Inez | Page 3

deepest grief he had known for many years.
"She will be here this evening, and I hope you will try to make her
contented." With these words he was leaving the room, but Florence
said,
"Father, is she to stay with us always, and will she sleep in my room,
with me?"

"She will live with us as long as she likes, and, if you prefer it, can
occupy the same room."
The day wore on, and evening found her on the steps, looking earnestly
down the avenue for the approach of the little stranger.
At length a heavy carriage drove to the door, and Florry leaned forward
to catch a glimpse of the inmate's face. A slight form, clad in deep
mourning, was placed on the piazza by the coachman.
Mr. Hamilton shook her hand kindly, and, after a few words of
welcome, said,
"Here is your cousin Florence, Mary. I hope you will love each other,
and be happy, good little girls." Mary looked almost fearfully at her
proud young cousin, but the sight of her own pale, tearful face touched
Florry's heart, and she threw her arms round her neck and kissed her.
The embrace was unexpected, and Mary wept bitterly.
"Florence, why don't you take Mary to her room?"
"Would you like to go up-stairs, cousin?"
"Oh yes! if you please, I had much rather." And taking her basket from
her hand, Florry led the way.
Mary took off her bonnet, and turned to look again at her cousin. Their
eyes met; but, as if overcome by some sudden recollection, she buried
her face in her hands and burst again into tears.
Florence stood for some time in silence, at length she said gently,
"It is almost tea-time, and father will be angry if he sees you have been
crying."
"Oh! I can't help it, indeed I can't," sobbed the little mourner, "he is so
much like my dear, darling mother;" and she stifled a cry of agony.
"Is my father like your mother, cousin Mary?"

"Oh yes! When he spoke to me just now, I almost thought it was
mother."
A tear rolled over Florry's cheek, and she slowly replied, "I wish I
knew somebody that looked like my mother." In that hour was forged
the chain which bound them through life, and made them one in
interest.
Years rolled on, and found Mary happy in her adopted home. If her
uncle failed to caress her as her loving heart desired, she did not
complain, for she was treated like her cousin, and found in the strong
love of Florence an antidote for every care. Mary was about sixteen,
and Florence a few months younger, at the time our story opens, and
had been placed in New Orleans to acquire French and music, as good
masters could not be obtained nearer home. We have seen them there,
and, hoping the reader will pardon this digression, return to Florry's
letter.
CHAPTER III.
"Philosophy can hold an easy triumph over past and future misfortunes;
but those which are present, triumph over her."
ROCHEFOUCAULT.
A Striking difference in personal appearance was presented by the
cousins, as they stood together. Florence, though somewhat younger,
was taller by several inches, and her noble and erect carriage, in
connection with the haughty manner in which her head was thrown
back, added in effect to her height. Her hair and eyes were brilliant
black, the latter particularly thoughtful in their expression. The
forehead was not remarkable for height, but was unusually prominent
and white, and almost overhung the eyes. The mouth was perfect, the
lips delicately chiseled, and curving beautifully toward the full dimpled
chin. The face, though intellectual, and artistically beautiful, was not
prepossessing. The expression was cold and haughty; and for this
reason she had received the appellations of "Minerva" and "Juno," such
being considered by her fellow-pupils as singularly appropriate.

Mary, on the contrary, was slight and drooping, and her sweet, earnest
countenance, elicited the love of the beholder, even before an intimate
acquaintance had brought to view the beautiful traits of her truly
amiable character.
And yet these girls, diametrically opposed in disposition, clung to each
other with a strength of affection only to be explained by that strongest
of all ties, early association.
Florence broke the seal of her letter, and Mary walked to the window. It
looked out on a narrow street, through which drays rattled noisily, and
occasional passengers picked their way along its muddy crossings.
Mary stood watching the maneuvers of a little girl, who was
endeavoring to pass dry-shod, when a low groan startled her; and
turning quickly, she perceived Florence standing in the center of the
room, the letter crumpled in one hand: her face had grown very pale,
and the large eyes gleamed strangely.