sleep, and
that her dressing-room was lonely, drew a chair upon the hearth, and
watched the embers as they died away. Florence watched them too from
her bed, until they, and the noble figure before them, crowned with its
flowing hair, and in its thoughtful eyes reflecting back their light,
became confused and indistinct, and finally were lost in slumber.

In her sleep, however, Florence could not lose an undefined impression
of what had so recently passed. It formed the subject of her dreams, and
haunted her; now in one shape, now in another; but always oppressively;
and with a sense of fear. She dreamed of seeking her father in
wildernesses, of following his track up fearful heights, and down into
deep mines and caverns; of being charged with something that would
release him from extraordinary suffering--she knew not what, or why--yet
never being able to attain the goal and set him free. Then she saw him
dead, upon that very bed, and in that very room, and knew that he had
never loved her to the last, and fell upon his cold breast, passionately
weeping. Then a prospect opened, and a river flowed, and a plaintive
voice she knew, cried, 'It is running on, Floy! It has never stopped!
You are moving with it!' And she saw him at a distance stretching out
his arms towards her, while a figure such as Walter's used to be, stood
near him, awfully serene and still. In every vision, Edith came and
went, sometimes to her joy, sometimes to her sorrow, until they were
alone upon the brink of a dark grave, and Edith pointing down, she
looked and saw--what!--another Edith lying at the bottom.

In the terror of this dream, she cried out and awoke, she thought. A
soft voice seemed to whisper in her ear, 'Florence, dear Florence, it
is nothing but a dream!' and stretching out her arms, she returned the
caress of her new Mama, who then went out at the door in the light of
the grey morning. In a moment, Florence sat up wondering whether this
had really taken place or not; but she was only certain that it was grey
morning indeed, and that the blackened ashes of the fire were on the
hearth, and that she was alone.

So passed the night on which the happy pair came home.

CHAPTER 36. Housewarming

Many succeeding days passed in like manner; except that there were
numerous visits received and paid, and that Mrs Skewton held little
levees in her own apartments, at which Major Bagstock was a frequent
attendant, and that Florence encou