From all of which it will be seen that Florence was a very remarkable woman. She had scarcely exaggerated when she said that her heart was as deep as the sea. The love that she bore Ernest was the strongest thing in all her strong and vigorous life; when every other characteristic and influence crumbled away and was forgotten, it would still remain overmastering as ever. And when she discovered that her high love, the greatest and best part of her, had been made a plaything of by a thoughtless boy, who kissed girls on the same principle that a duck takes to water, because it came natural to him, the love in its mortal agonies gave birth to a hate destined to grow great as itself. But, with all a woman’s injustice, it was not directed towards the same object. On Ernest, indeed, she would wreak vengeance if she could, but she still loved him as dearly as at first; the revenge would be a mere episode in the history of her passion. But to her sister, the innocent woman who, she chose to consider, had robbed her, she gave all that bountiful hate. Herself the more powerful character of the two, she determined upon the utter destruction of the weaker. Strong as Fate, and unrelenting as Time, she dedicated her life to that end. Everything, she said, comes to those who can wait. She forgot that the Providence above us can wait the longest of us all. In the end it is Providence that wins. Eva came in, and Florence heard her make her way up the stairs to her room. Again she spoke to herself: “The poor fool will weep over him and renounce him. If she had the courage she would follow him and comfort him in his trouble, and so tie him to her for ever. Oh, that I had her chance! But the chances always come to fools.” Then she went upstairs and listened outside Eva’s door. She was sobbing audibly. Turning the handle, she walked casually in. “Well, Eva, did you—Why, my dear girl, _what_ is the matter with you?” Eva, who was lying sobbing on her bed, turned her head to the wall and went on sobbing. “What _is_ the matter, Eva? If you only knew how absurd you look!” “No-no-thing!” “Nonsense! People do not make such scenes as this for nothing.” No answer. “Come, my dear, as your affectionate sister, I really must ask what has happened to you.” The tone was commanding, and half unconsciously Eva obeyed it. “Ernest!” she ejaculated. “Well, what about Ernest? He is nothing to you, is he?” “No—that is, yes. O, it is so dreadful! It was the letter;” and she touched a sheet of closely written paper that lay on the bed beside her. “Well, as you do not seem to be in a condition to explain yourself, perhaps you had better let me read the letter.” “O no.” “Nonsense! Give it me; perhaps I may be able to help you;” and she took the paper from her unresisting grasp, and, turning her face from the light, read it deliberately through.