At a point agreed upon, he met two men, having in charge Luke Felton, arrayed in a new suit of clothing, andon that evening the unfortunate mute of Rocky Beach was placed in an asylum for the education of the deaf and dumb.
CHAPTER XXI.
FLORENCE DARLEY.
Elm Grove was a beautiful spot, though a desolute one since the murder of its master. At least so thought Florence Darley, who had bestowed on Colonel Conrad the love of a daughter, and who had received from him a parent’s care. She was a beautiful girl—this Florence Darley, beautiful in the possession of a pair of glorious dark eyes. No other portion of her face was particularly striking—not that any of her features were what would be called plain—but in her eyes, with their capacity for expression, lay her chief attractiveness so far as mere appearance went. To say that she was amiable in disposition, high-spirited, and fascinating in manner is but simply to state the unvarnished truth. There was a charm about her presence and bearing that had, as has been stated early in this narrative, made a deep impression on Carlos Conrad. And if, in recounting his experiences after the tragedy, no mention has been made of Florence Darley, it must not be inferred that his thoughts had not often dwelt upon her.
A month passed, and the excitement in Dalton over the murder subsided in a great measure. All efforts to trace Carlos had failed, and the thoughts of the townspeople wandered to him only when some incidental circumstances called the subject up.
One afternoon in October, Florence Darley sat on the piazza of the mansion at Elm Grove, with her friend Mabel Cummings, a young lady of about her own age, and her trusted confidante.
“Florence, you ought not to allow your sorrow to keep you so housed up,” said Mabel. “You are growing pale and thin, and you will injure your health.”
“I am well,” replied Florence, “and I have no disposition to seek recreation. Colonel Conrad was all that a father could be to me, and you can never know how I miss him.”
“Yes, he was a good man, though people did call him eccentric. How strange that he should have bothered his head so over the machinery. I have heard that his workshop was a perfect curiosity.”
“He had a genius for mechanics,” said Florence, with a half smile, “and I have often sat near him by the hour as he toiled with his files, and lathes, and wheels. I used to ask him questions to make him laugh when he would get tired and out of patience with his work.”