The habits of a lifetime die hard. They are proof, as a rule, against these fits of temporary madness. Wilhelmina stepped languidly into her carriage, and commanded her coachman's attention. "Johnson," she said, "I found a poor man sleeping there. There is no necessity for him to be disturbed. It is my wish that you do not mention the occurrence to any one--to any one at all. You understand?" The man touched his hat. He would have been dull-witted, indeed, if he had not appreciated the note of finality in his mistress' tone. His horses sprang forward, and a few minutes later turned into the dark avenue which led to the house. CHAPTER VIII ROSES Macheson woke with the daylight, stiff, a little tired, and haunted with the consciousness of disturbing dreams. He sprang to his feet and stretched himself. Then he saw the roses. For a moment or two he stared at them incredulously. Then his thoughts flashed backwards--where or how had he become possessed of them? A few seconds were sufficient. Some one had been there in the night--most likely a woman. His cheeks burned at the thought. He stooped and took them hesitatingly, reverently, into his hand. To him they represented part of the mystery of life, the mystery of which he knew so little. Soft and fragrant, the touch of the drooping blossoms was like fire to his fingers. Had he been like those predecessors of his in the days of the Puritans, he would have cast them away, trampled them underfoot; he would have seen in them only the snare of the Evil One. But to Macheson this would have seemed almost like sacrilege. They were beautiful and he loved beautiful things.