Julia shivered and put her hands to her head, affirming that the pain was becoming intense again. Yet the next moment she resumed her questioning remarks. “How bitterly you speak of this handsome lieutenant! Do you know that half the ladies who know him are contesting for the honor of his hand?” “I know nothing more of him than I have already told you,” Florence rather frigidly replied. “I am not aware that I spoke of Lieutenant Mason more harshly than I should of any one else who has been so bad a son to an excellent mother. I think I will reserve my practicing till to-morrow, Miss Denham.” Somehow, the conversation was distasteful to her, and she was glad to make her escape. She detected beneath Julia’s apparent carelessness a deep interest in all that concerned this young man--an interest she was not disposed to foster by listening while she dilated upon his fascinations. Julia made no further efforts to detain her; but, saying a cold adieu, drew her shawl over her face, and Florence returned home. She had not had time to settle to any occupation when Mr. Heriton came in, breathless and excited. He so rarely returned before evening that his daughter expressed her surprise. But, taking no notice of her, he opened his desk and began to write a note. After several attempts, which his impatience and shaking hand rendered abortive, he succeeded in composing one to his satisfaction. When it was finished and addressed, he turned to Florence. “My dear, you must go out for me; you can take a cab. I want this note delivered--personally, remember--to Lieutenant Mason, at his chambers, in the Albany.” “Papa!” exclaimed the astonished girl, looking from the letter he held toward her, to his agitated face. “Yes, Florence--yes, it must be done. There are rumors afloat in the city that perplex and frighten me. Yes, I’ll be candid with you--they frighten me. And I must have his assurance that they are false before I can rest.” “But, dear papa, would it not be better to have an interview with him yourself?” Mr. Heriton struck his hands together. “I cannot get it, child. I have been to his chambers two--three times, and the cringing, fawning, lying servant tells me always that he is out, although others are admitted. They are weary, I suppose, of the sight of the old man who haunts them so persistently. But I cannot rest, Florence--I cannot rest until I know that our money is safe.” She tried to soothe him--to persuade him to regard this venture as a mistake that it were better to forget; for her own conviction of the uselessness of hoping had long been deeply rooted. But he would not listen, and his excitement increased.