So, while Floy’s enemy sought her all in vain, the day of her lover’s return came at last.

It was two months now since their parting at the cottage door, in the May moonlight, under the drooping vines that shaded the porch—two months since that last kiss of love so true and warm and tender.

The burning heats of July held the world in their hot grasp, and the little spring flowers were faded and gone, as were the tender hopes of Floy’s heart.

But all that last day she busied herself, flitting hither and thither, helping Alva to make the house beautiful for the returning dear ones.

“My brother loves flowers, especially roses, most dearly; so we will have roses everywhere,” said Alva.

Floy’s heart beat fast, and she flushed, then paled again, as she remembered that strange dream of roses—hers and St. George’s—that summer night of their first meeting—the dream that had seemed to draw their hearts closer together.

“But his love grew cold before the sweet roses faded,” she sighed from the bottom of her sad young heart.

Then something seemed to whisper tauntingly:

“He is rich, and grand, and handsome, and can choose from the proudest women in the world. You should have known from the first that you could not hold his fickle fancy—a simple little maiden like you.”

As she passed and repassed the grand plate-glass mirrors she would look into them anxiously, and with dissatisfaction.

She saw that she was wonderfully lovely, that her hair was bright as spun gold, her eyes as blue as violets, her mouth a budding rose, her complexion as gloriously tinted as a rose-lipped sea-shell, her dimples entrancing—but after all it seemed to her a babyish kind of beauty.

She thought that the dark queenly style of beauty of Alva and Maybelle was hundred times more attractive than her blonde type of beauty.

Poor little Floy was sadly changed since she had heard that her lover’s heart had grown cold.

She had lost the sauciness from her smile, the sparkle from her eyes, and now and then a low, repressed sigh heaved her tortured breast.

Miss Beresford could not help seeing the change.

It puzzled and perplexed her, until she said at last:

“You are not happy here with me, Floy. Perhaps I go out too often in society and leave you here alone. I will stay at home more hereafter.”

“Oh, no—no; I am happy enough!” protested the poor child; who felt relieved when she was alone and could throw off the mask of indifference and let her tears flow unrestrainedly over her broken love-dream.

She was so young, so friendless, and this love had become a part of her life. She could not see how she was going to live with this aching heart.

But she could not own her sorrow to St. George Beresford’s sister, never—never! She would go away and die sooner than that.

With her own little trembling white hands she carried the great basket of roses to his luxurious suite of rooms. She arranged every bud and flower to look their best for his eyes, and the single bud in the tiny crystal vase on his toilet-table she kissed twice, thinking:

“It is so sweet and fragrant he may perhaps wear it on his coat, and think of me.”

Alva came in, and looked about her with delight.

“Why, Cupid, you have made it a bower of roses. Are you sure you have left any for me?” she laughed, admiringly.

“The florist said he would bring you some more,” answered Floy, blushing because she had taken so many for her darling’s room.

“Then you must finish the arrangements, dear; for it is time to go and meet them now, and you refuse to accompany me.”

“Oh, I could not—I could not!” Floy cried, affrighted; and Miss Beresford cried, gayly:

“What a bashful child you are, Cupid!”

She was turning away when Floy caught her sleeve, and gasped, imploringly:

“You must promise me one thing. I shall not see them to-night. You will let me keep my room till to-morrow, and not send for me to come down this evening? For—for—of course you will have many things to talk of, you four, and a stranger would be in the way.”

Alva saw that she was painfully in earnest, but she thought it was only girlish bashfulness. She smiled indulgently, and said:

“Perhaps you are right. We shall have much to talk of, and it might not interest a gay little girl like you. Besides, they will be tired and will retire soon, so you may easily be excused till to-morrow.”

She hurried down to the waiting carriage, and Floy, with one last tender glance about the room, went to her task of decorating Mrs. Beresford’s suite of rooms, her heart heavy with pain as she thought of the proud, rich woman who had come between her son and his heart’s true love.

When they came at last, Floy was at her window, peeping between the lace curtains for one furtive glance at the beloved face; and when she saw him step from the carriage at last, so pale, so wan, so ill, like a wraith of her debonair lover, it almost broke her fond, pitying heart.