They were both silent several moments, and then he remarked, "I intend to visit Wimbledon in a few months; may I not hope to see you should I do so?"
"I presume my father will be happy to receive a visit from you," answered she, in a formal tone.
"But his daughter would rather be excused from my company, I am to understand," said he.
"O, no! not that," returned Florence quickly, turning her face suddenly toward him, when he saw it was bathed in tears and marked with painful emotion.
"What distresses you, Florence?" asked he; gently taking her hand in his. "Will you not tell me?"
"I dare not, Edgar!" answered she, with fast-falling tears. "I have wronged you, and you will not forgive me."
"Then you do not love me!" said he, looking sadly on her countenance.
"O, yes! I love you," she returned, in a tone of pathetic tenderness, "Heaven knows, too wildly well! If that could atone for my fault, I should not fear to give it expression."
"It can!" said he, pressing her hand closely to his heart. "Believe me, Florence, it can atone for everything."
Encouraged by his tone and manner she spoke. "I am engaged"—he dropped the hand and started back—"to Rufus Malcome," she concluded, and then darting quickly into the hall, flew up stairs and locked herself into her own apartment. She paced the floor hurriedly several minutes, and then seized her journal,—always her confidant in moments of affliction.