in the light, my sweetest Florence, for a moment.

Florence blushingly complied.

'You don't remember, dearest Edith,' said her mother, 'what you were
when you were about the same age as our exceedingly precious Florence,
or a few years younger?'

'I have long forgotten, mother.'

'For positively, my dear,' said Mrs Skewton, 'I do think that I see a
decided resemblance to what you were then, in our extremely fascinating
young friend. And it shows,' said Mrs Skewton, in a lower voice, which
conveyed her opinion that Florence was in a very unfinished state, 'what
cultivation will do.'

'It does, indeed,' was Edith's stern reply.

Her mother eyed her sharply for a moment, and feeling herself on unsafe
ground, said, as a diversion:

'My charming Florence, you must come and kiss me once more, if you
please, my love.'

Florence complied, of course, and again imprinted her lips on Mrs
Skewton's ear.

'And you have heard, no doubt, my darling pet,' said Mrs Skewton,
detaining her hand, 'that your Papa, whom we all perfectly adore and
dote upon, is to be married to my dearest Edith this day week.'

'I knew it would be very soon,' returned Florence, 'but not exactly
when.'

'My darling Edith,' urged her mother, gaily, 'is it possible you have
not told Florence?'

'Why should I tell Florence?' she returned, so suddenly and harshly,
that Florence could scarcely believe it was the same voice.

Mrs Skewton then told Florence, as another and safer diversion, that her
father was coming to dinner, and that he would no doubt be charmingly
surprised to see her; as he had spoken last night of dressing in the
City, and had known nothing of Edith's design, the execution of which,
according to Mrs Skewton's expectation, would throw him into a perfect
ecstasy. Florence was troubled to hear this; and her distress became so
keen, as the dinner-hour approached, that if she had known how to frame
an entreaty to be suffered to return home, without involving her father
in her explanation, she would have hurried back on foot, bareheaded,
breathless, and alone, rather than incur the risk of meeting his
displeasure.

As the time drew nearer, she could hardly breathe. She dared not
approach a window, lest he should see her from the street. She dared not
go upstairs to hide her emotion, lest, in passing out at the door, she
should meet him unexpectedly; besides which dread, she felt as though
she never could come back again if she we