she was tenderly loved and cherished—but she was sensitive, too, beyond her years; and when the light of that pleasant hearth was forever extinguished, and she sat in affliction and desolation of spirit by the fireside of those who till then had been strangers to her, the chilling atmosphere of her new home effectually checked the return of that animation of manner, which, from the fortunate inability of childhood to retain a lasting remembrance of sorrow, might have been expected. So the gleeful laughter of the once happy-hearted little Florence was hushed, and her joyous, springing step exchanged for a slower and more measured tread. It was a mournful thing for one so young and gentle and loving in spirit as Florence, to be obliged to repress all exhibition of the sweet, frank impulses of her nature, and live on with no voice to whisper words of encouragement and affection. Yet the orphan succeeded in moulding her manner in accordance with her new and strange existence. A weary task it was, and oftentimes did her rebellious soul “Beat the bars With burning wing and passionate song, And pour to the benignant stars The earnest story of its wrong.” But the “benignant stars” alone looked down upon these struggles; no human ear ever caught the moan of that fettered and wounded spirit. Mrs. Hastings never dreamed, nor is it to be supposed she would have _cared_, that the quiet and apparently passionless child who came with such seeming carelessness to receive her customary good-night kiss, would have clung to her fondly, and returned the caress with impassioned earnestness, had it been impressed upon her brow with the slightest token of feeling. Till Florence had attained her fourteenth year her education had been superintended by a governess who came daily to her uncle’s dwelling, and with whom, being devoted to books and study, she had made rapid progress. But for many reasons which I have not space here to enumerate, it was at length thought advisable to send her to a celebrated seminary located in the neighborhood of her residence. About the same period, Mr. Hastings’ family received an addition, by the arrival of a niece of his wife’s, who had also been consigned to his guardianship. Ida Hamilton was about a year the senior of Florence, and a bright, frank, gay-spirited creature, who had passed her life hitherto under none but genial auspices. She was exactly what Florence would have been had her soul always dwelt in the kindly atmosphere of affection. At the school which they attended together, Ida was called “the Sunbeam,” and Florence “the Iceberg;” and the society of the former was courted by all, while the latter was uncared for, though none dared to think her neglected, for they said she was cold and proud— “Proud of her pride, And proud of the power to riches allied;”