Among the various manuscripts lying upon the little table before her, and bearing the signature of Florence Hastings, was the following, characteristic of her present emotions, and upon the surface of which the ink was still moist. She had evidently penned it but a few seconds previously.
This world is fair, with sunshine and with flowers, That fragrance to its happy wanderers bring; And while with listless step I roam life’s bowers, Fain would I pluck the blossoms where they spring; Ah! must I check the wish and pass them by— Must sunless ever be _my_ spirit’s sky?
And yet they deem me reckless of the love Of kindred spirits, while they gaze with pain At the strange picture of a mind above All thoughts of waking warm affection’s strain; Oh! can they think my proud, high heart would _show_ The wish for blessings it may never know?
Watchful and wary of each look and word, Lest they, earth’s joyous ones, should chance to learn The feelings that within so oft are stirred, That such emotions in my bosom burn, Yet here unseen, unheard, I must give way, And for awhile to anguish yield the sway.
_Alone!_ What weary thoughts at that word throng, Vainly some refuge from their weight I crave, Yet it shall be the burthen of my song Until I rest within the quiet grave; No brighter hope hath my sad spirit known— And I must still live on unloved—alone!
They call me cold and reckless of the love Of kindred spirits, while they gaze with pain At the strange picture of a mind above All thoughts of waking warm affection’s strain; How can they dream my proud, high heart would show The wish for blessings it may never know!
Florence was suddenly aroused from her melancholy reverie by the sound of footsteps approaching the door of her chamber. In another instant there was a low knock—and hastily dashing aside her tears, and assuming, as if by magic, her wonted exterior, she bade the intruder enter. It proved to be a servant, who placed a small package in her hand, saying, as she did so, “A Valentine for you, Miss Florence.” The latter started with pleasurable surprise; who in all the wide world could have taken the trouble to write _her_ a valentine? But the query was answered by a single glance at the superscription. It was strangely familiar—it was Ida Hamilton’s! Just as she broke the seal the servant withdrew, saying that she had been requested to call in half an hour for a reply.