“I hope that I have not frightened you much, dear Florence. Have you, at last, got well?”
“Not entirely; but I am better, Colonel Dudley, though still I have some remains of my headache.” And I closed my eyes, which were rapidly filling with tears, and turned from him my face, that he might not observe them.
“Your illness has been a sad, sad trial to me, Florence,” said he, softly. “I missed you more than I can tell you. My nights have been sleepless from anticipation and from disappointment at not seeing you, as I hoped each day to do, when I arose. How I sighed for your companionship. Even after I went to my chamber last night, I again left it when the whole house seemed to be quiet, and wandered here to your favorite spot where so oft I have listened to you. I have inquired each day concerning you till I am fearful I tired the patience of both your cousin and uncle. They said you were only slightly unwell, but that it was your custom to keep your room when annoyed by companionship not pleasing to your taste, made fastidious by a long residence in the city and by novel-reading! You see how candid I am, but I have my reasons for being thus explicit. I thought them unkind—I began to think if I were the one who had wearied you, and memory, faithful to your charming ways, said at once ‘no’—for I could see that my company was more welcome than that of my aunt and your cousin. Nay, start not from me, dear Florence, I mean nothing to injure the most sensitive delicacy, but to show you the meditations to which I have been led by your sickness, and let you decide for me whether my future is to be happiness, almost too great for reality, or entire wretchedness. I blame you not for not seeking the society of either your cousin or my aunt, for neither are, or could be congenial; and who, I am sure, from some cause or other, are not friendly to you. Tell me now, why did you not send me even one word, formal though it might have been, to my bouquet—arranged with as much skill as I possessed, and bearing its Oriental meaning for your eye to read?”
“Your bouquet!” And in my surprise I turned to him my face, forgetful of my tears. “When did you send it—and by whom?”
“Tears, dearest Florence! Did you not receive it? But say that, and a load will have been lifted from my heart. Did not Miss Clare bring you one from me yesterday morning?”
“Never; nor even the simplest inquiry has reached me from you.” And my eyes looked the reproach I did not utter.
“Strange, very strange! What could have been their motives for this conduct? Yesterday, dear Florence, I sent a bouquet, hoping that it would commence what I have so long wished but feared to tell you. I sent you a rose-bud and other flowers, of which you yourself told me the language when we sat by the window, one rainy afternoon, longing to be out for this same walk. You laughingly did as I requested you, instructed me into their meaning, and I said that when I sent a bouquet so arranged, the lady who might receive it must think it uttered what I feared to say. Ah! Florence, I was sure that you knew I was speaking in serious earnestness, for your face colored brightly, and I could see the trembling of the little fingers as you began to untie the flowers, though you carefully kept your face averted. Will you be angry with me when I say, that I began then to hope what I so earnestly wish to ask from you? Do you not understand me, Florence?”
I answered not, but sat with face averted, and head bowed, to hide the emotions his words caused.
“Your answer is needless, for I know that you long ago have understood my heart. Yes; last night in this your favorite spot I sat me down to think upon you, and your winning, artless character. I felt that with you I should be content to exclaim,
‘Oh! that the desert were my dwelling-place,