"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