Austin took what she held out to him--a telegraphic despatch. He opened it; read it; then in the prompt, decisive manner usual with him, requested Mrs. Quale to put him up a change of things in his portmanteau, which he would return for; and walked away with a rapid step. 'Whatever news is it that he has had?' cried Mrs. Quale, as she stood with her husband, looking after him. 'Where can he have been summoned to?' ''Tain't no business of ours,' retorted Peter; 'if it had been, he'd have enlightened us. Did you ever hear of that offer that's always pending?--Five hundred a year to anybody as 'll undertake to mind his own business, and leave other folks's alone.' Austin was on his way to Mr. Hunter's. A very frequent evening visitor there now, was he. But this evening he had an ostensible motive for going; a boon to crave. That alone may have made his footsteps fleet. In the soft twilight of the summer evening, in the room of their own house that opened to the conservatory, sat Florence Hunter--no longer the impulsive, charming, and somewhat troublesome child, but the young and lovely woman. Of middle height and graceful form, her face was one of great sweetness; the earnest, truthful spirit, the pure innocence, which had made its charm in youth, made it now: to look on Florence Hunter, was to love her. She appeared to be in deep thought, her cheek resting on her hand, and her eyes fixed on vacancy. Some movement in the house aroused her, and she arose, shook her head, as if she would shake care away, and bent over a rare plant in the room's large opening, lightly touching the leaves. 'I fear that mamma is right, and I am wrong, pretty plant!' she murmured. 'I fear that you will die. Is it that this London, with its heavy atmosphere----' The knock of a visitor at the hall door resounded through the house. Did Florence _know_ the knock, that her voice should falter, and the soft pink in her cheeks should deepen to a glowing crimson? The room door opened, and a servant announced Mr. Clay.