THE BOUQUET 
;“>() 
“Is she here now? is she in this city?” said the gentleman 
eagerly. 
“ No, she left some months ago,” said the widow, but noticing 
the sudden shade of disappointment on his face she added, “ but 
you can find all about her by inquiring at her aunt Mrs. Carlisle’s, 
No. 10,-street.” 
As the result of all this, Florence received from the office in the 
next mail, a letter, in a handwriting that made her tremble. 
During the many early years of her life spent in France, she had 
well learned that writing; had loved as a woman like her loves, 
but once; but there had been obstacles of parents and friends, 
separation, and long suspense, till at length, for many bitter years, 
she had believed that the relentless sea closed forever over that 
hand and heart; and it was this belief that had touched, with such 
sweet calm sorrow, every line in her lovely face. But this letter 
told her that he was living, that he had traced her, even as a hidden 
streamlet may be traced, by the freshness, the greenness of heart, 
v. Inch her deeds of kindness had left wherever she had passed. 
And thus much said, do our fair readers need any help in finish¬ 
ing this story for themselves ? of course not. 
