e, surely the gloomy old mirror had reflected awry. How brilliant,
how full of love was the whole expression of his face. Again her heart
lighted up. She took a cluster of blossoms from the apple-tree bough,
and waving them lightly toward him, drew back. She left the room,
fastening the damp and fragrant buds in her hair as she went along,
for somehow she shrunk from looking into the old mirror again.

Now the guardian angel gave way to the passion spirit. Florence
entered the little boudoir, trembling with excitement, and warm with
blushes. The room was solitary, and she stepped out upon the
stoop--for her life she could not have composed herself to sit down
and wait a single instant. The clergyman was there sitting upon the
steps, thoughtful, and evidently yielding to the doubts that had
arisen in his kind but just nature too late. He arose as Florence came
upon the stoop, and slowly mounting the steps, took her hand and led
her back into the room.

"My dear young lady," he said very gravely, "I would hear from your
own lips what the impediments to this marriage really are. I scarce
know how to account for it. Nothing has happened to change the aspect
of affairs here; but within the last hour I have been troubled with
doubts and misgivings. Has all been done that can be to obtain your
father's consent?"

"I believe--I know that there has," replied Florence, instantly
saddened by the gravity of the clergyman.

"And his objections arose purely from pride--aristocratic pride?"

"I never heard any other reason given for withholding his consent,"
replied Florence. "To me he never gave a reason. His commands were
peremptory."

"And you have known this young man long?"

"I was but fifteen when he first came into my father's employ."

"And you love him with your whole heart?"

Florence lifted her eyes, and through the long black lashes flashed a
reply so eloquent, so beautiful, that it made even the quiet clergyman
draw a deep breath.

"Enough--I will marry them!" he said firmly. "I only wish the young
man may prove worthy of all this--"

His soliloquy was cut short by the appearance of Jameson and his
friend.

They were married--Florence Hurst, the only daughter and heiress of
the richest merchant in New York, to Jameson, the protegee and
book-keeper of her proud father.

They were married, and they were left alone in that picturesque old
country-house. And now, strange to say, Florence grew very sad; and as