“Mr. Munson, you will receive a letter tomorrow that contains an offer for you to continue your work in my library, which I hope will prove acceptable, at least for the present. Grace, my dear, I take the liberty of an old friend.” And he kissed her brow. “With your mother I already have had a good long talk,” he continued, as he pressed Mrs. Darlington’s hand and looked into her eyes. “And now, Merle, dear, I am going to ask you to gather me some roses in your garden. I want them for a particular purpose, and, as you know, there are no roses like those of La Siesta.” Merle was standing eager and happy to do his bidding—privileged to have the chance of conferring such a little service on her dear old friend, her friend from the earliest childhood days of her remembrance. With impulsive good-nature, Grace was ready to help as well. But a quiet look from her mother restrained her, and Merle and Mr. Robles passed from the verandah, hand in hand. For nearly an hour they wandered among the rose bushes, picking the choicest blooms, talking a little on many things, silent at times, but both happy in each other’s companionship. At last Mr. Robles looked at his watch. The hour of parting had come. Merle had deftly tied the roses in a bunch, and now she placed them in his hands. “A bouquet from me—from your little friend Merle,” she murmured, with a wistful attempt at a smile. “From my dear little friend, Merle,” he replied, gravely repeating her words as he looked down into her upraised face. It was a beautiful face, in its fresh youthfulness, its eager joy of living, the sublime unconsciousness of self that reveals the spotless soul. For an instant their eyes met. During that brief spell Robles’ whole being trembled. His arms moved as if to enfold the sweet girl to his breast. But with a mighty effort he controlled himself, and he simply kissed her on the brow, just as he had done to Grace in the cosy corner. “God bless you, Merle, my dear,” he murmured as he turned away with a final wave of his hand. In a moment he was gone from her view. But the girl’s gaze remained fixed—still directed down the avenue of trees along which the figure of her life-long friend had disappeared. There was a look of dazed wonderment in her eyes. “Oh, can it be so—could it be so?” she faltered, as she raised a hand to hold back the tears. An hour later Robles was in the little Mexican churchyard, scattering the rose blooms gathered by his daughter Merle on the graves of the dead relatives whose names she would never know as such. Already there were the flowers that Tia Teresa had that morning brought—a garland of white arum lilies around the cross that marked the sleeping place of Rosetta, wreaths of rich red carnations on the tombstone inscribed with the father’s and the mother’s names.