"Yes."

"And do you know her son, that most charming fellow, Maurice Trevor?"

"I know him slightly."

"Oh, but this is really delightful. We have been friends with the
Trevors, Tom and I, ever since we were children. This seems to be quite
a new turn to our friendship, does it not?"

Florence felt herself both cold and stiff. She longed to be friendly
with Edith, who was, she was well aware, all that was kind;
nevertheless, a strange sensation of depression and of coming trouble
was over her.

"She is kind; but she may tempt me to do what is wrong," thought poor
Florence.

"I don't know the Trevors well," she answered. "I have met Mr. Trevor
once or twice, but I have never even seen his mother. His mother has
been kind enough to ask me to spend to-day with her. I will say good-bye
now."

"Be sure you give my love to dear Mrs. Trevor, and remember me to
Maurice. Tell him, with my kind regards, that I commiserate him very
much."

"Why so?" asked Florence.

"Because he has had the bad luck to be adopted by a rich, eccentric old
lady, and he will lose all his personality. Tell him I wouldn't be in
his shoes for anything, and now ta! ta! I see you are dying to be off."

Edith went back to her room, and Florence ran downstairs, entered an
omnibus which would convey her the greater part of the way to Hampstead,
and arrived there a little before ten o'clock. As she was walking up
the little path to the Trevors' cottage, Maurice Trevor came down to
meet her.

"How do you do?" he said, shaking hands with her and taking her
immediately into the house.

Mrs. Trevor was standing in the porch.

"This is Miss Aylmer, mother," said the young man.

Mrs. Trevor held out her hand, looked earnestly into Florence's face,
then drew her towards her and kissed her.

"I am glad to see you, my dear," she said; "my son has told me about
you. Welcome to Rose View; I hope you like the place."

Florence looked around her and gave an exclamation of surprise and
delight. The house was a very small one, but it stood in a perfect bower
of roses: they were climbing all over the house, and blooming in the
garden: there were standard roses, yellow, white, and pink, moss-roses,
the old-fashioned cabbage-rose, and Scotch roses, little white and red
ones.

"I never saw anything like it," said Florence, forgetting herself in her
astonishment and delight.

Mrs. Trevor watched her face.

"She is a nice girl, but she has some troubl