Florence, though her fingers were busy with some work, was a keen observer of all that was passing. She liked to watch Mr. Aylwinne’s demeanor to the fussy little lady. While it was evident enough that these housekeeping matters were boring him, and his thoughts had often flown far away when she came to the end of some description or explanation, yet he was always patient and kind, listening to and commending her as an affectionate son would bear with the infirmities of a mother. Once, when he lowered his voice in replying to some query she put to him, Florence started, and her work dropped on her lap, for those softly modulated tones, with something plaintive thrilling through their music, went to her own heart. Surely she had heard them before! But when? She looked at him scrutinizingly. His forehead and eyes were concealed by the hand that shaded them from the lamp, and the luxuriant beard and mustache, which were quite Oriental in their profusion, effectually concealed the contour of the lower part of his countenance. Her scrutiny baffled, Florence resumed her work; but again and again the same memories were evoked, though still she vainly taxed her brain for answers to the questions: “Who is he, and how connected with the far-distant past?” When she again listened to Mrs. Wilson’s babble, the little lady was speaking of the library. “You’ve not seen it yet, Mr. Aylwinne; but I’m sure you’ll be delighted. It looks so nice now it’s carpeted, and the easy-chairs in the snuggest nooks; but I’m terribly afraid you’ll think the carpet too dark, and the pattern of the largest.” “It’s not likely to interfere with my studies, is it?” he asked, with a smile. “Well, no, I suppose these little things do not catch your eye and fidget you. Did I tell you that we have put all the books in order?” “I hope not,” said Mr. Aylwinne; then, as he saw her blank glance, he added laughingly: “I mean that I hope you have not been arranging them according to the size and binding instead of the contents.” “Would it signify?” Mrs. Wilson asked innocently. “I’m no reader myself, but I like to see books put on their shelves uniformly; it makes them look so nice and neat. However, I have left it to Miss Heriton. She will tell you what she has done.” “I cannot pretend to have made a satisfactory classification of so many volumes,” Florence replied, “but I have arranged them to the best of my judgment.” “You are very good,” said Mr. Aylwinne, a little stiffly. “I have no doubt they will do very well. Where have you put my ‘Carlo Dolce,’ Mrs. Wilson?” “Your what, sir?” “Picture, madam--a small painting of two female heads.” “Oh, I know now,” said the housekeeper briskly. “It is in the study. That picture, you know, Miss Heriton, that you said reminded you so much of your mother.” Mr. Aylwinne started from his lounging attitude and walked quickly to the door. As he opened it he seemed to recollect himself, and came back again.