"Why, how can I tell you till I know myself?" said she, still reaching for the letter, which he continued to withhold, smiling at her eager, impatient aspect.
His frolicsome habit of teasing gently any one he loved always reminded her of Edgar Lindenwood, and he was very like his cousin in personal appearance. So thought Florence; and he and his mother, who lived in a room of Dea. Allen's cottage, just across the garden, became marked favorites of hers.
At length Willie gave her the letter. She broke the seal quickly, and hurried through the contents.
"I'll tell you who 'tis from, gladly," said she, with a bright smile; "for I fancy it will afford you pleasure to know. Do you remember a little girl, named Ellen Williams, who used to trip over the piazza we stand on now?"
The young man's face brightened and blushed as he replied eagerly,
"That do I, and her brother Neddie."
"Well, they are both coming here to make me a nice, long visit," said she, in a delighted tone. "Is not this happy news?"
"It is, indeed," answered Willie; "but where did you make their acquaintance, Florence?"
"During the period of my travels they were my constant companions. I recollect how eagerly Ellen inquired for you, when we first met at Niagara; but I was then almost ignorant of your existence, and could give her no satisfactory information. I told her there was a youth I had heard called Willie Greyson, who lived with a hermit; and she said Greyson was your mother's maiden name; but so dutiful and affectionate a son as you would never leave a lonely, widowed parent to dwell with a solitary hermit. So she would believe you were dead."
"And did that belief appear to cause her any regret?" asked William, who had been listening with an earnest expression to Florence's words.