“Come, why do you linger?”

“I thought, Florry, you might wish to see him alone; perhaps he would prefer it.”

“Mary, you have identified yourself with us.  To my father we must be as one.”  She extended her hand, and the next moment they stood in the reception-room.

The father and uncle were standing with folded arms, looking down into the muddy street below.  He advanced to meet them, holding out a hand to each.  Florence pressed her lips to the one she held, and exclaimed,

“My dear father, how glad I am to see you!”

“Glad to see me!  You did not receive my letters then?”

“Yes, I did, but are their contents and pleasure at meeting you incompatible?”

He made no reply, and then Mary said, in a low, tremulous tone,

“Uncle, you have done me a great injury, and you must make me all the reparation in your power.  You said, in your letter to Florry, that you did not think I would wish to go with you.  Oh, uncle! you do not, cannot believe me so ungrateful, so devoid of love as to wish, under any circumstances, to be separated from you.  Now ease my heart, and say I may share your new home.  I should be very miserable away from you.”

An expression of pleasure passed over his face, but again the brow darkened.

“Mary!  Florence is my child—­my destiny hers, my misfortunes hers; but I have no right to drag you with me in my fall; to deprive you of the many advantages that will be afforded, by your uncle’s wealth, of the social position you may one day attain.”

“Uncle! uncle! am I not your child by adoption?  Have you not loved and cared for me during long years?  Oh! what do I care for wealth—­for what you call a high position in the world?  You and Florry are my world.”  She threw her arms about his neck, and sobbed, “Take me! oh, take me with you!”

“If you so earnestly desire it, you shall indeed go with us, my Mary.”  And, for the first time in her life, he imprinted a kiss on her brow.

When he departed, it was with a promise to call for them the next morning, that they might make, with their aunt, some necessary purchases, and remove to a hotel near the river.

Everything was packed the ensuing day, when Mary suddenly remembered that her books were still in the recitation-room, and would have gone for them, but Florence said,

“I will bring up the books, Mary; you are tired and pale with bending so long over that trunk.”  And accordingly she went.

Mary threw herself on the couch to rest a moment, and fell into a reverie of some length, unheeding the flying minutes, when she recollected that Florence had been absent a long time, and rising, was about to seek her; just then her cousin entered.  A change had come over her countenance—­peace, quiet, happiness reigned supreme.  One hour later, and they had gone from Madame ——­’s, never to return again.

CHAPTER IV