Oh, if I had the power!" cried Florence.

"And do you love this man yet?" said Mr. Hurst, almost sternly.

"Father," was the reply, and Florence met her father's gaze with
sorrowful eyes, "I am mourning for the love that has been cast away--I
pine for some action which may restore my own self-respect. The very
thought of this man as I know him makes me shudder--but the
remembrance of what I believed him to be makes me weep. Then the trial
of this meeting!"

"But you shall not see him again unless you desire it."

"True, true--but I will see him if he wishes it. He shall not think
that I am coerced or influenced. It is due to myself, to you, my
father, that he leaves this country knowing how thorough is my
self-reproach for the past, and my wish that his absence may be
eternal. I believe that I do really wish it, but see how my poor frame
is shaken! I must have more strength or my heart will be unstable
like-wise." Florence held up her clasped hands that were trembling
like leaves in the autumn wind as she spoke.

"Florence," said Mr. Hurst gently, "it is not by shrinking from
painful associations that we conquer them."

"But see how weak I am! and all from the breath of those poor
flowers!"

"There is a source from which strength may be obtained."

"My pride, oh, father, that may do to shield me from the world's
scorn, but it avails nothing with my own heart."

"But prayer, Florence, prayer to Almighty God the Infinite. I remember
how sweet it was when you were a little child kneeling by your
mother's lap with your tiny hands uplifted to Heaven. Surely you have
not forgotten to pray, my child?"

"Alas! in this wild passion I have forgotten every thing--my duty to
you--the very heaven where my mother is an angel!" cried Florence, and
for the first time in many days she began to weep.

Mr. Hurst took her hands in his, tears stood in his proud eyes, and
his firm lips trembled with tender emotions. "My child," he said,
pointing to a velvet easy-chair that stood in the chamber, "kneel down
by your mother's empty chair and pray even as when you were a little
child!"

Florence watched her father as he went out through her blinding tears.
The door closed after him, a mist swam through the room, she moved
toward the empty chair, and through the dim cloud which her tears
created its crimson cushions glowed brightly, as if tinged with gold.
A gleam of sunshine had struck them through a half open shutter, but
it see