Florence looked gravely from one to the other of the lads, who returned her glances fearlessly, and only wanted a little encouragement to talk to her freely. Raising her eyes to Mr. Aylwinne’s, she said:
“Am I old enough and experienced enough to take this charge upon me?”
“Is it such a very onerous one?” he asked, a little impatiently.
“If I read all it involves rightly—yes. I must be more—much more than the mere teacher of a certain number of accomplishments to these orphans.”
“Undoubtedly. I hold accomplishments as secondary to other things. I have already told you so.”
Florence made no reply to this for some few minutes. Wearied with the long strain her powers had undergone during the last few years of her father’s life, she had come to Orwell Court expecting to find repose—to have certain daily duties to fulfill which, when done, her time would be her own, her cares ended; but to fulfill Mr. Aylwinne’s wishes involved much more than this.
It was Mr. Aylwinne’s voice that broke the silence.
“You are afraid that I shall demand too much—more than I have a right to expect. Well, perhaps I do. Perhaps I have explained my views more fully to you than I should have done to another. But while I spoke I was thinking of a generous, tender woman, who would have taken these desolate boys to her heart, and forgotten the gravity of the charge in the deepness of her compassion. Miss Heriton, what would your mother have counseled you to do in this case?”
The question was a startling one, and it was with some difficulty that she steadied her voice to answer it.
“She would have bidden me take up the work that presented itself, whether it was what I should have chosen or not. But——Is this my duty?” she was about to add if he had not interrupted her.