Inez | Page 2

as I
fear some are disappointed. Miss Hamilton, here are two for you;" and
he handed them to her without looking up.
"Two for Florry, and none for me?" asked Mary, while her voice
slightly trembled. He was leaving the room, but turned toward her.
"I am very sorry, Miss Mary, but hope you will find a comforting
message in your cousin's."
Gently he spoke, yet his eyes rested on Florence the while, and, with a
suppressed sigh, he passed on. "Come to my room, Mary; it is strange
the letters are postmarked the same day." And while she solves the
mystery, let us glance at her former history.
CHAPTER II.
"Calm on the bosom of thy God, Fair spirit! rest thee now! Ev'n while
with us thy footsteps trod, His seal was on thy brow."
HEMANS.
Florence Hamilton had but attained her fourth year when she was left
the only solace of her widowed father. Even after the lapse of long
years, faint, yet sweet recollections of her lost parent stole, in saddened

hours, over her spirit, and often, in dreams, a face of angelic beauty
hovered around, and smiled upon her.
Unfortunately, Florence proved totally unlike her sainted mother, both
in personal appearance and cast of character. Mr. Hamilton was a cold,
proud man of the world; one who, having lived from his birth in
affluence, regarded with a haughty eye all who, without the advantages
of rank or wealth, strove to attain a position equal to his own.
Intelligence, nobility of soul, unsullied character, weighed not an atom
against the counterpoise of birth and family. He enjoyed in youth
advantages rare for the unsettled times in which he lived; he tasted all
that France and Italy could offer; and returned blasé at twenty-seven to
his home in one of the Southern States. Attracted by the brilliant
fortune of an orphan heiress, he won and married her; but love, such as
her pure, gentle spirit sought, dwelt not in his stern, selfish heart. All of
affection he had to bestow was lavished on his only sister, who had
married during his absence.
His angel wife drooped in the sterile soil to which she was transplanted,
and, when Florence was about four years old, sunk into a quiet grave.
Perhaps when he stood with his infant daughter beside the newly-raised
mound, and missed the gentle being who had endeavored so
strenuously to make his home happy, and to win for herself a place in
his heart, one tear might have moistened the cold, searching eyes that
for years had known no such softening tendency. "Perhaps," I say; but
to conjecture of thee, oh Man! is fruitless indeed.
As well as such a nature could, he loved his child, and considered
himself extremely magnanimous in casting aside all thought of a
second marriage, and devoting his leisure moments to the formation of
her character, and direction of her education.
Florence inherited her father's haughty temperament without his sordid
selfishness, and what may seem incompatible with the former, a
glowing imagination in connection with fine mental powers. To all but
Mr. Hamilton she appeared as cold and impenetrable as himself; but the
flashing eye and curling lip with which she listened to a tale of injustice,

or viewed a dishonorable act, indicated a nature truly noble. Two
master passions ruled her heart--love for her parent, and fondness for
books. Idolized by the household, it was not strange that she soon
learned to consider herself the most important member of it. Mr.
Hamilton found that it was essential for the proper regulation of his
establishment that some lady should preside over its various
departments, and accordingly invited the maiden sister of his late wife
to make his house her home, and take charge of his numerous
domestics.
Of his daughter he said nothing. Aunt Lizzy, as she was called, was an
amiable, good woman, but not sufficiently intellectual to superintend
Florry's education. That little individual looked at first with distrustful
eyes on one who, she supposed, might abridge her numerous privileges;
but the affectionate manner of the kind-hearted aunt removed all fear,
and she soon spoke and moved with the freedom which had
characterized her solitude.
One day, when Florence was about nine years old, her father entered
the library, where she sat intently reading, and said,
"Florence, come here, I have something to tell you."
"Something to tell me! I hope it is pleasant;" and she laid her hand on
his knee, and looked inquiringly in his face.
"You remember the cousin Mary, whose father died not long ago? Well,
she has lost her mother too, and is coming to live with us." As he spoke,
his voice faltered, and his proud curling lip quivered, yet he gave no
other evidence of the