Eight years had passed over the head of Florence Heriton since the sudden death of her beloved mother, and the gay, happy child of fifteen was transformed into the thoughtful, beautiful woman. Florence had more than fulfilled the promise of her early girlhood. The slim figure had expanded into well-rounded
Mr. Heriton, a portly, handsome man, scarcely past the middle age, was walking about the drawing room, addressing an occasional observation to his lady, who was sitting near a window which commanded the route Frank and Florence had taken an hour previously. She had the hectic color and fragile form
Who that knows Northumberland has not roamed delightedly beside the lovely Coquet, that tricksome little river which sometimes murmurs softly along its rocky bed, and anon—swollen and turbid—fiercely dashes against its steep banks, rushing on toward the ocean with a force and rapidity that carries everything before it.