“My duty is not here,” was the slowly-spoken answer.
“Our duty is where we can do the most good. I know something of your morning’s trials and wise discipline. You have done nobly, Florence,—nobly. There is good in these children, and you must bring it forth to the light.”
“I am but human,” said Florence, with a quivering lip.
“You are gold in the crucible,” replied Uncle John. “The fire may be very hot, my dear young friend; but it will leave no mark upon your real character. It is not every spirit that has a quality pure enough to meet life’s higher ordeals. No, no: shrink not from the trials in your way. The lions are chained, and can only growl and shake at you their terrible manes. Go back for the children. For their sakes, draw them to yourself with the singular power you possess. Be to them all their mother fails to be. And always regard me as your friend and advocate.”
Uncle John left her and went back to his own room. A few moments Florence stood irresolute. Then, stepping to the head of the stairs, she called to George, who was pounding at his mother’s door. Mrs. Dainty had re-entered her chamber and locked it against the children. The child did not heed her in the least. Going down to him, and taking his hand, which the stubborn little fellow tried to prevent her from doing, she said, in a voice that was very kind, and in a tone full of interest,—
“George, dear, did I ever show you my book of pictures?”
Instantly the firm, resisting hand lay passively in hers; though he neither looked up nor answered.
“It is full of the sweetest pictures you ever saw,—birds, and sheep, and horses; children playing in the woods; and ducks and geese swimming in the water.”
“Won’t you show them to me?” said the child, turning to his young teacher, and half forgetting, already, in the pleasing images she had created in his thoughts, his angry disappointment in being thrust from his mother’s room.
“Yes; and you shall look at them just as long as you please,” answered Florence.