Frank Dormer had been true to her! Oh, joyful thought! He had returned to make her his, as her beloved mother had fondly expected that he would. And then her head dropped on her hands, and she wept bitterly, to think that for the mere love of wealth and rank her father had separated them. A yet deeper grief lay at the root of Florence’s tears. She had heard with a thrill of pain Mr. Aylwinne’s voice passionately declare that the discovery had been made too late! He had asked for her friendship--he had hinted at a barrier that totally precluded his asking more; and this it was that made her heart sink more than all she had hitherto undergone. She had learned that his youthful fancy had strengthened and ripened beneath the hot suns of India--that he had hastened home in all the flush of joy to claim her; the letters she had thought it so hard not to be permitted to read had been full of devotion to her whose only earthly hope had been that such an hour would come; and now that at last she knew this, and saw him worthy in all points of her affection, his own lips had declared that it was too late! Their love must be forgotten, and they must be content to be friends. Florence rebelled against this conclusion. Young, warm-hearted, and free, she felt that she could have loved him devotedly. What, she asked herself, could it be that intervened to keep them apart? Could it be that Frank, in his vexation at Mr. Heriton’s refusal, had betrothed himself to another? In vague conjectures like this, the hours passed away, until, thoroughly exhausted, she threw herself on the bed in her clothes, and sank into a heavy sleep. It was Mrs. Wilson who awakened her, and Florence started up in affright to find the sun high in the heavens, and the usual hour for breakfast long over. “I’ve been in before,” Mrs. Wilson explained, “for it’s such an unusual thing for you to sleep late that I felt sure you were not well. And when I saw how pale you looked, I could not bear to wake you till there was some fresh tea made. Do sit up and drink it, my dear! Not undressed, too! How very ill you must have felt! Why did you not call me?” In silence, Florence swallowed the contents of the cup so kindly held to her lips, and then got rid of Mrs. Wilson with the assurance that she felt much better, and only wanted a bath to be quite herself again. When alone, she tried to decide upon the best course of action she could adopt. Not all Mr. Aylwinne’s generosity could reconcile her to remaining beneath his roof while unable to regard him with indifference. At the same time, she felt that she owed it to him to receive his kindness with gratitude, and neither withdraw herself rudely nor hastily, lest he suspect the true reason. “I will write to my Aunt Margaret,” she decided. “She is the only relative I possess, and I have a just claim upon her protection. With all her faults she is affectionate, and will not refuse me a home.”