If anything had frightened her, it was the face he turned upon her. The glowing love within the breast of his young daughter froze before it, and she stood and looked at him as if stricken into stone. There was not one touch of tenderness or pity in it.
Did he see before him the successful rival of his son, in health and life? Did he look upon his own successful rival in that son's affection? Did a mad jealousy and withered pride poison sweet remembrances that should have endeared and made her precious to him? Could it be possible that it was gall to him to look upon her in her beauty and her promise: thinking of his infant boy!
Florence had no such thoughts. But love is quick to know when it is spurned and hopeless; and hope died out of hers, as she stood looking in her father's face.
"I ask you, Florence, are you frightened? Is there anything the matter, that you come here?"
"I came, papa—"
"Against my wishes. Why?"
She saw he knew why—it was written broadly on his face—and dropped her head upon her hands with one prolonged low cry.
He took her by the arm. His hand was cold and loose, and scarcely closed upon her.
"You are tired, I dare say," he said, taking up the light and leading her towards the door, "and want rest. We all want rest. Go, Florence. You have been dreaming."
The dream she had had was over then, God help her! and she felt that it could never more come back.