Rosa was sleeping more soundly than usual under the influence of an anodyne, and Frederic, with a whispered apology to his coadjutor, went into the next room, leaving the door ajar. From her seat, Mrs. Sutton had a distinct view of him in an opposite mirror--a circumstance of which she was not aware for several minutes. Happening, then, to look up from her knitting she saw that he was writing, and half an hour afterward that he was leaning back in his chair, looking at something in the hollow of his hand, a mingling of such love and sadness in his countenance that she felt it would be unlawful prying into his most sacred feelings for her to watch him longer. He turned his head at the slight rustle she made in removing to another part of the room, and beckoned to her. At her approach, he arose and held out a morocco case, containing the miniature of a child--a bright-eyed, delicate-featured girl of seven or eight summers--exquisitely painted. “You have never seen my little Florence, I think?” “I have not. She is pretty--and resembles you strongly.” He did not color or laugh at the unconscious compliment, or seem pleased at her praise of his darling. Instead, there crept over his face a shade of more painful sadness, darkening his eyes and compressing his lip, as he answered-- “So every one says. She is the dearest child in the world--a sunbeam of gladness in any house--amiable, affectionate, and intelligent. I wish you would read her last letter to me. She is a better correspondent than many grown people.” Then, smiling, apologetically, “If my commendation seem overstrained, you will excuse a father's partiality.” The letter--although the unformed chirography betrayed the writer's inexperience in pen-practice--was correctly spelled and easy in style, crowded with loving messages to “dear papa and mamma;” relating anecdotes of school and home life, and while expressive of her longings for her parents' return, professing willingness to stay where she was “until mamma should be well enough to come back.” “I pray every night that God will cure her, and make us all happy again,” she wrote. “I dreamed one night last week that I saw her dressed for a party, all rosy and funny and laughing, as she used to be, and that she kissed me, and put her arm around me, and called me 'baby Florence' and 'little one,' in her sweet voice. Wasn't it strange? I awoke myself crying, I was so happy! I do try to be brave, and not fret about what cannot be helped, papa, because I promised you I would; but sometimes it is right hard work. It is always easier for a whole day after I get one of your nice, long letters. It is not QUITE as good as having real talk with you, but it is the best treat I can have when you are away.” Mrs. Sutton wiped her eyes. “The dear child!” she said, in the subdued tone habitual to the frequenters of the sick-room. “No wonder you want to see her! Why didn't you give her a holiday, and bring her to Virginia with you?”