ling-place in magic story, shut up in the heart of a thick
wood, was ever more solitary and deserted to the fancy than was her
father's mansion in its grim reality. The spell upon it was more wasting
than the spell which used to set enchanted houses sleeping once upon a
time, but left their waking freshness unimpaired. But Florence bloomed
there, like the King's fair daughter in the story. Her books, her music,
and her daily teachers were her only real companions, except Susan
Nipper and Diogenes, and she lived within the circle of her innocent
pursuits and thoughts, and nothing harmed her. She could go down to her
father's rooms now without fear of repulse. She could put everything in
order for him, binding little nosegays for his table, changing them as
they withered, and he did not come back, preparing something for him
every day, and leaving some timid mark of her presence near his usual
seat. Waking in the night, perhaps, she would tremble at the thought of
his coming home and angrily rejecting it, and would hurry down and bring
it away. At another time she would only lay her face upon his desk, and
leave a kiss there, and a tear.

Still no one knew of this. Her father did not know--she held it from
that time--how much she loved him. She was very young, and had no
mother, and had never learned, by some fault or misfortune, how to
express to him that she loved him. She would try to gain that art in
time, and win him to a better knowledge of his only child.

Thus Florence lived alone in the deserted house, and day succeeded day
in a monotony of loneliness until yielding to Susan Nipper's constant
request Florence consented to pay a visit to some friends who lived at
Fulham on the Thames.

Just at this time she learned that Walter's ship was overdue, and no
news had been received of her, and, her mind filled with sad
forebodings, she went to see old Sol, She found him tearful and
desolate, broken down by the weight of his anxiety, refusing to be
comforted even by the hopeful words of Captain Cuttle. So it was with a
heavy heart that she went to pay her visit, accompanied by her
little maid.

There were some other children staying at the Skettleses. Children who
were frank and happy, with fathers and mothers. Children who had no
restraint upon their love, and showed it freely. Florence thoughtfully
observed them, sought to find out from them what simple art they knew,
and she knew not; how she could be taught by th