Florence started up in bed, and threw back the drapery. Her ear had not deceived her, and she was warmly clasped to the capacious bosom of her hot-tempered but affectionate Aunt Margaret. CHAPTER XVII. THE NEWSPAPER PARAGRAPH. Mrs. Blunden, ill skilled in analyzing the feelings of those about her, never suspected the mingled ones that prompted the sobs Florence could not repress. She attributed them entirely to the recollections naturally arising on this their first meeting since Mr. Heriton’s death. In the same breath she reproached her niece as having by her deceitful conduct occasioned their estrangement, and called herself hard-hearted for not having sooner forgiven her. “You were a very naughty girl, Florence. I must call you so. I’ll never say one thing and mean another. The word of the Heritons has always been their bond; and nothing can excuse you for breaking yours. But I ought to have considered the circumstances in which you were placed. I’m afraid I’ve been dreadfully unfeeling. Pray don’t fret any more--I can’t bear it! And I’ve come to you with the kindest intentions. You shall take my name, and I’ll introduce you into society, and take care that you marry well. You shall never again know what trouble or anxiety means, my dear.” Florence tried to smile her thanks; but ventured to remind her aunt that she had not yet thrown off her mourning for her father. The very idea of mixing in the frivolities of fashion was so distasteful to one who had for the last few years been making acquaintance with life in its sternest realities, that she could not wholly conceal her repugnance. Mrs. Blunden, however, pooh-poohed the objection. It was her will that was to be Florence’s law from henceforth, and she was beginning to dictate already. “That will be of no consequence. If you assume my name no one need know that you were my poor, foolish brother’s daughter, and any large establishment in London will supply us with the dresses you require at a day’s notice.” “I will never put off the name of Heriton as though I were ashamed of it!” cried Florence proudly. Mrs. Blunden reddened. “As though you were ashamed of it! And so you ought to be ashamed of it! I don’t say the fault is yours, child; but I’m sure my poor brother’s follies have made it so notorious that I’m only too glad I no longer bear it. There! Now I’ve made you cry again. Dear me! You can’t be well to be so easily upset.” “I don’t think I am very strong-nerved just now,” Florence replied, trying to speak cheerfully. “Suppose we waive any further discussion of your wishes for a day or two. And, dear Aunt Margaret, do try to remember that whatever papa may have done, to me he was a dear and fondly loved parent. If you had heard him bless me ere he died, or listened to his regrets that he could not see you once more and awake your protection for his child, you would not cherish such unkind recollections.” Mrs. Blunden melted directly.