There was nothing for it, then, but to await Mrs. Blunden’s arrival. Ardently Florence hoped that it might take place before Mr. Aylwinne came back, and already she had mentally written that note of thanks which would tell him that she had quitted his roof. She would not think of the real sorrow it would cost her to do this, nor of the blank her life would be when the loving faces of her young pupils no longer met hers, and she could nevermore linger stealthily in the corner where stood their guardian’s favorite chair, and draw her fingers with tender touch over the books he had last read, or the paper knife he used, or sit in the twilight dreamily fancying that his earnest eyes were following her movements, as she had so often detected them in doing when he thought himself unobserved. Meanwhile time fleeted on. The spring was merging into summer, and she was often glad to forget herself in long walks to the many lovely spots in the neighborhood. In these her pupils were generally her companions, and they had been urging her for some time to indulge them with a trip to an isolated hill some three or four miles distant, celebrated for the beauty of the views to be obtained from its summit. Mrs. Wilson made many objections on the score of the length of the walk, the fatigue they would undergo in climbing so steep an eminence, and the danger of rain, or of encountering tramps or gypsies. But the eager Walter overruled them all; and on a brilliantly sunny morning the trio started, accompanied by a lad in Mr. Aylwinne’s service, who was a favorite with both the boys, and who carried a good-sized basket of edibles. Avoiding the dusty highroad, they permitted Tom, to whom every part of the country was familiar, to guide them across fields, through copses, and over strips of moorland until they reached the foot of Insley Hill. Here the ground was so thickly covered with bluebells and orchids that it was not until huge bunches had been gathered that the delighted boys could be prevailed upon to commence the ascent. It proved more difficult than Florence had anticipated, for there was no actual path to be found, and it was one continued and steep climb, till, hot and breathless, they threw themselves on the dry moss beneath the fir trees that crowned the flat top of the hill. But the glorious prospects amply repaid their toil; and the sweet odor emitted by the resinous trees, the freshness of the air, and the soft murmur of the breeze that soughed through the treetops, were all delicious. Their luncheon, washed down as it was by the water from a spring in the hillside, was discussed with a relish; and then Tom was sent back to Orwell Court with the empty basket, to carry Mrs. Wilson the tidings of their safe arrival at their destination, and a renewal of their promise to be home before evening set in.