He raised himself upon his elbow, and pressed to his lips some flowers
which were left on his table, and then rejoiced that the ocean would
soon be between him and the wearisome old woman who had so long
annoyed him about the picture.
The Monday morning came and with it the portrait of Flora, which had
been admired at the exhibition rooms the previous week. A simple frame
had been prepared for it, and for a few moments Anna gazed on the
picture, and with a love for the buried stranger, looked for the last
time into the deep dark eyes which beamed on the canvass.
The ship Viola, bound for the port of Naples, lay at the wharf, the
passengers were all hurrying on board, the flags were flying, and all
wore the joyous aspect of a vessel outward bound. A carriage drawn by
a pair of horses came down to the vessel. Mr. Hastings and Anna
alighted, and were followed by a servant, who took the safely cased
portrait in his arms, and accompanied them on board the ship. They
soon met the mother of Flora, and Anna took the picture and presented
it to her, and promised to care for the rose buds which bloomed at
Flora's grave.
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