us always, and will she sleep in my room,
with me?"

"She will live with us as long as she likes, and, if you prefer it,
can occupy the same room."

The day wore on, and evening found her on the steps, looking earnestly
down the avenue for the approach of the little stranger.

At length a heavy carriage drove to the door, and Florry leaned
forward to catch a glimpse of the inmate's face. A slight form, clad
in deep mourning, was placed on the piazza by the coachman.

Mr. Hamilton shook her hand kindly, and, after a few words of welcome,
said,

"Here is your cousin Florence, Mary. I hope you will love each other,
and be happy, good little girls." Mary looked almost fearfully at
her proud young cousin, but the sight of her own pale, tearful face
touched Florry's heart, and she threw her arms round her neck and
kissed her. The embrace was unexpected, and Mary wept bitterly.

"Florence, why don't you take Mary to her room?"

"Would you like to go up-stairs, cousin?"

"Oh yes! if you please, I had much rather." And taking her basket from
her hand, Florry led the way.

Mary took off her bonnet, and turned to look again at her cousin.
Their eyes met; but, as if overcome by some sudden recollection, she
buried her face in her hands and burst again into tears.

Florence stood for some time in silence, at length she said gently,

"It is almost tea-time, and father will be angry if he sees you have
been crying."

"Oh! I can't help it, indeed I can't," sobbed the little mourner, "he
is so much like my dear, darling mother;" and she stifled a cry of
agony.

"Is my father like your mother, cousin Mary?"

"Oh yes! When he spoke to me just now, I almost thought it was
mother."

A tear rolled over Florry's cheek, and she slowly replied, "I wish I
knew somebody that looked like my mother." In that hour was forged the
chain which bound them through life, and made them one in interest.

Years rolled on, and found Mary happy in her adopted home. If her
uncle failed to caress her as her loving heart desired, she did not
complain, for she was treated like her cousin, and found in the strong
love of Florence an antidote for every care. Mary was about sixteen,
and Florence a few months younger, at the time our story opens, and
had been placed in New Orleans to acquire French and music, as good
masters could not be obtained nearer home. We have seen them there,
and, hoping the reader will pardon this digression, return to F