and brown than ever, it seemed to have been shut up from the wedding-day, and to have hoarded darkness and sadness ever since.
Florence ascended the dusky staircase, trembling; and stopped, with her conductor, at the drawing-room door. He opened it, without speaking, and signed an entreaty to her to advance into the inner room, while he remained there. Florence, after hesitating an instant, complied.
Sitting by the window at a table, where she seemed to have been writing or drawing, was a lady, whose head, turned away towards the dying light, was resting on her hand. Florence advancing, doubtfully, all at once stood still, as if she had lost the power of motion. The lady turned her head.
"Great Heaven!" she said, "what is this?"
"No, no!" cried Florence, shrinking back as she rose up and putting out her hands to keep her off. "Mama!"
They stood looking at each other. Passion and pride had worn it, but it was the face of Edith, and beautiful and stately yet. It was the face of Florence, and through all the terrified avoidance it expressed, there was pity in it, sorrow, a grateful tender memory. On each face, wonder and fear were painted vividly; each so still and silent, looking at the other over the black gulf of the irrevocable past.
Florence was the first to change. Bursting into tears, she said from her full heart, "Oh, Mama, Mama! why do we meet like this? Why were you ever kind to me when there was no one else, that we should meet like this?"
Edith stood before her, dumb and motionless. Her eyes were fixed upon her face.
"I dare not think of that," said Florence, "I am come from Papa’s sick bed. We are never asunder now; we never shall be, any more. If you would have me ask his pardon, I will do it, Mama. I am almost sure he will grant it now, if I ask him. May Heaven grant it to you, too, and comfort you!"
She answered not a word.
"Walter—I am married to him, and we have a son," said Florence, timidly—"is at the door, and has brought me here. I will tell him that you are repentant; that you are changed," said Florence, looking mournfully upon her; "and he will speak to Papa with me, I know. Is there anything but this that I can do?"
Edith, breaking her silence, without moving eye or limb, answered slowly:
"The stain upon your name, upon your husband’s, on your child’s. Will that ever be forgiven, Florence?"
"Will it ever be, Mama? It is! Freely, freely, both by Walter and by me. If that is any consolation to you, there is nothing that you may believe more certainly. You do not—you do not," faltered Florence, "speak of Papa; but I am sure you wish that I should ask him for his forgiveness. I am sure you do."
She answered not a word.
"I will!" said Florence. "I will bring it you, if you will let me; and then, perhaps, we may take leave of each other, more like what we used to be to one another. I have not," said Florence very gently, and drawing nearer to her, "I have not shrunk back from you, Mama, because I fear you, or because I dread to be disgraced by you. I only wish to do my duty to Papa. I am very dear to him, and he is very dear
