him rather
as some dear one who had been, or who might have been, than as the hard
reality before her eyes. Something of the softened sadness with which
she loved the memory of little Paul, or of her mother, seemed to enter
now into her thoughts of him, and to make them, as it were, a dear
remembrance. Whether it was that he was dead to her, and that partly for
this reason, partly for his share in those old objects of her affection,
and partly for the long association of him with hopes that were withered
and tendernesses he had frozen, she could not have told; but the father
whom she loved began to be a vague and dreamy idea to her: hardly more
substantially connected with her real life, than the image she would
sometimes conjure up, of her dear brother yet alive, and growing to be a
man, who would protect and cherish her.

The change, if it may be called one, had stolen on her like the change
from childhood to womanhood, and had come with it. Florence was almost
seventeen, when, in her lonely musings, she was conscious of these
thoughts.'

She was often alone now, for the old association between her and her
Mama was greatly changed. At the time of her father's accident, and when
he was lying in his room downstairs, Florence had first observed that
Edith avoided her. Wounded and shocked, and yet unable to reconcile this
with her affection when they did meet, she sought her in her own room at
night, once more.

'Mama,' said Florence, stealing softly to her side, 'have I offended
you?'

Edith answered 'No.'

'I must have done something,' said Florence. 'Tell me what it is. You
have changed your manner to me, dear Mama. I cannot say how instantly I
feel the least change; for I love you with my whole heart.'

'As I do you,' said Edith. 'Ah, Florence, believe me never more than
now!'

'Why do you go away from me so often, and keep away?' asked Florence.
'And why do you sometimes look so strangely on me, dear Mama? You do so,
do you not?'

Edith signified assent with her dark eyes.

'Why?' returned Florence imploringly. 'Tell me why, that I may know how
to please you better; and tell me this shall not be so any more.

'My Florence,' answered Edith, taking the hand that embraced her neck,
and looking into the eyes that looked into hers so lovingly, as Florence
knelt upon the ground before her; 'why it is, I cannot tell you. It is
neither for me to say, nor you to hear; but that it is, and that it must
be, I know