When I could look around for Florence, she had left the cabin. I went out and saw her standing by the carriage, which had been some time waiting for us. She was speaking eagerly to Henry, and as she turned to meet me, I saw that she looked much excited, though very happy. I found, too, that her head and hands were feverish to the touch, and I became very anxious to get her quietly home. When I proposed going, however, Florence replied, "Not yet," and turned towards the house.
I put my arm around her, and drawing her to me, said very seriously, "Florence, you asked God a little while ago to take away all selfishness from your heart. Do you remember it?"
"Yes," she immediately replied, "and I hope he will, now that He has made the baby well."
"I am sure He will, Florence, if you only show that you were sincere in asking it, by watching your own feelings, and resisting your selfish inclinations."
"Well, so I will," said Florence.
"Then, my love, you will do now as I wish you. By remaining longer here you may make yourself sick from fatigue and excitement, and so, for the gratification of your own inclinations, give great pain to me and to all who love you. This would be selfish, would it not?"
"Yes," said Florence, "so it would, though I did not know it;" and she entered the carriage without further hesitation.
This was probably the first time that Florence had ever voluntarily yielded her own wishes to those of another—the first generous act she had ever performed. It may seem to my readers a very little thing, but I felt that Florence had resisted herself, had conquered herself, and this is never a little thing.
When we got home I sent the carriage on for Harriet, and giving Florence her tea without any delay, went with her, early as it was, to her room, promising, if she went to bed at once, to sit with her till she slept. She had been accustomed by her mother to say her prayers aloud, and I was glad to hear, as I listened to her this evening, that she did not forget to thank God for making little Jem well. She was very much disposed to talk when she had lain down; but as I was desirous to keep her as quiet as possible, I told her that in the morning I would hear all she had to say, and that now I would tell her a story of her mother and myself when we were children. A story was what of all things Florence most liked to hear, so she was very attentive to me, and begged, when I had ended one, that I would tell her another. I took care that the second should not be very interesting, and before it was finished, Florence was in a sleep which, though at first disturbed and nervous, soon became quiet, and from which she did not awake till the sun was shining brightly on another day.