Inez :: :: University of Virginia Library

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 imcompatible
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 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 interests.

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.