And here the writer had suddenly ceased, as if her fears overcame her. But when Florence grew very sad she would take out her mother’s journal, ponder over this last page, and, with hope lighting up her eye and a soft blush o’erspreading her delicate cheek, whisper to herself: “It will be all right when Frank comes back to me; I shall never know sorrow more when he is here!” Still, as the years sped on and he returned not, the deferred hope became an additional sorrow. He had written to Mr. Heriton twice after the tidings of Mrs. Heriton’s death had reached him, and each time the packet had contained a voluminous inclosure for Florence. But these letters were tossed into the fire half read, with such fierce execrations at the writer’s insolence that she dared not ask the nature of their contents. At the close of a day in November, when the evening was setting in with a misting rain, the dinner hour had almost passed without Mr. Heriton making his appearance. Florence had shaken up the pillows of his easy-chair, coaxed the fire into a bright blaze, and rectified all the omissions of the slatternly servant--who complained bitterly of the airs miss’ pa gave himself if the tablecloth wasn’t quite straight, or the knives dull--and had then gone backward and forward to the window many times to watch for his coming. The governesses, shielded with umbrellas and waterproofs, had returned home half an hour previously, and as they stood at the door waiting to be admitted, had caught a glimpse of the pretty, anxious face peering through the opposite window. They must have surmised her fears, for their own blind was raised once or twice, and by and by one of them, with a shawl thrown over her head, tripped out of the house, picked her way across the muddy road, and, standing under the lamp-post, looked up and waved her hand to attract Florence’s attention. She threw up the sash immediately, and a cheerful voice exclaimed: “_Pardonnez_, mademoiselle, but you are uneasy--is it not so? Monsieur your papa has not returned?” “No, he has not,” was the hurried reply. “Tell me--do you know if anything has happened to him?” “No, he was well and safe when I passed through Pall Mall on my way home. He had just encountered an old friend, whom he was warmly greeting.” Florence’s heart bounded. Could it be Frank Dormer? Unlikely as it was, her spirits rose, and she gratefully thanked the young lady for the information. “Do not speak of it,” she answered. “The suggestion was Susan’s, my cousin’s. Good night--good night!” And she sped back to her own cozy fireside. “How kind to interest themselves about me--a stranger!” murmured Florence. “How I wish papa would let me make their acquaintance! Who can he be staying with? An old friend whom he greeted warmly! Ah, we have so few friends left, it is difficult to guess who this one can be.”