overhead. Nature wore a dreary aspect, and one involuntarily turned
inward for amusement. A bright light gleamed from the window of
Florence Hamilton's humble home, and her little dining-room seemed by
contrast extremely cheerful; yet the hearts of its inmates were
more in accordance with the gloom which reigned without. Aunt Lizzy,
growing somewhat infirm of late, had retired earlier than usual.
Florence had been sewing all the afternoon, but now lay with closed
eyes on the couch, her hands clasped over her head. Mary sat near the
table holding an open volume, but her thoughts had evidently wandered
far away; for her gaze was fixed abstractedly on the fire which blazed
and crackled at her feet. The girl's countenance was an interesting
study, as she sat rapt in her saddened thoughts. A careworn expression
rested upon her face, as though some weighty responsibility too soon
had fallen on one so frail. The cheeks were very pale, and now and
then across the lips there came a quiver, as though she struggled
inwardly, and fain would give no outward show of grief. In truth, an
almost spiritual expression had come over her features; the impress of
some deep and hidden sorrow, nobly borne, though chasing the rosy hue
from her cheeks. Sadder grew the look, and some acute pain wrinkled
her brow as she threw aside the book, and covered her face with her
hands; while a heavy, yet smothered sigh, struggled forth, as if
striving to relieve the aching heart.

The door opened noiselessly, and a dark shrouded form glided with soft
steps to the chair, and laid a heavy hand on her shoulder. Mary raised
her head, and starting up, gazed inquiringly at the muffled face,
while the intruder pointed to the motionless form of Florence, and
laid a finger on her lip. Then beckoning Mary to follow, she receded,
with stealthy tread, to the door, which was softly closed, and walked
hurriedly on till she reached a large rose-tree, which shaded the