It was a soothing consolation to Florence to give shelter to these thoughts, until one day--it was soon after she had last seen her father in his own room, late at night--the fancy came upon her, that, in weeping for his alienated heart, she might stir the spirits of the dead against him' Wild, weak, childish, as it may have been to think so, and to tremble at the half-formed thought, it was the impulse of her loving nature; and from that hour Florence strove against the cruel wound in her breast, and tried to think of him whose hand had made it, only with hope.
Her father did not know--she held to it from that time--how much she loved him.

She was very young, and had no mother, and had never learned, by some fault or misfortune, how to express to him that she loved him.
She would be patient, and would try to gain that art in time, and win him to a better knowledge of his only child.
This became the purpose of her life.

The morning sun shone down upon the faded house, and found the resolution bright and fresh within the bosom of its solitary mistress, Through all the duties of the day, it animated her; for Florence hoped that the more she knew, and the more accomplished she became, the more glad he would be when he came to know and like her.

Sometimes she wondered, with a swelling heart and rising tear, whether she was proficient enough in anything to surprise him when they should become companions.

Sometimes she tried to think if there were any kind of knowledge that would bespeak his interest more readily than another.