"O, no!" returned she, "I should rather begin at once."
"Well, go in, little Miss Rattle, and see what your sage mamma says on the subject," said her father, smiling at her earnest countenance.
Away went Florence, with the lightness of a bird up the hall stairs, and, giving a light tap at a closed door, stood dancing softly on tip-toe, as she waited a summons to enter. "Who's there?" asked a low, trembling voice at length.
"Me, mamma," answered Florence; "may I come in? I've something to ask you."
The door was opened by a short, thin woman, of dark complexion, small peering black eyes, and slick, shining hair of the same hue, which was arranged with an air of nicety and precision.
Florence entered and glanced with an expression of alarm toward the drawn curtains of a mahogany bedstead. "Is mother worse?" she asked in a voice but a breath above a whisper.
"She has had one of her bleeding spells," answered the small, dark woman. "Where is your father?"
"On the lower terrace; shall I call him?"
"No, I will go to him," returned the woman, "if you will remain by your mother a while."
"O, yes, I shall be delighted to stay!" said Florence, approaching the couch.