"My father's anger was fearful, all the more so that he was powerless. Florence was ill for several weeks after her return, and even after she recovered she never looked like herself. She came to us in June; in July came a letter to my father in Paul's handwriting, which he threw into the fire unopened. In October you were born, and in six weeks more your poor mother—died." Here she paused again, and bent her head close to the golden-tressed one pressed to her breast. "My father lived till the next fall, but never the same man. Harry came home from Fordham that summer, and took entire charge of the farm, my father caring for nothing but to carry you about and watch you. For two years we heard nothing of your father; and then the eastern papers were full of a great forgery that had been committed, and the forger was a son of one of the first families in the city. Florence, darling, need I tell his name? The trial proved his guilt, but he managed to escape, and one day we were surprised by his sudden appearance here. He came without any announcement, and walked right into the parlor where I was sitting sewing and Uncle Harry reading, while you were asleep in your cradle. Before we could recognize him almost, he asked in a hoarse voice, 'Where is Florence—where, for God's sake, is my wife?' Then a glance at my black dress and Harry's stern face as he rose to repel his intrusion, seemed to reveal all, and he sank on the floor in a deep swoon.
"We kept his presence in the house a secret from the men on the farm, and only Tamar knew it; fortunately, the house-girl had gone to Hamilton for a few days. He was quite wild for a day or so; and when he came to himself, Harry demanded an explanation, and he gave it.
"He had not known of his father's visit to Germantown till he returned from New York, where he had gone that day at his father's request, having written a letter to that effect to Florence, which must have reached the house very soon after she left it. He was kept in New York on some pretext or another for three or four weeks. His letters to Florence, of course, never reached her, and on his return home he was told by his father that he 'had seen his pretty plaything, and told her some home truths.' A fearful scene followed, when he left his father's house, swearing never to set foot in it again, and that he would be revenged. He did not know that the marriage was illegal, as he was under the impression that he was twenty-one, till his father showed him the record, and then he found his mistake; and, as of course he knew that no Catholic clergyman would perform the ceremony, the Rev. Mr. Bell was the only one who could be found to do it. He had searched for Florence, and written to her father; but, as I knew too well, had received no answer. His allowance being stopped, he suddenly found himself without a penny, and no business or business habits; so he could not come out here to us, and gradually sought forgetfulness in dissipation. At last, by the treachery of a friend, himself the guilty one, he was proved a forger so skilfully that there was no getting over it. He swore solemnly that he was innocent, and felt sure his innocence would one day be proved. He did not stay long, being anxious to get out of the country and the clutches of the law. You were a great comfort to him, dear, during his short stay, but he had to leave you. In fifteen years, Florence, we have heard or seen nothing of him, and his guilt is still believed by those who have not forgotten the circumstances. Now, my darling, you know why I told you this ere your uncle gave you Arthur Hinsdale's letter." The young girl made no answer save a shiver that ran through her frame as she clung closer to her aunt. For a full hour they sat thus in silence; then Harry Lee came into the room. Florence rose to her feet and would have fallen, had her uncle not caught her in his arms, and tenderly, as if she had been a baby, he lifted her, and carried her up to her bed-room. Margaret followed, and tenderly prepared the broken-hearted girl for bed. The letters lay unheeded on the parlor floor.
III.
All through the night Margaret Lee sat by her niece's bed-side, praying for strength for her darling, and watching the fitful slumbers and soothing the sad awakenings. And in the silent watches of the night arose the long-buried ghost of her own life's happiness, and kept guard beside her. There was an episode in the sad story she told her niece that was never mentioned—that she had not allowed herself to think of for many a long year; but to-night memory will not be silenced, and she brings up, once more, the pleasant days when young Tremaine whispered into her ear the same story which Paul told Florence, and the fearful crushing of all her hopes of happiness, when her father forbade her ever to see or speak to him again, his anger was so great against him for having assisted Paul. Margaret submitted quietly, as such natures do; but she never cared for anything afterward beyond doing her strict duty—cheerfully and heartily; but never joyously. Perhaps the old man repented when it was too late; for in two years after, they heard Tremaine was married, and he was very tender to her then. On his death-bed he drew her to him, and, asking her forgiveness if he had made her suffer, blessed her for the fondest love and gentlest tending that ever parent had from child. In that hour Margaret felt repaid for all that had gone before. So, through the long watches of the night, came up the memories of the long ago, and Margaret lived over again the dead joys and sorrows. Toward morning Florence slept quietly, and her watcher threw herself on the bed beside her, and soon fell into a deep sleep. When she awoke, the sun had risen, and on glancing at Florence, she found her lying quietly awake.
"Aunt Margaret," said the young girl, "that—that—letter. I know what he wrote, and it is not necessary to tell him, is it?"
"Only under certain circumstances, my darling; your own heart will tell you what."
"Oh! yes, auntie; but that can never be. I can tell him that, and nothing more."
"My poor, dear child, have you not faith enough? do you not think his love for you is strong enough to live through this trial?"
"Yes, oh! yes! But would it be right to inflict the trial on him? I think not; I think the burden is mine alone, and I alone must bear it!"