Yours, C. CRAYFORD.” CHAPTER III. It was no wonder that Florence should have been deceived by one so artful and designing as Crayford. Her first introduction to him was calculated to impress her strongly in his favor—a vantage ground which he knew well how to maintain. His conversation so artfully fraught with morality—the correct and refined taste he manifested for music, for painting, and all those acquirements which were so delightful to her—his well argued schemes of philanthropy, added to an elegant person and insinuating address, might have deceived one less ingenuous and confiding than Florence. In him all those delightful influences with which the unknown had surrounded her seemed concentrated; in fact, as one and the same she began gradually to blend them in her imagination. Day after day, therefore, was the dangerous Crayford admitted to her presence, and each day more securely planting himself in her favor. In the meantime the seven nephews and cousins made common cause, and fought bravely against this new aspirant, whom they saw plainly was fast bearing off the prize from them, until alarmed by several very unequivocal threats from Crayford, they vanished, leaving the field to him. But where, all this time, was the friend who had so ardently pledged himself her protector, surely now was the time when his voice should not be silent. A small casket was one day placed in the hands of Florence, which, on opening, she found to contain a brooch, representing a stem of the lily of the valley, emblem of purity and innocence, composed of beautiful pearls, but around which a small, glittering snake was entwined. The head of the reptile, its forked tongue darting fire, was bent over the sweet floweret as if with its noxious venom it would destroy it forever. The snake was of emeralds—the eyes and tongue of small sparkling rubys. On lifting the brooch, a folded paper dropped from it, on which was traced in the same well known characters: “Beware, pure and innocent lily—the charmer is near, but his breath is poison!” To Crayford alone she knew this singular warning could refer, and it caused her at first both dismay and sorrow. Could it be, then, that he was a villain! Could it be that under an exterior so pleasing vice and deformity could hide itself; no, it was impossible! Florence had no room in her heart for suspicions so cruel toward any one. Of friendship abused—of confidence violated, or of the heart’s warm affection betrayed, that most bitter lesson of life she had yet to learn. Ah, happy those, who, on their journey through life, may never meet with its truths!