“Should you ask me this--you, who have yourself acknowledged----” He would not let her finish the sentence. “Hush! That is all past and gone now. We are both free, and no foolish punctilios shall stand between us. You are the same Florence I have always loved; and there shall be no more looking back. Never allude to what has been. It maddens me to think of it! For my sake do not recur to it, for I cannot bear it!” He left her for a moment as if to recover his self-control; then, drawing her to his side, he gently said: “If you are the same Florence I loved at the priory--the Florence whose mother blessed and sanctioned my wishes--I say again, be mine!” She thought of her fallen fortunes. “Alas! I am not what I was then!” “Hush!” he cried, almost sternly. “Have I not said that what has happened in all these miserable years of separation shall be blotted out?” “And the obstacles to our union which you have yourself pronounced----” “Are they not gone--vanished--swept from our paths by a Providence kinder to us than we deserved? Nay, Florence, than I deserved, for I have been moody, reckless, repining, often doubting you--yes, even you, whom I love so fondly.” “And I, too, have often been doubtful and depressed,” she faltered, “especially since----” But here she stopped, ashamed to confess how deeply she had felt the estrangement he had himself pronounced unavoidable. She was too much perplexed to be absolutely happy, even though the long-dreamed-of moment had come when Frank Dormer told his love. His mysterious allusions to the past required an explanation he did not seem disposed to give, and this troubled her. He wound his arm around her. “You shall never be sad again,” he murmured in her ear, “if my care and devotion can prevent it.” But she shrank from him a little, and he saw it. “What is this, Florence? Have you lost your trust in me? Have you been taught to doubt me? Did he who separated us teach you this lesson?” A cry of pain burst from her lips. She could not hear her father named disrespectfully, however faulty he might have been. “Oh, Mr. Aylwinne, you speak of the dead! For my sake never say such cruel words again!” “Then you loved him, Florence, in spite of all?” he asked sadly. “I strove earnestly and faithfully to do my duty; therefore spare me the grief of feeling that you are hard in your judgment of his actions.” “You are a true woman,” he said moodily, “ever clinging closest to those who deserve the least at your hands.” Angry and hurt, she began to retrace her steps, and this brought him back to himself. He followed her, and began to entreat for forgiveness.