Florence stood up before her cousin; all trace of emotion had passed away, and left her calm.  The bright moon shone full on her face.  Oh! how changed since the morning she stood in Madame ——­’s schoolroom.  The large dark eyes were sunken; the broad brow marked with lines of mental anguish; the cheeks colorless, and her long raven hair tossed back, and hanging like a veil below her slender waist.  There was a hollow, wasted look in every feature; the expression was one of hopeless misery, and a something there was which made the heart ache, yet the haughty glance of other days might still be seen.

“Mary, look at me!”

“Well, Florry, I have looked at you, and sad enough it makes me feel.”

“I am changed Mary, strangely changed, am I not?  Answer me truly.”

“Yes, you look weary and ill; but why do you ask me such a question?  You have had cause to look pale.”

“Ah! you say truly; but, Mary, have you never suspected that a secret grief was freezing the life-blood in my cheeks?”

“Florry, what do you mean?  I am afraid you are feverish!” and Mary laid her hand anxiously on her cousin’s.  It was flung contemptuously off.

“Mary, listen to what I have to say.  I am in a strange mood to-night, and you must not contradict me.  Where shall I begin?  When my mother died I was four years old, they say, and a very delicate child.  My mother! how strange it sounds.  Yet I can at times faintly remember her beautiful face.  Very faintly, as in a dream, I have seen an angel visitant.  My mother, why did you leave your hapless babe?  Oh! why? my mother!  I was left much to myself, and followed unrestrained my own inclinations.  You know my fondness for books; that fondness was imbibed in girlhood, as I wandered in my own sunny home—­my lost home.  My father taught me to conceal my emotions—­to keep down the rising sob, to force back the glittering tear; and when I smiled over some childish grief, applauded my stoicism.  I became unnatural, cold, haughty, but not unfeeling.  I remember well how your pale face and mourning dress touched my heart, and waked my sympathies.  From that hour I lavished my love on my father and yourself.  Years passed and we went to New Orleans—­” Here Florence paused, and closed her eyes for a moment, but quickly resumed—­“You know how I studied.  Mary, was it merely from love of metaphysics and philosophy, think you?  No. no!  Mr. Stewart’s look of surprise and pleasure as, one by one, I mastered various intricacies, was the meed for which I toiled.  Mary, from the first day we met, I loved him, for his was a master spirit I worshiped him in my inmost soul, and he loved me in return.  I know—­I feel that he did.  Yet he was even prouder than myself, and would have scorned to speak of love to one who never smiled in his presence.  Oh! often when, he stood beside my desk giving instruction, my heart has sprung to him.  I have longed to hear the words of tenderness that welled up from his