Inez | Page 4

"Oh! Florry, what is the matter? Is your father ill--dead--tell me
quick?" and imploringly she clasped her hands.
Florence made a powerful effort, and spoke, in her usual tone:
"I was foolish to give way to my feelings, even for a moment--my
father is well." She paused, and then added, as if painfully, "But, oh! he
is almost penniless!"
"Penniless!" echoed Mary, as though she could not comprehend her
cousin's meaning.
"Yes, Mary, he has been very unfortunate in his speculations, obliged
to sell our plantation and negroes, and now, he says, 'a few paltry
thousands only remain;' but, oh! that is not the worst; I wish it were, he
has sold out everything, broken every tie, and will be here this evening
on his way to Texas. He writes that I must be ready to accompany him
to-morrow night."

She paused, as if unwilling to add something which must be told, and
looked sadly at her cousin.
Mary understood the glance.
"Florry, there is something in the letter relating to myself, which you
withhold for fear of giving me pain: the sooner I learn it the better."
"Mary, here is a letter inclosed for you; but first hear what my father
says," and hurriedly she read as follows: ... "With regard to Mary, it
cannot be expected that she should wish to accompany us on our
rugged path, and bitterly, bitterly do I regret our separation. Her
paternal uncle, now in affluence, has often expressed a desire to have
her with him, and, since my misfortunes, has written me, offering her a
home in his family. Every luxury and advantage afforded by wealth can
still be hers. Did I not feel that she would be benefited by this
separation, nothing could induce me to part with her, but, under
existing circumstances, I can consent to give her up."
Florence flung the letter from her as she concluded, and approaching
her cousin, clasped her arms fondly about her. Mary had covered her
face with her hands, and the tears glistened on her slender fingers.
"Oh, Florry, you don't know how pained and hurt I am, that uncle
should think I could be so ungrateful as to forget, in the moment of
adversity, his unvaried kindness for six long years. Oh! it is cruel in
him to judge me so harshly," and she sobbed aloud.
"I will not be left, I will go with him, that is if--if--Florry, tell me
candidly, do you think he has any other reason for not taking me,
except my fancied dislike to leaving this place--tell me?"
"No, dear Mary; if he thought you preferred going with us, no power on
earth could induce him to leave you."
Mary placed her hand in her cousin's, and murmured,
"Florry, I will go with you; your home shall be my home, and your

sorrows my sorrows."
A flash of joy irradiated Florence's pale face as she returned her
cousin's warm embrace.
"With you, Mary, to comfort and assist me, I fear nothing; but you have
not yet read your uncle's letter, perhaps its contents may influence your
decision."
Mary perused it in silence, and then put it in her cousin's hand, while
the tears rolled over her cheeks.
"Mary, think well ere you reject this kind offer. Remember how
earnestly he entreats that you will come and share his love, his home,
and his fortune. Many privations will be ours, in the land to which we
go, and numberless trials assail the poverty-stricken. All these you can
avoid, by accepting this very affectionate invitation. Think well, Mary,
lest in after-years you repent your hasty decision."
There came a long pause, and hurriedly Florence paced to and fro.
Mary lifted her bowed head, and pushing back her clustering hair,
calmly replied, "My heart swells with gratitude toward my noble,
generous uncle. Oh, how fervently I can thank him for his proffered
home! yet, separated from you, dear Florry, I could not be happy; my
heart would ache for you, and your warm, trusting love. I fear neither
poverty nor hardships. Oh, let me go with you, and cheer and assist my
dear uncle!"
"You shall go with us, my pure-hearted cousin. When I thought a
moment since, of parting with you, my future seemed gloomy indeed,
but now I know that you will be near, I am content."
A short silence ensued, broken by a mournful exclamation from
Florence.
"Ah! Mary, it is not for myself that I regret this change of fortune, but
for my proud, haughty father, who will suffer so keenly. Oh, my heart
aches when I think of him!"

"Florry, we must cheer him by those thousand little attentions, which
will lead him to forget his pecuniary troubles."
Florence shook her head.
"You do not know my father