Perhaps she was still poor and ill—feeble in health—and if so, oh, how gladly would her daughter toil to supply her needs! how lavish filial love and tenderness upon her—the poor weary one who had hungered for them so long!
How she was to earn a support for herself alone Floy did not know, but hope was strong within her young breast, and she felt that with such an incentive to exertion she could not fail.
“Yes, she does live, and I shall find her—my poor, sorely-tried, precious mother!” she caught herself saying half aloud.
There was a gentle rap on her door at that moment, and a sweet-toned voice asked, “Shall I come in, Miss Floy? If you would rather see me at another time, dear, I’ll go away and come again.”
Floy sprang to the door and opened it, admitting a little, plainly-dressed woman with a sweet face framed in with silvery hair. A pair of mild blue eyes looked pityingly into the tear-stained, sorrowful face of the young mourner, and hastily depositing upon a chair a large package which she carried, the little woman held out her arms.
Floy threw herself into them, hid her face on the kindly bosom, and burst into a fit of passionate weeping.
Her friend soothed her with silent caresses till she grew calmer, then spoke a few tender, sympathizing words.
“You feel for me, dear Auntie Wells,” sobbed Floy, “and yet you do not know nearly all that has come upon me. I have one Friend who does; but oh! our hearts crave human sympathy, and counsel too, when we are young and inexperienced.”
“Tell me all, dear child, if you will; I have no great store of worldly wisdom, only such as years can give, but I have seen many more of them than you, and my sympathy you shall certainly have.”
“I think you must have just the kind of wisdom I want, because you have gone through just such a lonely, struggling life as seems to be before me,” Floy said, calming herself and wiping away her tears.