Florence did not reply, and the conversation was not resumed until they were within sight of the house. Then, as he held her for a moment in his arms while lifting her over an awkward stile, he said tenderly: “Florence, if you have any perception of what is passing in my heart, you must know how keenly I shall feel your loss--how sharp a pang it inflicts to know that I cannot say: ‘Stay with me forever--be the dear companion of my life!’” Trembling from head to foot, she turned from him, and leaned against the stile, too much agitated to sustain herself. He saw this, and began to reproach himself as the cause. “I am an unmanly, selfish wretch! I cannot justify my conduct--nothing can excuse it! Yet forgive me, Miss Heriton--pray forgive me!” Instead of answering, she began to hurry on. What could she say that would not in some measure betray the bitter pain she suffered whenever he made these mysterious allusions? But he followed her closely. “Miss Heriton, you are greatly fatigued--pray take my arm, and I promise on my honor not to offend you again. You will not? Florence, had I felt less deeply, I could have better borne the disappointment of my best hopes.” Florence let him draw her hand through his arm. Oh, if he would but explain himself more fully--if he would but tell her frankly what this barrier was whose existence he so deplored! He loved her! Yes, she could not doubt that, veil it as he might under the colder name of friendship. What was it that made a confession of his love sinful or impossible? But apparently satisfied with this mute token of her forgiveness, he silently led her to the house. At the door was Mrs. Wilson, who had been watching for their arrival. She held up her hands in dismay as she saw Florence’s white face and dripping garments, and began to exclaim: “Dear me! How dreadful! My poor, dear child, this will give you your death!” “Not if proper precautions are promptly taken,” said Mr. Aylwinne significantly; and his kind-hearted housekeeper acted on the hint with such dispatch that the weary girl was soon undressed and laid in a warm bed, with directions to have a long, comfortable sleep and not make herself uneasy about Fred, who was getting better already. Exhausted both in mind and body by the flood of hysterical tears she shed as soon as she was alone, she tried to obey the injunction, and was sinking into a fitful doze when her door was softly opened. Imagining that it was only Mrs. Wilson coming in to inquire how she felt, and in no humor to be talked to, Florence lay perfectly still, with closed eyes, while the intruder came on tiptoe to the bedside and leaned over her. As the curtain was again dropped, she heard Mrs. Wilson say, in cautious, lowered tones: “I told you she must be sleeping.” “I know,” said a fuller and louder voice. “But I could not resist coming at once to look at her. Dear child, she is the image of her sweet, gentle mother!”