s of plants that filled a conservatory in one wing
of the building. The chamber where Florence sat was the one in which
she had put on her wedding garments scarcely three weeks before. The
old ebony mirror, with the fantastic and dark tracery of its frame,
hung directly before her, and from its depth gleamed out a face so
changed that it might well have startled one who had been proud of its
bloom and radiance one little month before.

The window was open, as it had been that day, and across it fell the
old apple-tree, with the fruit just setting along its thickly-leaved
boughs, and a few over-ripe blossoms yielding their petals to every
gush of air that came over them. These leaves, now almost snow-white,
had swept, one by one, into the chamber, settling upon the chair which
Florence occupied, upon her muslin wrapper, and flaking, as with snow,
the glossy disorder of her hair. With a sort of mournful apathy she
felt these broken blossoms falling around her, remembering, oh, how
keenly, their rosy freshness, when she had selected them as a bridal
ornament. She remembered, too, the single glimpse which that old
mirror had given of her lover--that one prophetic glimpse which had
been enough to startle, but not enough to save her.

Florence was filled with these miserable reminiscences when her father
entered the chamber. She greeted him with a wan smile, that told her
anxiety to appear less wretched than she really was in his presence.
He came close up to her where she sat, and stooping to kiss her
forehead, laid the blossoms he had brought in her lap.

Mr. Hurst little knew how powerful were the associations those
delicate flowers would excite. The moment their fragrance arose around
her Florence began to shudder, and turning her face away with an
expression of sudden pain, swept them to the floor.

"Take them away, oh take them away!" she said. "That evening their
breath was around me while I sat listening to--take them out of the
room, I cannot endure their sweetness."

Mr. Hurst strove to soothe the wild excitement which his unfortunate
flowers had occasioned. It was a touching sight--that proud man, so
cruelly wronged by his daughter, and yet bending the natural reserve
of his nature into every endearing form, in order to convince her how
deep was his love, how true his forgiveness.

"My Florence, try to conquer this keen sensitiveness. Strive, dear
child, to think of these things as if they had not been!"

"