f the wind, the shuddering of the trees, the striking of the solemn
clocks, that shook this one thought, or diminished its interest' Her
recollections of the dear dead boy--and they were never absent--were
itself, the same thing. And oh, to be shut out: to be so lost: never to
have looked into her father's face or touched him, since that hour!

She could not go to bed, poor child, and never had gone yet, since then,
without making her nightly pilgrimage to his door. It would have been
a strange sad sight, to see her' now, stealing lightly down the stairs
through the thick gloom, and stopping at it with a beating heart, and
blinded eyes, and hair that fell down loosely and unthought of; and
touching it outside with her wet cheek. But the night covered it, and no
one knew.

The moment that she touched the door on this night, Florence found
that it was open. For the first time it stood open, though by but a
hair's-breadth: and there was a light within. The first impulse of the
timid child--and she yielded to it--was to retire swiftly. Her next, to
go back, and to enter; and this second impulse held her in irresolution
on the staircase.

In its standing open, even by so much as that chink, there seemed to
be hope. There was encouragement in seeing a ray of light from within,
stealing through the dark stern doorway, and falling in a thread upon
the marble floor. She turned back, hardly knowing what she did, but
urged on by the love within her, and the trial they had undergone
together, but not shared: and with her hands a little raised and
trembling, glided in.

Her father sat at his old table in the middle room. He had been
arranging some papers, and destroying others, and the latter lay in
fragile ruins before him. The rain dripped heavily upon the glass panes
in the outer room, where he had so often watched poor Paul, a baby; and
the low complainings of the wind were heard without.

But not by him. He sat with his eyes fixed on the table, so immersed in
thought, that a far heavier tread than the light foot of his child could
make, might have failed to rouse him. His face was turned towards
her. By the waning lamp, and at that haggard hour, it looked worn and
dejected; and in the utter loneliness surrounding him, there was an
appeal to Florence that struck home.

'Papa! Papa! speak to me, dear Papa!'

He started at her voice, and leaped up from his seat. She was close
before him' with extended arms, but he fell bac