"I never liked you so well as I do now, Frank," she said.

"We will say nothing more about it," he said. "I couldn't blame
you because you don't love me, could I? I ought rather instead to
thank you--thank you for so much you have given me these two years
past, your friendship, your intimacy, your trust. That it all came
to nothing was neither your fault nor mine. It was your uncle's
for dying and leaving you sky-scrapers!"

They both laughed at this, and Frank, now apparently quite himself
again, brought forth his presents: a large box of candy, a
beautifully bound little volume of Pierre Loti, and a lace collar
he had picked up at Buenos Ayres. This last seemed a trifling
piece of finery in the midst of all those dresses, though he had
paid sixteen dollars for it and had counted it cheap at the price.
Florence received it with exaggerated gratitude, genuine enough in
one way, for she was touched; but, in spite of herself, her
altered fortunes and the memory of those great New York shops,
where she had ordered right and left, made the bit of lace seem
common and scarce worth possessing. Even as she thanked him she
was mentally presenting it to one of the poor Miss Browns who sang
in the church choir.

They spent an hour in talking together, eluding on either side any
further reference to the subject most in their thoughts and
finding safety in books and the little gossip of the place and the
news of the day. It might have been an ordinary call, though
Frank, as a special favour, was allowed to smoke a cigar, and
there was a strained look in Florence's face that gave the lie to