Of his daughter he said nothing.  Aunt Lizzy, as she was called, was an amiable, good woman, but not sufficiently intellectual to superintend Florry’s education.  That little individual looked at first with distrustful eyes on one who, she supposed, might abridge her numerous privileges; but the affectionate manner of the kind-hearted aunt removed all fear, and she soon spoke and moved with the freedom which had characterized her solitude.

One day, when Florence was about nine years old, her father entered the library, where she sat intently reading, and said,

“Florence, come here, I have something to tell you.”

“Something to tell me!  I hope it is pleasant;” and she laid her hand on his knee, and looked inquiringly in his face.

“You remember the cousin Mary, whose father died not long ago?  Well, she has lost her mother too, and is coming to live with us.”  As he spoke, his voice faltered, and his proud curling lip quivered, yet he gave no other evidence of the deepest grief he had known for many years.

“She will be here this evening, and I hope you will try to make her contented.”  With these words he was leaving the room, but Florence said,

“Father, is she to stay with us always, and will she sleep in my room, with me?”

“She will live with us as long as she likes, and, if you prefer it, can occupy the same room.”

The day wore on, and evening found her on the steps, looking earnestly down the avenue for the approach of the little stranger.

At length a heavy carriage drove to the door, and Florry leaned forward to catch a glimpse of the inmate’s face.  A slight form, clad in deep mourning, was placed on the piazza by the coachman.

Mr. Hamilton shook her hand kindly, and, after a few words of welcome, said,

“Here is your cousin Florence, Mary.  I hope you will love each other, and be happy, good little girls.”  Mary looked almost fearfully at her proud young cousin, but the sight of her own pale, tearful face touched Florry’s heart, and she threw her arms round her neck and kissed her.  The embrace was unexpected, and Mary wept bitterly.

“Florence, why don’t you take Mary to her room?”

“Would you like to go up-stairs, cousin?”

“Oh yes! if you please, I had much rather.”  And taking her basket from her hand, Florry led the way.

Mary took off her bonnet, and turned to look again at her cousin.  Their eyes met; but, as if overcome by some sudden recollection, she buried her face in her hands and burst again into tears.

Florence stood for some time in silence, at length she said gently,

“It is almost tea-time, and father will be angry if he sees you have been crying.”

“Oh!  I can’t help it, indeed I can’t,” sobbed the little mourner, “he is so much like my dear, darling mother;” and she stifled a cry of agony.

“Is my father like your mother, cousin Mary?”