Where was Flora? Her mother sought her in the small sitting-room in which her daughter usually pursued her occupations. Her books, her piano, her desk, were there. The room was not, however, now occupied; Flora was in her own apartment. Mrs. Vernon noticed that an album was laid on the desk, in which Flora usually wrote her poetical effusions; and the sight of it made the mother hope that at least one favourite occupation had not been relinquished by her daughter. Often had Mrs. Vernon copied out verses from that album, and shed tears of pleasure over them. She opened the book to see if Flora had recently added to their number. Between the last written pages there were compressed flowers, their beauty faded, their life gone; yet precious, perhaps, as relics of the hours when they had bloomed as freshly as the hopes which, like them, had withered. The last verses in the volume were new to Mrs. Vernon; they bore the date but of yesterday; and she with anguish perused them as the transcript of the feelings of a young being whose life had not yet numbered twenty years. LINES. Is it sinful to gaze on the morning sun, And wish that the gates of the west he had won-- That life’s day were over, its labours done? Is it sinful to mark the first silver hair ’Mid dark tresses touched by the hand of care, And wish time had shed all his winter there? Is it sinful in life no joy to take,-- To feel like a captive bound to the stake By a chain that galls us, and will not break? Some fear to die: ’tis not so with me; Rather, O Death, I pine for thee! I long in the quiet grave to be! "Oh! this is too much--too much!" exclaimed Mrs. Vernon, wringing her hands. "I can endure anything myself, but I cannot--oh, I cannot break the heart of my child!" She hastened to Flora’s apartment with a quick and agitated step. She unclosed the door--she saw Flora on her knees, her hair dishevelled, her bosom heaving with sobs, as she pressed again and again convulsively to her lips a little diamond locket which she held in her hand. Flora started to her feet at the sound of her mother’s entrance: as she did so a letter fell to the ground. Mrs. Vernon’s eye rested upon it for a moment: the handwriting was not that of Ada. "Oh! mother--mother--forgive me; it was--from him!" "He loves you still?" "More than ever!" exclaimed Flora, bursting into a fresh flood of tears. "Then let him be happy with you!" cried the mother, folding her child in her arms, and kissing away her tears, while her own flowed freely and fast. "I can resist no longer. Oh, God forgive me if I do wrong! Flora, my own beloved! be united to the husband of your choice; you have your mother’s consent and her blessing!" On the scenes that followed I will not dwell, but leave them to the imagination of the reader. On the day when the first snow fell, Flora was the bride of Sir Amery. *CHAPTER XIV.*