"Oh, if I had the power!" cried Florence.
"And do you love this man yet?" said Mr. Hurst, almost sternly.
"Father," was the reply, and Florence met her father's gaze with sorrowful eyes, "I am mourning for the love that has been cast away—I pine for some action which may restore my own self-respect. The very thought of this man as I know him makes me shudder—but the remembrance of what I believed him to be makes me weep. Then the trial of this meeting!"
"But you shall not see him again unless you desire it."
"True, true—but I will see him if he wishes it. He shall not think that I am coerced or influenced. It is due to myself, to you, my father, that he leaves this country knowing how thorough is my self-reproach for the past, and my wish that his absence may be eternal. I believe that I do really wish it, but see how my poor frame is shaken! I must have more strength or my heart will be unstable like-wise." Florence held up her clasped hands that were trembling like leaves in the autumn wind as she spoke.
"Florence," said Mr. Hurst gently, "it is not by shrinking from painful associations that we conquer them."
"But see how weak I am! and all from the breath of those poor flowers!"
"There is a source from which strength may be obtained."
"My pride, oh, father, that may do to shield me from the world's scorn, but it avails nothing with my own heart."
"But prayer, Florence, prayer to Almighty God the Infinite. I remember how sweet it was when you were a little child kneeling by your mother's lap with your tiny hands uplifted to Heaven. Surely you have not forgotten to pray, my child?"