"I will, Dick, as much as I know. You haven't been in the house for a fortnight, or you would have noticed that Florence was changed. She seldom smiled, she neither played nor sang, her step had lost its lightness. She wouldn't let me do anything for her, and I settled it in my mind that it was a lover's quarrel. I _must_ speak about Mr. Reginald, Dick." "Yes, aunt, go on." "We had seen for some time that they were fond of each other. There was no regular engagement; it hadn't come to that, but we were young ourselves once, and we knew the ways of young people. So we made Mr. Reginald welcome, and we saw how happy Florence was to have him with us. It was on the tip of my tongue more than once to ask him to tell us more about himself than we knew, but Uncle Rob stopped me. 'All in good time,' he said, 'a few months, or even a year or two, won't make much difference. I'm not in a hurry to get rid of Florence.' More was I, but I was beginning to wish that things were settled, whether it was to be a long engagement or a short one. There was a change in Mr. Reginald, too, I couldn't tell in what way, but there it was in his face. He came and dined with us Sunday week, and since then I haven't set eyes on him. You know what last night was--the most dreadful fog we have had for years. It was at about five o'clock that I saw Florence with her hat and mantle on. 'Why, child,' I said to her, 'you are never going out in this thick fog!' 'Yes, I am, mother,' she answered. 'Don't fear that I shall be lost; I'll soon be back.' She was as good as her word, for she was home again before Uncle Rob went to the Station, and the three of us had tea together. She helped him on with his coat, and I recollected afterwards how she kissed and clung to him when he wished her good night. It was in her mind then to run away. At eight o'clock there was a knock at the street door, and Florence ran out to answer it. She often did so when she expected a letter from Mr. Reginald. She kept in the passage a little while and I heard the rustling of paper, but she had nothing in her hand when she returned to the room. Her face was very white, and she said she had a headache, and would go to bed early. I asked her if she had received a letter, and she answered, yes, she had, and said, 'Don't ask me any questions about it, please, mother.' 'Do answer me only one,' I begged. 'Have you and Mr. Reginald quarrelled?' 'Oh, no,' she answered, and I knew she was speaking the truth, or she wouldn't have answered at all. She was very gentle and quiet, and I thought to myself, 'Oh, my dear, my dear, why don't you confide in your mother who loves the ground you tread on?' But _you_ know what Florence is, Dick. She takes after me in a good many ways. Nothing will make me speak if I make up my mind not to, and it's the same with her. See, now, how we put our own faults into our children. So we sat at the fireside, and I felt as if there was a wall between us. She had some