“She was seen—followed—hacked limb from limb, with these wretched, powerless children looking on—their faculties so chilled with horror that for days, nay, weeks, they were speechless and almost idiotic. But you are faint. Let me give you a chair.”
He waited till Florence had somewhat recovered the sickening sensation his tale had induced, and then went on:
“An aged Hindu woman found these boys, and, moved with compassion, took them to her hut, and hid them there until the first fury of the mutineers was allayed. Then she contrived to pass them from one to another of her acquaintances till, by a fortunate accident, they fell into my hands. I have done my best with them, but they are still sickly, timid children: their dreams visited by visions of the scene they saw in the jungle, their nerves unstrung by trifles at which most boys of their age would laugh. An attempt to harden them by the companionship of other lads in a large school has failed. Miss Heriton”—and now Mr. Aylwinne’s voice was low and faltering—“you are an orphan yourself; you have known what it is to lose the best and dearest of earthly friends. Can you not pity these still more sadly bereft ones?”
Although unable to hear what their guardian was saying, the boys had closed the portfolio, and sat mutely studying the beautiful face of Florence. She saw this, and, deeply moved by Mr. Aylwinne’s recital, forgot everything else. She went toward them with extended hands, and they nestled to her side with confiding smiles. She was so fair, so gentle, that they could not fear her. And Mr. Aylwinne was satisfied.
“Before I leave you to get better acquainted,” he said, “I ought to mention that Mr. Lumley, who has other pupils, will take these boys of mine for so many hours each day.”
“That resolves my office into a sinecure,” Florence thoughtfully observed.
“Not at all!” he retorted. “Are mathematics and Latin all that they will require to fit them for active life? I would have them grow up not only clever but good men; not boors, whose own selfish requirements are all they have been encouraged to consider; but early taught to exercise forbearance and courtesy and those gentle virtues which can only be acquired in feminine society. No, no,” he added, with unconcealed emotion, “my wards shall never be the homeless creatures that I was in my youth. They shall have some one to come to with their childish troubles—some one to fill, however inadequately, the vacant place of their mother.”
“Mrs. Wilson would do this,” Florence suggested, with a natural shrinking from the grave responsibilities he seemed to be imposing on her. “She is a kind, good woman.”
Mr. Aylwinne smiled.
“She is the best and kindest of women. May I beg you to take especial care that she does not throw them into a fever with her generous attentions?”