med to her that the sudden light came directly from the throne
of Heaven.

The next moment Florence fell upon her knees before the chair, her
face was buried in the cushions, broken words and swelling sobs filled
the room; over her fell that golden sunbeam, like a flaming arrow sent
from the Throne of Mercy to pierce her heart and warm it at the same
moment.

The sun went down. Slowly and quietly that wandering beam mingled with
the thousand rays that streamed from the west, spreading around the
young suppliant like a luminous veil; there was blended with the gold
hues of rich crimson and purple, that flashed over the ebony mirror,
wove themselves in a gorgeous haze among the snow-white curtains of
the bed, and fell in drops of dusky yellow over the floor and among
the waving apple-boughs.

But Florence felt nothing of this, her heart was dark, her frame shook
with sobs, and the agony of her voice was smothered in the cushions
where her face lay buried.

It came at last, that still small voice that follows the whirlwind
and the storm. In the hush of night it came as snow-flakes fall from
the heavens. And now Florence lay upon the cushions of her mother's
chair motionless, and calm peace was in her heart, and a smile of
ineffable sweetness lay upon her lips. It might have been minutes, it
might have been hours for any thing that the young suppliant knew of
the lapse of time since she had crept to her mother's chair. When she
arose the moonlight was streaming over her through an open window.
Never did those pale beams fall upon features so changed. A
_spirituelle_ loveliness beamed over them, soft and holy as the
moonlight that revealed it.

Some time after midnight Mr. Hurst went into his daughter's chamber,
for anxiety had kept him up, and the entire stillness terrified him.
She was lying upon the bed, half veiled by the muslin curtains,
breathing tranquilly as an infant in its mother's bosom. During many
nights she had not slept, but sweet was her slumber now; the flowers
inhaling the dew beneath the window did not seem more delicate and
placid.

It was daylight when Florence awoke. A few rosy streaks were in the
sky, and lay reflected upon the water like threads of crimson broken
by the tide. Out to sea, a little beyond the opening of the cove, was
a large vessel with her sails furled, and evidently lying-to. Near a
curve of the shore she saw a boat with half a dozen men lolling
sleepily in the bow. Her heart