As he lay there listening to the ripple of the river, and recalling the pleasant events of each succeeding day--the rides with Mr. Heriton to every spot within reach which was worthy a visit; the calls upon the warm-hearted, free-handed Northumbrian landowners with whom his host was acquainted; the quieter drives with Mrs. Heriton, a confirmed invalid; and the walks and gay romps with Florence, the only daughter of the house--he sighed, and shaded his eyes with his hand. The trailing branches of the tree were gently parted, an arch face peeped from between them, and the next moment the young man’s head and shoulders were covered with a shower of flower petals. Shaking his curly head with something of the air of a good-tempered Newfoundland dog, he started up--his melancholy thoughts all put to flight--and looked around. But the owner of the pretty, saucy face had retreated, and was nowhere to be seen, though a stifled laugh proclaimed her vicinity. “You may as well show yourself, Miss Mischief,” exclaimed Frank, “unless, indeed, you are on the wing for a broom to sweep up this mess before Johnson sees it. He had the lawn swept not two hours ago. There’ll be a complaint laid before Mr. Heriton of Miss Florence’s untidy ways. I hope you’ll be punished with half a dozen sums in practice and a long German exercise.” Florence emerged from her hiding place to answer him. She was a slim, delicate girl of fifteen, with eyes of so deep a blue that they were almost black, and long, wavy hair of golden brown that was carelessly tied at the back of her head with a ribbon of the same color. Although under the control of a strict governess for several hours every day, in order that she might become the accomplished young lady Mr. Heriton’s heiress ought to be, her mother’s thoughtful tenderness secured her perfect freedom for as many more. Thus Florence, brought up in the healthful seclusion of the priory--never permitted to exhibit her acquirements and receive the ill-judging admiration of visitors--was still a happy, artless child, with only enough of the woman to cherish a secret thought that if she grew up and ever consented to leave dear, suffering mamma and marry, it must be for just such a man as Frank Dormer. Secure in her extreme youth and the young man’s speedy departure, no limits had been set upon their intercourse by either of her parents. They had rambled together, sung together, and read from the same books; the pretty Florence coming to Frank with all her difficulties, and making him the confidant of all her girlish secrets; while he--thrown for the first time into feminine society--petted and protected her with a growing tenderness which no one saw or suspected except Florence’s mother.