He read two or three police reports, and turned over the page to find something else likely to interest her; then, starting from his seat, with his eyes riveted on the page to which he had turned, he carried it to the window, where for a few moments he stood absorbed in something that appeared possessed of some extraordinary interest to him. Startled by his hasty movement, Florence had raised her eyes from the drawing she was overlooking. She saw him turn very pale, flush as deeply, and drop the newspaper; opening the sash, he stepped out onto the lawn, and before Mrs. Blunden missed him he had plunged into the shrubbery. “What! Is he gone? I thought he would soon tire of reading aloud; I detest it myself. Come here, Florence, and tell me whether you think these trimmings should be pink or blue.” Her niece obeyed so far as to cross the room and say a quiet “Yes,” and “No,” in accordance with Mrs. Blunden’s wishes. But when her aunt released her, she snatched up the newspaper and carried it to her own room. There were two paragraphs on which his eye must have rested, for they were close together. One announced a serious accident to the daughter of Major Dawson, of 120 Park Villas, the young lady having been thrown from her horse while riding in Rotten Row. The other reported the death, at San Francisco, in a gaming house, of Lieutenant Mason, son of the late Mr. and Lady Catherine Mason, of the Brae House, Northumberland. Which of these reports was it that had so powerfully affected Mr. Aylwinne? Florence’s jealous heart answered, “The first--the first!” for the injured girl was one of those fair sisters of whom Mrs. Wilson had spoken when the subject of his marriage was touched upon. Would she die? Or would she recover and become his wife? CHAPTER XVIII. SUSPENSE. For two or three days Florence could not resist secretly watching Mr. Aylwinne. He did not go to town, as she had expected he would, but he wrote several letters, and seemed unusually impatient for the arrival of the post. There was an inexplicable change, too, in his manner toward herself. Without actually avoiding her, he seemed to hold himself aloof, to address her with increased respect and consideration, and to lower his tones as if some great sympathy for her were striving within him. Florence flushed to the temples as she imagined a reason for this. He had missed the newspaper, had guessed whose hand had abstracted it, and divined the feelings with which she had discovered his interest in its contents. Ashamed to have so betrayed herself, she tried to appear careless and light-hearted, but succeeded so ill that even Aunt Margaret detected something amiss, and openly wondered what ailed her. “I cannot understand that girl,” she said to Mr. Aylwinne confidentially. “I’m sure she has some secret she keeps from me, which is most ungenerous of her, for she knows how much I abhor mysteries and deceit.”