When she had bustled out of the room, Florence went softly to where Mr. Aylwinne was moodily standing, and, laying her hand on his arm, she whispered:
“You are not angry with me, are you?”
“What for?” he replied. “For trying to think your best of that miserable man?”
“I was not thinking of him at all, but of you, and your wishes.”
He drew her to him fondly.
“Were you really? And if Mrs. Blunden can be prevailed upon, will you promise to make no delays? Don’t you see that I am eager to take you right away—to teach you in a sunnier land, and among fresh scenes and faces, to forget all the old haunting associations that now pale your cheek and sadden you?”
“But I would not wholly forget them,” said Florence; “for surely in those sorrowful years I have learned lessons that shall make me more humble, more thoughtful for others, more pitiful to the erring, and compassionate to those who need it.”
“You are the living image of your mother, my Florence!” he exclaimed admiringly. “It is just in this way that she would have gathered flowers amid the thorns that bestrewed her path. And you are right—I know you are, though I cannot emulate your sweet patience and forbearance. I must still hate those who have injured you, and rail at the fate that separated us so long.”
“Did you not yourself propose that we should not speak of that sorrowful past?” she said uneasily, as she saw his eyes flash and brows lower.
“True, love—true, I did; and so it shall be. You do well to check me. You must do so always, and I will try to be more careful.”