CHAPTER XII.
"For now that Hope's last ray is gone, Sure Lethe's dream would bless: In grief to think of bliss tha'ts flown, Adds pangs to wretchedness." ANONYMOUS.
A fortnight had passed, and again it was evening.

In the small dining-room of Florence Hamilton's humble home assembled the now diminished family circle.

Florence sat sadly apart, leaning her head, with closed eyes, against the window.

The tea bell rang; she lifted her head, glanced round the room, and wearily dropped her brow again on its resting-place.

Mary approached, and taking her hand, said, in a gentle, winning tone, "Come, Florry dear." "Eat your supper, Mary; I do not wish any." "But you have not eaten anything to-day, and need something; do try, for my sake." "I cannot.