Florence let him draw her hand through his arm. Oh, if he would but explain himself more fully—if he would but tell her frankly what this barrier was whose existence he so deplored! He loved her! Yes, she could not doubt that, veil it as he might under the colder name of friendship. What was it that made a confession of his love sinful or impossible?
But apparently satisfied with this mute token of her forgiveness, he silently led her to the house. At the door was Mrs. Wilson, who had been watching for their arrival.
She held up her hands in dismay as she saw Florence’s white face and dripping garments, and began to exclaim: “Dear me! How dreadful! My poor, dear child, this will give you your death!”
“Not if proper precautions are promptly taken,” said Mr. Aylwinne significantly; and his kind-hearted housekeeper acted on the hint with such dispatch that the weary girl was soon undressed and laid in a warm bed, with directions to have a long, comfortable sleep and not make herself uneasy about Fred, who was getting better already.
Exhausted both in mind and body by the flood of hysterical tears she shed as soon as she was alone, she tried to obey the injunction, and was sinking into a fitful doze when her door was softly opened.
Imagining that it was only Mrs. Wilson coming in to inquire how she felt, and in no humor to be talked to, Florence lay perfectly still, with closed eyes, while the intruder came on tiptoe to the bedside and leaned over her.
As the curtain was again dropped, she heard Mrs. Wilson say, in cautious, lowered tones:
“I told you she must be sleeping.”
“I know,” said a fuller and louder voice. “But I could not resist coming at once to look at her. Dear child, she is the image of her sweet, gentle mother!”
Florence started up in bed, and threw back the drapery. Her ear had not deceived her, and she was warmly clasped to the capacious bosom of her hot-tempered but affectionate Aunt Margaret.