"Yes."
"I've been there since the last of August."
"You?" returned Florence in surprise. "What are you doing?"
"Studying at the School of Design."
"Why, Charlie! how could you get there?"
"It was very strange. I almost wonder now if it really did happen to me. You see, I worked in the mill, and saved up some money; and then I went to New York. You remember Mrs. Wilcox, don't you? I've been boarding there. And, while I was trying to find out what I must do, I met a Mr. Paul Darol, who is a perfect prince"—
"O Florence! we have heard all this story," interrupted Mr. Darol. "It is the little girl for whom Uncle Paul sold the designs. She wanted some money to take home, you know. He never mentioned the name."
"Then he is your uncle," said Charlie, quite overwhelmed at her success.
"Yes; and you are a brave girl, a genius too. Florence, I'm proud enough of this little sister. Why didn't Uncle Paul think,—but you don't look a bit alike."
And this was Charlie! Here were the brothers and sisters of whom she had felt secretly ashamed! Joe, the dear, noble fellow; Hal, tender and devoted; heroic Charlie; ambitious Kit; and fond little Dot. Oh! instead, she was the one for whom they needed to blush,—her own selfish, unworthy soul, that had stood aloof the past year, when she might have come to their assistance. How it humbled her! She even shrank away from her husband's eyes.