help, and hiding her face upon her bosom, "I know that you have seen—"
"Stay! Stop, Florence." Edith turned so pale, and spoke so earnestly, that Florence did not need her restraining hand upon her lips. "Tell me all about Walter first; let me understand this history all through."
Florence related it, and everything belonging to it, even down to the friendship of Mr. Toots, of whom she could hardly speak in her distress without a tearful smile, although she was deeply grateful to him. When she had concluded her account, to the whole of which Edith, holding her hand, listened with close attention, and when a silence had succeeded, Edith said:
"What is it that you know I have seen, Florence?"
"That I am not," said Florence, with the same mute appeal, and the same quick concealment of her face as before, "that I am not a favourite child, Mama. I never have been. I have never known how to be. I have missed the way, and had no one to show it to me. Oh, let me learn from you how to become dearer to Papa. Teach me! you, who can so well!" and clinging closer to her, with some broken fervent words of gratitude and endearment, Florence, relieved of her sad secret, wept long, but not as painfully as of yore, within the encircling arms of her new mother.
Pale even to her lips, and with a face that strove for composure until
