“Do not fret, mother. She was such a loving little soul, I am sure she will forgive you when she finds that you are sorry,” he said, gently.
“I will write to her, Cecil, as soon as you find her. I will humble myself as I deserve to do until I win her pardon,” she sobbed.
“And I, too!” Mrs. Barry exclaimed, dashing a suspicious moisture from her eyes. “Dear girl! I always loved her until Louise set me against her. I would have pardoned her that night when she asked me so sweetly, only my wicked niece hustled me out of the room before I could answer the poor child!”
CHAPTER XLVI.
A few days after, Cecil was en route for England. Doctor Laurens and his wife bore him company, for the young doctor was anxious to aid in the search for his sister-in-law, in whom he had had such loyal faith so long.
Arrived in London, they put up as usual at their favorite Langham, and the gentlemen sallied forth in search of Florine Dabol.
At the address Louise had given them they found her parents—a decrepit pair of old French people.
Florine was down in the country they said. She was lady’s maid to a great, rich lady, but she had never told them her name. Their daughter came to see them about twice a year, and gave them money to live on, but they never wrote letters to her nor received any communication from her in the interim.
Cecil went away in despair. What should he do now? He had given an address to the old couple, and told them to send word when their daughter came, but how could he wait so long in the fever of remorse, unrest and longing that possessed him?
Surely it was his good angel that made him meet Lord Westerley coming out of a fashionable club.