stood on the ladder. The hills that surround Waterbury showed,
extraordinarily tranquil, around the villa. She said, almost coldly:

"I wanted to know, so as to pack my trunks." And she added: "I
may be ill, you know. I guess my heart is a little like Uncle
Hurlbird's. It runs in families."

I whispered that the "Pocahontas" was an extraordinarily steady
boat. . . .

Now I wonder what had passed through Florence's mind during the
two hours that she had kept me waiting at the foot of the ladder. I
would give not a little to know. Till then, I fancy she had had no
settled plan in her mind. She certainly never mentioned her heart
till that time. Perhaps the renewed sight of her Uncle Hurlbird had
given her the idea. Certainly her Aunt Emily, who had come over
with her to Waterbury, would have rubbed into her, for hours and
hours, the idea that any accentuated discussions would kill the old
gentleman. That would recall to her mind all the safeguards
against excitement with which the poor silly old gentleman had
been hedged in during their trip round the world. That, perhaps,
put it into her head. Still, I believe there was some remorse on my
account, too. Leonora told me that Florence said there was--for
Leonora knew all about it, and once went so far as to ask her how
she could do a thing so infamous. She excused herself on the
score of an overmastering passion. Well, I always say that an
overmastering passion is a good excuse for feelings. You cannot
help them. And it is a good excuse for straight actions--she might
have bolted with the fellow, before or after she married me. And,
if they had not enough money to get along with, they might have