A vivid blush came into Florence's pale cheek.
"I—I do not understand you," she said, in a faltering voice.
"No, I think not—I hope not," answered the lady, bending her eyes compassionately on the young girl, "come here, and sit by me."
Florence sat down upon the light ottoman which the old lady drew near her chair. The blushes, a moment before warm upon her cheeks, had burned themselves out. She felt herself growing calm and sad under the influence of those serious, but kind eyes.
"You love Mr. Leicester!" This was uttered quietly, and rather as an assertion, than from any desire for a reply. As she spoke, the old lady pressed her hand upon the coil of raven hair that bound that graceful head; the motion was almost a caress, and it went to the young creature's heart. "Has he ever said that he loved you?"
"Loved me, oh yes! a thousand times," cried the young creature, her eyes and her cheek kindling again, "else how could you know—how could any one guess how very, very much I think of him?"
"And how do you expect this to end?" questioned the old lady, while a deeper shade settled on her pale brow.
"End?" repeated Florence, and her face was bathed with blushes to the very temples; "I have never really thought of that—he loves me!"
"Have you never doubted that?" questioned the old lady, with a faint wave of the head.
"What, his love? I—I—how could any one possibly doubt?"