she was from foreign parts; but she speaks English just like other ladies, only sweeter.”
“Is she here now? Is she in this city?” said the gentleman, eagerly.
“No; she left some months ago,” said the widow, noticing the shade of disappointment on his face; “but,” said she, “you can find out all about her at her aunt’s, Mrs. Carlysle’s, No. 10 — street.”
A short time after, Florence received a letter in a handwriting that made her tremble. During the many early years of her life spent in France, she had well learned to know that writing—had loved as a woman like her loves only once; but there had been obstacles of parents and friends, long separation, long suspense, till, after anxious years, she had believed the ocean had closed over that hand and heart; and it was this that had touched with such pensive sorrow the lines in her lovely face.
But this letter told that he was living,—that he had traced her, even as a hidden streamlet may be traced, by the freshness, the verdure of heart, which her deeds of kindness had left wherever she had passed.
Thus much said, my readers need no help in finishing the story for themselves.
