St. George looked up at his mother, and it angered him to see the look of joy on her face.

“She is so glad—so glad of my darling’s death that she has not the grace to hide it, to feign a sympathy she can not feel,” he thought, miserably.

“Answer me, dear,” she persisted, grasping his arm in her excitement.

He turned his heavy eyes on her face, and said, reproachfully:

“You need not look so glad that she is dead, mother; my grief is bitter enough without that. Well, it was Otho Maury, if you wish to know who wrote me she was dead. He sent me a paragraph from a daily paper. She died by accident—fell from a fourth-story window. Oh, God!” he ended, with a groan, putting his hand upon his eyes as if to shut out some terrible sight.

Mrs. Beresford drew back at her son’s reproach, and signed to Alva that she could not go on; it must be her task to break the truth to her brother.

She knelt down before him; she put her arm about his shoulders, and her dark eyes, when she raised them to his face, were streaming with tears—tears through which the sunshine of joy broke gladly, as she exclaimed:

“Dearest, we have news for you—joyful news. Can you bear it?”

He started, his heavy eyes flashed with sudden hope.

“Speak!” he cried, hoarsely; and she answered:

“Florence Fane did indeed fall from the window—the paragraph told the truth—but Mr. Maury was mistaken about her death. She—she—lives!”

“Lives?” he cried.

And they never forgot the joy that transfigured his face. It was like sunshine suddenly breaking through a dark cloud.

But in a moment he added, sadly:

“She lives? How can that be? Perhaps you are going to tell me that she is a wretched cripple for life?” and the anguish of his voice was heart-rending.

She studied his face gravely, then asked:

“Would that make any change in your love for her, my brother?”

Trembling with emotion, his brain whirling with the shock of joy, he answered, fervently:

“Change? Yes, I should love her all the dearer, my suffering little love, because to my devotion would be added the divine elements of pity and sympathy. Where is she, Alva? Take me to my darling at once! Ah, now I can live again in her life! I will be her strength and shield. I will watch by her couch of pain, and soothe her in her sufferings!”

Overcome with emotion, he leaned his face on Alva’s shoulder, and a stifled sob burst from his lips.

In that moment they all realized in its greatness the might of his love for little Floy.

Alva glanced around to see if Floy were coming in answer to her message.

What a moment it would be when she should take the fair young girl by the hand and lead her to St. George in all her enchanting beauty!

Several moments passed, yet the door did not open.

Alva guessed now all the cause of Floy’s timidity, but she wondered at the girl’s delay.

If she really loved St. George, why did she not hasten to his side?

Lifting his head from her shoulder, he asked again, eagerly:

“Where is my darling?”

“She is here in this house, St. George, alive, uninjured, more beautiful than ever. I have sent for her. She will be here in a moment.”

“You have planned all this to surprise me! Oh, what a joyful moment!” he cried, with his eager eyes on the door.

“No, it is you who surprised us, dear. We knew her only as my model. How could we guess she was your little sweetheart whose name you did not tell? And as for her, she did not breathe her secret.”

“Because I bid her not,” he explained.

And while they waited with burning impatience for Floy to appear, they told him all they knew of the fair girl who had so interested his mother from the first moment of their meeting.

St. George listened with breathless interest to every word, his heart throbbing with joy, his blood bounding through his veins with new life.

“If you had only written me her name, dear, all this trouble would have been avoided, for Floy won my heart at our first meeting, and I should not have been able to steel my heart against the little beauty!” cried his mother.

“And you will welcome her as a daughter?” he asked.

“Proudly,” she answered, smilingly.

“And you, father?”

Mr. Beresford laughed, and answered, blandly:

“My son, I have always been under petticoat government since I married this proud lady, your mother. Her indorsement of your choice secures my consent.”

How bright the future looked at that moment to them all!

But the next instant Alva’s maid entered the room with so grave a face that it instantly sobered the happy party.

“Where is Miss Fane?” cried Alva, impatiently.

“Oh, Miss Alva, I wish I could answer that question; but—but I’ve been all over the house—everywhere—and she’s not in it. And then I went back to her room and searched more closely, and I’m afraid she has gone away, for—I found this note for you, miss,” answered Honora, in real distress, as she presented her mistress with a square blue envelope addressed in Floy’s hand.