“It must, doubtless, seem very bewildering to you, Florence, that I should have taken the liberty of addressing a Valentine to one between whom and myself there has not hitherto existed an intimacy sufficiently familiar to warrant the presumption. But when, in excuse for my boldness, I plead my sincere wish for a nearer intimacy, my earnest desire to call you by the holy and tender name of friend—you will forgive me, will you not, dear Florence?
“For the past three years, dearest Florence, your image has haunted and troubled me—haunted me, because, from the moment of our first meeting, I have felt my heart irresistibly drawn toward you—troubled me, because the belief of others, and their oft-repeated assurance that you were totally destitute of warmth of character, could not consequently be aught but a source of pain. For this I must also crave your forgiveness, for I know now that in having for a time given credence to such assertions, I did you a grievous wrong.
“For the last few months I have watched you closely, Florence, though you little dreamed yourself the object of my scrutiny. I have ascertained that you are not the statue-like being you have been represented, and, indeed, appear—that you are in reality
‘Not cold, but pure—not proud, but taught to know
That the heart’s treasure is a holy thing.’
“You are not aware that once, when you imagined yourself quite unobserved, I beheld you bending tearfully over the miniature of that dear parent whom God so early recalled to his heavenly mansions—that I saw you press your lips to it wildly and passionately; and though you spoke but the simple word “Mother!” the tone in which that word was uttered, was the revelation that I sought. And from that moment I found it easy to realize how the chilling atmosphere of my aunt’s domicil had operated upon your gentle heart, while I felt that had I been transplanted to my present abode at an earlier and more impressible age, I, too, should have learned to wear a mask similar to that which concealed your ardent and sensitive spirit. And the discovery that brought such joy to my soul, gave new life to its former yearnings for your friendship. But toward myself you had never evinced the slightest token of preference—wearing in my presence the exterior which deceived all others; and I could not offer advances which I feared might be intrusive and unwelcome. So I strove to content myself with a silent interest in all your motions, and never until your recent illness allowed myself to imagine that the affection of a faulty, wayward heart like mine, would prove to you an acceptable gift. The occasion to which I refer was during one of my visits to your sick chamber, when, as I rose to leave you, you clasped my hand for the first time with a pressure, while as I spoke formally enough, my pleasure at seeing you recovering so rapidly, a faint color suffused your cheek. It faded instantly, however, and your wonted self-possession returned; but not before my heart had experienced a thrill of delight at the hope, delusive though it may have been, of winning your regard at some future day. It is that hope which has given me courage for my present proceeding—it has emboldened me to ask whether we may not become friends—become dear friends, Florence?
“In conclusion, I would say to you that I have to-day received a letter from a distant relative, who lives at the South, urgently pressing me to come and reside with her till the friends of my early youth return from abroad. She writes to me in a spirit of genial, heart-breathed kindness, very welcome to my thirsting soul—and her letter is different, indeed, from the precisely-worded epistle in which my aunt invited me to become a member of her household. It rests with you, Florence, to tell me whether I shall go or stay. My present abode has never been a congenial one; but your friendship would cast a heart-glow around it, and render me perfectly content to remain where I am.
“I await with impatience your answer. If it should prove that I have had but a pleasant vision, too bright and sweet ever to be realized, be at least frank with me, Florence, as I have been with you.
“Ida.”
Florence Hastings closed that precious letter, upon which, as she read, her tears had fallen thick and fast. To her it was the first of those moments in life