CHAPTER XVII.
"The purple clouds Are putting on their gold and violet, To look the meeter for the sun's bright coming.
How hallowed is the hour of morning! Meet-- Ay! beautifully meet--for the pure prayer." WILLIS.
Morn broke in the East; or, in the beautiful language of the Son of Fingal, "Sol's yellow hair streamed on the Eastern gale." Awakened by the first chirping of the feathered tribe, Florence rose as the gray morning light stole into her chamber, and seating herself at the window, looked out on the town before her.

Quiet reigned as yet, broken only by the murmuring and gurgling of the river, which roiled swiftly on, just below their little gate.

How delightful to her seemed "The cool, the fragrant, and the silent hour To meditation due." Calmly she now weighed the conversation of the preceding night, and, engrossed in earnest thought, sat gazing out till the Orient shone resplendent, and an October sun poured his rays gloriously around her.
Then she knelt, and prayed as she had never done before.

She sought the "pure fountain of light," and implored strength and guidance in her search after truth.

Rising, her glance fell on her sleeping cousin, and she was struck with the change which within the last month had taken place in her appearance.