Though Mrs. Arnott's health was, as I have said, so much improved that she now hoped to be able to remain through the winter at her own home, Mr. Arnott was desirous that she should spend some weeks of the summer at the warm springs of Virginia, from the waters of which she had always seemed to derive great benefit. Mrs. Arnott was quite willing to do any thing by which she might hope that her health would continue to improve, but she acknowledged to me that the idea of taking Florence there distressed her.

"Since I have been at home," she said, "and have been able to observe closely my child's habits and temper, I see much reason to fear that she has already suffered greatly from the careless indulgence which can scarcely be avoided when we are always surrounded by strangers. She is now almost eleven years old, and I feel there is no time to be lost in endeavoring to correct the faults of her character, and that this can only be done by a degree of watchfulness, and of steady, yet gentle control, which I know from experience it is impossible to exercise either in travelling or at a crowded watering-place."

"Why should you take Florence with you?" I asked.

"What else can I do with her?"

"Send her home with me. You will not be gone, Mr. Arnott says, more than six weeks. For an object so important as your child's improvement, you will not, I am sure, my dear friend, hesitate to separate yourself from her for so short a time. You know nothing pleases me more than to surround myself with children; and though I acknowledge there is no teacher like a mother, when the choice lies between a mother at a watering-place, and—"

"There is no room to hesitate," said Mrs. Arnott, interrupting me: "I should rejoice to have Florence with you even were I to remain at home; and if I can win her consent, your invitation will be gladly and thankfully accepted, for of her father's wishes I have not a doubt."

"Well," said I, "you will remember that I leave you in two days, so that you have little time to lose in deciding."

"To-morrow," said Mrs. Arnott, "to-morrow I will speak to Florence; then if she give her consent, there will be no time for change."

The morrow came, and when I met Mr. Arnott, he said to me in a low voice, which was unheard by any other person, "I am very much obliged to you for your offer to relieve us and benefit our little daughter, for a great benefit I am sure it will be to Florence to be placed with other children, and under what I know will be your kind and gentle, yet firm influence."

Mrs. Arnott looked pale and sad, and complained of a bad headache. As I saw her look tenderly at Florence, and heard how her voice softened in speaking to her, I knew what caused both her headache and her paleness. It was the thought of parting with her child for the first time in her life. The separation would, I knew, be very painful to this fond mother; but I also knew that she would willingly bear the pain to herself, for the advantage which she hoped Florence would derive from it.

After breakfast, Mrs. Arnott and I passed into another room, where we had been accustomed to spend the morning, because it was at that time of the day shaded and cool. We had scarcely entered when the three children passed the window near which we sat. They seemed very merry, amusing themselves with the wonderful but awkward efforts made by Rover to catch an elastic ball that Florence was tossing up.

Mrs. Arnott called Florence.

"What is it, mamma?" said she, scarcely stopping from her play long enough to look around.

"Come here, my daughter, I have something to say to you."

Florence came to the window.

"No, Florence, you must come in, I want to talk to you a little."

For a moment Florence's countenance was clouded; but it was only for a moment, when, laughing, she cried out, "Here, Rover, here, sir—come in with me, Rover, for mamma wants to talk to me, and while she is talking you can be playing ball,"—and she came racing in, Rover at her heels, and Harriet and Mary following to see the fun.

Mrs. Arnott pressed her hand to her forehead, and I saw that all this uproar increased her headache, but it was impossible for several seconds to make the children hear us. At length I succeeded in silencing Harriet and Mary, and in making Florence understand that the noise gave her mother pain, and that she had better send Rover out.

"Does mamma's head ache?" she said; "I am sorry for it—but just see Rover, mamma, try to catch this ball—just see him once—do, mamma—that can't hurt you, I am sure, and it is so funny."

Before I could remonstrate, or Mrs. Arnott could refuse, if she intended to refuse, the ball was thrown. Again Rover, who had been watching every movement of Florence, was barking, leaping, and turning somersets in the air; and again the children were laughing, Florence as loudly as ever, and Harriet and Mary with quite as much enjoyment, though a little less noise. As I found speaking of little use, I stepped up quietly to the merry group, and, catching the ball as it rebounded from the floor, put a stop at once to their mirth and Rover's efforts.

"Now, my dear," said I to Florence, "your mother wants to speak a few words to you, so sit down quietly by her while I take Rover out, for she is in too much pain to be amused by him."

Florence looked surprised, and for a moment not very well pleased, but as she found that I spoke gently and pleasantly to the dog, and praised his beauty, while he ran good-humoredly by my side, rubbing his curly head against me, her countenance brightened, and she seated herself without any objection. I beckoned to Harriet and Mary to follow me, and when we were out of the room, I gave Rover and the ball into their charge. Telling them to wait in the piazza for Florence, and obtaining from them a promise that they would be very quiet, I returned. I had left the door of the room open, and as I reached it, I heard Florence say, "Oh no, mamma! I had a great deal rather go to the Springs with you and papa." At this moment she heard my step, and turning, looked quite confused as her eye met mine.

"Do not be ashamed, Florence," said I, "that I should have heard you. I should be sorry if you did not love your papa and mamma well enough to prefer their company to mine; but I hope you love them so well that you will do cheerfully what is not quite so pleasant to yourself, when you are told that it will please them." Florence hung her head, looked very grave, and said nothing. "Speak, Florence," said I, "would you not be willing, for your mother's sake, to do what might not be very pleasant to yourself?"

After a little hesitation, Florence, without raising her head, said in a dissatisfied tone, "I don't see what good it could do mamma for me to go where I do not want to go."

I would have told Florence of her mother's delicate health, and of how much more benefit she would probably receive from travelling if she could be free from care; but Mrs. Arnott, seeming to think there was little hope of influencing Florence in this way, interrupted me, saying, "But, my love, why should you not wish to go home with Harriet and Mary? You know how much you enjoyed your visit of two or three days to them last summer,—and Harriet has since then got a pony—you might ride on horseback if you went now."

"Will she let me ride him?" asked Florence, looking up at me with sudden animation.

"I am sure she will," I replied.

"And may I carry Rover?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, I will go, for I should like to ride on horseback; and then, mamma, I'll have Rover with me, and how odd it will be to see him jumping up and trying to get to me on the horse, just as he tried to-day to catch the ball," and she laughed out, and was again all smiles and good-humor.

The consent of Florence having been obtained, the preparations for her visit were soon completed, and as we set out before the sun had risen on the following morning, there was, as Mrs. Arnott had said, no time for her to change her mind.

Florence could not but love her kind and gentle mother dearly, and I did not wonder to see the tears start as she bade her good-by; but Rover was to be looked after—the wild-flowers with which the road was lined were to be admired—the rising sun was to be seen—and amidst all these, Florence soon forgot to be sad.