em to show her father how
she loved him, and to win his love again. But all her efforts failed to
give her the secret of the nameless grace she sought, among the youthful
company who were assembled in the house, or among the children of the
poor, whom she often visited.

Of Walter she thought constantly. Her tears fell often for his
sufferings, but rarely for his supposed death, and never long. Thus
matters stood with Florence on the day she went home, gladly, to her old
secluded life.

"You'll be glad to go through the old rooms, won't you, Susan," said
Florence as they turned into the familiar street.

"Well, Miss," returned the Nipper, "I wont deny but what I shall, though
I shall hate them again to-morrow, very likely!"--adding
breathlessly--"Why gracious me, _where's our house_?"--

There was a labyrinth of scaffolding raised all around the house. Loads
of bricks and stones, and heaps of mortar, and piles of wood, blocked up
half of the broad street. Ladders were raised against the walls; men
were at work upon the scaffolding; painters and decorators were busy
inside; great rolls of paper were being delivered from a cart at the
door; an upholsterer's wagon also stopped the way; nothing was to be
seen but workmen, swarming from the kitchens to the garret. Inside and
outside alike; bricklayers, painters, carpenters, masons; hammer, hod,
brush, pickaxe, saw, trowel: all at work together, in full chorus.

Florence descended from the coach, half doubting if it could be the
right house, until she recognized Towlinson, the butler, standing at the
door to receive her. She passed him as if she were in a dream, and
hurried upstairs. Her own room was not yet touched within, but there
were beams and boards raised against it without. She went up swiftly to
that other bedroom, where her brother's little bed was; and a dark giant
of a man, with a pipe in his mouth, and his head tied up in a pocket
handkerchief, was staring in at the window.

It was here that Susan Nipper found her, and said would she go
downstairs to her papa, who wished to speak to her?

"At home! and wishing to speak to me!" cried Florence, pale and
agitated, hurrying down without a moment's hesitation. She thought upon
the way down, would she dare to kiss him? Her father might have heard
her heart beat when she came into his presence. He was not alone. There
were two ladies there. One was old, and the other was young and very
beautiful, and of an elega