“She speaks constantly of some one of the name of Denham--Julia Denham, I think,” cried the tearful Aunt Margaret. “She asks for her frequently. What shall I do?” “It must be Susan Denham whose presence she craves,” Mr. Aylwinne answered. “I will go to town and find her.” His search assisted by an old letter Mrs. Blunden found in Florence’s desk, he was soon successful. Nor did Susan refuse to return with him. It was from her lips that he heard the very little she knew of her cousin’s acquaintance with Lieutenant Mason, and when she spoke simply but affectionately of her continual yearning to discover the retreat of this unhappy wanderer, he entered into her feelings and counseled her with a friendly kindness for which she was very grateful. When Florence recovered her senses it was to find Miss Denham watching over her and shielding her from Mrs. Blunden’s well-meant but noisy demonstrations of affection. It was Susan who comforted her when she wept bitterly over the necessity of the separation she had herself decreed--comforting her with a hope to which, vague as it was, Florence fondly clung: that her innocence might yet be sufficiently proved to permit of Frank’s recall. Not that he was far off. Although Mrs. Blunden had banished him from the house, he hovered around it continually; and Florence, when able to leave her bed for a couch near the window of the adjoining room, saw him sometimes, and gathered fresh consolation from his steady refusal to accept his dismissal. On the other hand, however, Mrs. Blunden--all her ambition reviving that her niece should marry well--only waited the physician’s consent to carry her to new scenes and livelier society, where she fancied Mr. Aylwinne would soon be forgotten; and Florence, weak and depressed, was no longer in a condition to offer any strenuous opposition to her Aunt Margaret’s plans. Her nervous horror of hearing them discussed made her dread Mrs. Blunden’s approach; and one afternoon, when Susan had gone out for a walk and she heard the rustle of a silk dress in the apartment, she closed her eyes, in the hope that her aunt would think she slept, and so withdraw. But the step came nearer, paused beside the sofa on which she reclined, and a light, firm touch was laid on her thin fingers. “Miss Heriton!” She started up at the sound of that voice. A lady, richly dressed, stood beside her, and, throwing back her veil, answered the startled Florence’s cry of recognition with a slight smile. “Not Julia Denham now, nor Julia Mason, the deserted wife; but Madame la Comtesse Morauville, _à votre service_.” “I cannot understand,” said Florence confusedly. “Have you seen your cousin?” Julia dropped the veil over her face and looked round uneasily. “No, nor do I wish to see her. I could not bear--that is, our paths in life are different, and she would not think as I do--we never agreed. I am here to serve you, Miss Heriton, not to see Susan.” “Me!”