Merry little Floy went dancing like a sunbeam through the dark oak grove, and sat down to rest on the porch before she entered the house for her night’s vigil.

She rested there while the full moon rose over the tree-tops, silvering the scene with an unearthly light, and throwing fantastic leaf-shadows on the short green grass. It was like an enchanted palace, so calm, so quiet, undisturbed by any sound save the plaintive call of a whip-poor-will away off in the dim, silent woods.

She mused a little soberly on the events of the day.

“That big coward, Otho Maury, I was beginning to fancy myself in love with him, but—I despise him now!” curving a red, disdainful lip. “And how I fooled them all! They really thought I was attempting suicide! Ha, ha! But how splendid Maybelle’s fiancÉ was; how brave, how cool, and if only—he wasn’t engaged, I believe I should have lost my heart to him—so there!”

Perhaps she had lost her heart to him anyway, in spite of Maybelle, for she could not get the thought of the big, handsome, brown-eyed fellow out of her little curly head, and she recalled with a sudden warm wave of color rushing to her face the audacious frankness of the words he had said to her in the water, answering her saucy jest:

“I’m sure the experience would be delightful, and if you like to try it when we are safe on land, I shall be most happy.”

Floy had thrilled with sweet ecstasy at his daring words, and now she said, audaciously:

“Yes, I—I should like to try it! I should throw my arms around his big neck and hug him tight, and kiss his sweet, brave lips, the beautiful hero, only——” and the words trailed off into a deep sigh at the sudden thought of Maybelle, who stood between them.

And like a dash of cold water came the memory of Otho’s words.

Beresford was angry with her for the joke she had played, and would like to shake her for a naughty, saucy little vixen.

“Let him try it—that’s all!” she exclaimed, shaking her bright head defiantly, then leaning it half despondently on her arm.

Wearied by the pleasures of the long, bright day, she sunk into slumber.

Sweet dreams came to her there in the fragrant gloom of the warm spring night.

To her fancy she was walking with St. George Beresford in a beautiful rose garden.

Overhead there leaned a sky all darkly, beautifully blue, while little fleecy clouds tempered the golden brightness of noon.

From afar there came to her the soft murmur of the sea blended with low, soft music divinely sweet and tender—the music of love.

All around her were the rarest roses filling the summer air with fragrance—roses intwining shady bowers of lattice-work, roses wreathing triumphal arches, roses bordering long winding walks, delicious thickets of roses so dense that the sun’s rays had not yet dried the dew from their velvet petals.

On her head was a wreath of pink roses, at the waist of her beautiful fleecy white gown, were white and pink ones blended in exquisite contrast.

By her side, with his arm about her slender, supple waist, walked handsome St. George Beresford.

They were lovers.

And in this beautiful rose garden they seemed to be as much alone as Adam and Eve were in Eden.

No faintest sound of the great surging, wicked world intruded on the delicious solitude—nothing came to their hearing save the low murmur of the distant sea, that soft music breathing the soul of love, and the song of birds mating and nesting in the rose-trees that shook down their bloomy petals in rosy clouds over every path.

They did not miss nor want the world in this Eden. They were all in all to each other, this beautiful pair of lovers.

They roamed here and there with their arms about each other, speaking but little, only now and then Beresford would pause to draw her into his arms and caress her, murmuring between ardent kisses:

“My only love, my bride!”

Beautiful, dark-eyed, jealous Maybelle Maury was forgotten just as entirely as though she had never existed. They were blissfully happy in this dream that Floy was dreaming there that May night in the grim shadow of Suicide Place.

But suddenly a dark, portentous cloud overspread the sky, and a low rumble of thunder shook the earth.

The soft voice of the sea changed to a hollow roar, as though a storm were lashing its waves into fury, and the tender music wailed itself into silence like the cry of a broken heart. The winds rose and lashed the rose-trees in a furious gale, till the air was full of their flying petals and spicy perfumes. The song-birds fled affrighted, and their little nests were dashed upon the ground.

“Oh, I am so frightened! Save me!” sobbed pretty Floy, clinging to her fond lover, who clasped and kissed her again, whispering that there was no danger for her while he was by his little darling’s side.

But at that very moment a flash of lightning irradiated the gloom, and Floy saw a woman dashing toward her in insane fury.

She had the dark, beautiful, jealous face of Maybelle Maury, and she rushed between them and thrust Floy away.

“Go, girl, go! He is mine, mine, mine!” she was crying, madly, when all at once Floy awoke, as we do in dreams at some moment of unbearable grief and woe.

Her dream had been only half a dream, after all.

The moonlight was darkened by clouds, there was low, rumbling thunder, followed by flashes of lightning, and a fitful rain was driven into the porch by the wayward wind, wetting Floy’s face and hands and dress. It was this that had woven itself in with her dream and awakened her to unpleasant reality.

Dazed and wondering, she sprung to her feet, and it was several minutes before she could realize her position.

Then it came to her that Maybelle had dared her to spend a night alone at Suicide Place, and she had vowed she would do it.

She had come and fallen asleep on the porch and dreamed that exquisite dream that was so lovely until—Maybelle came.

“How strange that I should dream of Maybelle’s lover—and dream that he was mine!” she murmured, wonderingly, as she hurried into the house out of the muttering storm.

Fortunately she had brought some matches, and she knew that there was a lamp in the parlor, so letting herself in, she hurriedly lighted the lamp, throwing its feeble glare on the dark oak furniture of the long apartment.

“Whew! what a musty old place!” she ejaculated, throwing open a window, heedless of the fine mist of rain that came blowing in, mixed with delicious fresh air and gusts of delicate perfume from great lilac-trees outside loaded with white and purple blooms.

Then she uttered a cry of dismay and looked back half fearfully over her shoulder at a piano in a dark corner.

The lid was closed, but from the keys were coming low, discordant sounds, as of music played by childish hands all ignorant of time or tune. It was terrible, that sound, and Floy, who had never known fear before, felt as if ice-cold water were trickling down her spine.

Then a quick suspicion came to her, and running straight to the instrument, she threw back the lid.

Several mice that, alarmed by her entrance, had been running up and down the keys, producing discordant notes, jumped out upon the floor and ran away into the dark corners with little frightened squeaks.

Floy laughed aloud merrily:

“Just as I suspected, after my first moment of terror at that sudden sound. But a cowardly person would have sworn it was a ghost playing the piano. I wonder if that discord was the sweet music I heard in my dream?”

She threw herself into a large easy-chair cushioned in leather, and closed her eyes.

“I am not the least bit afraid—not the least,” she declared aloud. “But I wish I could go to sleep again and dream the first half of that lovely dream.”

But slumber refused to visit her eyes again. She felt preternaturally wide awake.

Rising, she paced up and down the room, listening to the muttering of the storm outside, and the wild rain driving against the creaking old windows.

Several old family portraits hung against the walls, and the eyes of those buried ancestors seemed to follow her up and down with grim curiosity as she moved to and fro.

Such a thing will seriously annoy one sometimes. The eyes of a portrait may take on a living look, and render one horribly nervous when alone at midnight.

Those following eyes, so persistent in their stare, annoyed Floy, and gave her the same creepy chill down her back that she had felt when the mice scurried over the piano keys.

She could not resist a sudden longing to escape from the room, and from the grim scrutiny of her pictured ancestors.

Taking the lamp in her hand, she started out to explore the house.

Hurrying along the draughty hall, and in and out of the musty old rooms familiar to her childhood, the girl tried to dispel the shadow that began to fall on her spirits like an ominous cloud.

Presently, over the roar of the storm outside, her voice rang out in a loud, wild, terrified shriek thrice repeated—then awful silence.