As Florence stepped into the carriage sent from Orwell Court, with Mrs. Bick’s last words ringing in her ears, her spirits became greatly depressed. Those had been happy days--those days of actual poverty and daily labor; and she might well ask herself what would be her lot in the future to which she had no clue. Never before had her loneliness been felt so thoroughly as now, and despite her utmost efforts to appear composed, Mrs. Wilson’s warm greeting on her arrival was met with a burst of hysterical tears. The little lady’s nervousness vanished as soon as she saw the agitation of her young guest, and with the soothing tenderness of a mother she led her into her own room, where, with the most unobtrusive kindness, she contrived to win back her calmness. Then she had some patterns to select for hangings for the bedrooms, in which grave matter she consulted Florence, who, pleased to be of service, roused herself to assist in the choice, and write some letters to the tradespeople by whom they were supplied. With the tact supplied by kindness of heart, Mrs. Wilson quickly comprehended that the way to make Florence contented was to give her employment. Accordingly, as soon as they had breakfasted on the following morning, she led her into the library, and pointed to the bare shelves, and the packing cases that bestrewed the floor. “My dear, I haven’t a notion how books should be placed, and Mr. Aylwinne sent me word that I had better leave these alone till he came, unless I could find some one competent to arrange and catalogue them. Now, it would be a great relief to my mind if this could be done before his arrival.” “I shall be delighted to undertake it,” Florence replied, and Mrs. Wilson was satisfied. The owner of Orwell Court had gone to Southampton to await there the coming of the ship in which his wards had sailed from India. His return was not expected for several days, and this interval was one of real rest and refreshment to the governess-elect. The library at Orwell Court was a fine, old-fashioned room, with deep bay windows looking far away over the greensward and clumps of trees dotting the park to a long range of chalk hills beyond. Florence--whether at her desk or on the library steps with some engrossing volume on her lap--always contrived to perch herself where she could see the sun set behind these distant hills, and enjoy the beauty of the view. Mrs. Wilson passed in and out all day long, to detail little vexations, or ask advice on some--to her--very important point. If she found Florence at work, she stayed, but if she had forgotten herself in the pages of Thierry or Macaulay, Mrs. Wilson smiled, and slipped away again in silence. The days glided on only too quickly, and one chilly evening, as Florence and her friend sat over the fire in the morning room, the sounds of wheels were heard on the carriage drive.