Alva was right about the travelers being weary. They retired early to their rooms that evening, St. George first of all.

“How sweet, how beautiful!” he cried, when the odor of the roses greeted him from every side.

He went up to the table, where a half-blown bud in a slender crystal vase charmed him with its crimson beauty.

“What a rich, warm, velvety scarlet rose—the flower of love!” he exclaimed; and pressed his lips on the curling petals.

In that instant a memory of Floy, his lost young love, came to him in bitter agony.

He turned his head quickly toward the door.

It had seemed to him that he heard a long, low, quivering sigh behind the shadowy portiÈres of violet silk.

And as he looked he saw vaguely—or was it only fancy?—a tiny hand all white and dimpled, gleam an instant on the shining silk, then vanish.

“Alva!” he called, thinking she had followed him for a tender little chat.

But there was no reply.

He sprung to the portiÈres and thrust them aside, but the long, brightly lighted corridor was empty.

He returned to his room slowly, thinking in a solemn awe:

“It was not my fancy. I distinctly saw a little hand—small, white and dimpled—vanishing away. It was her hand—my Floy’s—beckoning me to the world of shadows.”

All night, whether waking or sleeping, she was in his thoughts—his dead love.

The odor of the roses, their bloom and beauty, had recalled her to his mind as she had been the night that he had dreamed of her among the roses—blessed dream that had sent him to her side to save her from deadly peril!

She was with the angels now—lovely little Floy!—but she had hovered near him to-night; he knew by the little welcoming hand that had gleamed there a moment among the folds of violet silk.

Dear little hand! How he had loved its dimpled beauty! How soft and warm and thrilling it had been when he pressed it! Alas! it was only an icy shadow now!

“Dear Heaven, I wish that I might die and follow little Floy to her bright home!” he groaned, despairingly.

Small wonder that his sleep was restless and disturbed, and that in the morning he was wan and hollow-eyed as some pale ghost.

Alva was shocked, but she did not tell him so; she only showed her concern by the tenderest care.

“We must take you down to Newport before the end of the week; New York is stifling now,” she said, with a significant look at her mother.

“Yes, I am very anxious to get away from here,” rejoined Mrs. Beresford, promptly, as she rose from the table, adding: “I suppose your ‘Cupid’ is finished, dear?”

“Yes, and you must all come and pronounce on its merits,” replied Alva, leading the way arm in arm with her brother.

St. George had to profess a polite interest he did not feel as they entered the studio and stood before the favorite picture.

“Where is she—your lovely model? I had forgotten her until this moment!” cried her mother.

“I will send for her,” returned Alva, speaking to a maid who was in the room.

The girl went out, and then Alva turned to her brother, who was gazing with startled eyes at the beautiful canvas.

“That face! that face!” he exclaimed, pointing wildly.

“I painted it from life,” she replied; adding, proudly: “Can you imagine anything in life so perfectly beautiful?”