The next minute she was gone, and Florence, a little bewildered by her visit and its consequences, sat down to think. Then Mrs. Bick was right, after all, and the dark, bearded stranger of the Albany was the Mr. Aylwinne who had taken Orwell Court. If she had known this sooner, nothing would have induced her to accept the situation which she had just agreed to fill; and even as it was she was very much disposed to write and decline it. She felt an invincible repugnance to encounter again a person in some degree connected with her painful visits to Lieutenant Mason’s chambers. Yet on what plea could she now draw back? Mrs. Wilson might be easily put off with some plausible excuse, but to the more keen and penetrating Mr. Lumley she must give the actual reason for her change of mind. And how paltry it would appear to confess that she disliked meeting a person from whom she had received nothing but the most considerate kindness. “I am afraid,” mused Florence, “that this is a remnant of the foolish pride of birth I have often promised myself to subdue. I wish I had Susan Denham here to advise me.” Ignorant of her friend’s absence from London, she had been looking daily for an answer to the letter she had written announcing her father’s decease, and the changes which had consequently arisen in her plans. Florence had been secretly expecting that Susan would write and press her to share her apartments; and with a lingering hope that this long-looked-for missive would come by the morning’s post, and afford her a plausible pretext for declining the situation at Orwell Court, she went to rest, still undecided and dissatisfied. CHAPTER XI. THE STRANGER FROM INDIA. No letter came from Susan Denham; and after wavering until there was scarcely time left for the necessary packing, Florence resolved to put pride steadily under her feet, and enter cheerfully upon her new duties. It cost her a pang to leave the little cottage where her father’s stormy, restless life had found a haven; and Mrs. Bick wept noisily at their parting. “I dunno, after all, whether I ain’t glad I’m going right away,” said the poor old woman, “for I could never abide the place when there’s nobody in it as I cares about. Master Weddell have took to it, and he have promised he won’t root up Dannle’s flowers. Ye’ll have a look in as ye goes by sometimes, miss, won’t ye, and see if he keep his word?” This Florence readily consented to do, and then they parted--the old woman blessing the young with a rugged eloquence that came from the heart. “I’ll never forget ye, miss. I ain’t much of a hand at saying what I thinks, but I’ll never forget your name in my prayers. I shall always think them was my happiest times when I see your sweet face every day.”