It turned, at first, on Florence’s books and favourite pursuits, and on the manner in which she had beguiled the interval since the marriage. The last theme opened up to her a subject which lay very near her heart, and she said, with the tears starting to her eyes:
“Oh, Mama! I have had a great sorrow since that day.”
“You a great sorrow, Florence!”
“Yes. Poor Walter is drowned.”
Florence spread her hands before her face, and wept with all her heart. Many as were the secret tears which Walter’s fate had cost her, they flowed yet, when she thought or spoke of him.
“But tell me, dear,” said Edith, soothing her. “Who was Walter? What was he to you?”
“He was my brother, Mama. After dear Paul died, we said we would be brother and sister. I had known him a long time—from a little child. He knew Paul, who liked him very much; Paul said, almost at the last, ‘Take care of Walter, dear Papa! I was fond of him!’ Walter had been brought in to see him, and was there then—in this room.”
“And did he take care of Walter?” inquired Edith, sternly.
“Papa? He appointed him to go abroad. He was drowned in shipwreck on his voyage,” said Florence, sobbing.
“Does he know that he is dead?” asked Edith.