Floy would not listen to any of them; she answered them with careless, merry banter; and as the carriages rolled away, they saw her standing inside the gates, waving her little hand in farewell, her slender, white-robed figure clearly defined in the gloom of the falling twilight. CHAPTER VI. A DREAM OF ROSES. Merry little Floy went dancing like a sunbeam through the dark oak grove, and sat down to rest on the porch before she entered the house for her night’s vigil. She rested there while the full moon rose over the tree-tops, silvering the scene with an unearthly light, and throwing fantastic leaf-shadows on the short green grass. It was like an enchanted palace, so calm, so quiet, undisturbed by any sound save the plaintive call of a whip-poor-will away off in the dim, silent woods. She mused a little soberly on the events of the day. “That big coward, Otho Maury, I was beginning to fancy myself in love with him, but--I despise him now!” curving a red, disdainful lip. “And how I fooled them all! They really thought I was attempting suicide! Ha, ha! But how splendid Maybelle’s _fiancé_ was; how brave, how cool, and if only--he wasn’t engaged, I believe I should have lost my heart to him--so there!” Perhaps she _had_ lost her heart to him anyway, in spite of Maybelle, for she could not get the thought of the big, handsome, brown-eyed fellow out of her little curly head, and she recalled with a sudden warm wave of color rushing to her face the audacious frankness of the words he had said to her in the water, answering her saucy jest: “I’m sure the experience would be delightful, and if you like to try it when we are safe on land, I shall be most happy.” Floy had thrilled with sweet ecstasy at his daring words, and now she said, audaciously: “Yes, I--I _should_ like to try it! I should throw my arms around his big neck and hug him tight, and kiss his sweet, brave lips, the beautiful hero, only----” and the words trailed off into a deep sigh at the sudden thought of Maybelle, who stood between them. And like a dash of cold water came the memory of Otho’s words. Beresford was angry with her for the joke she had played, and would like to shake her for a naughty, saucy little vixen. “Let him try it--that’s all!” she exclaimed, shaking her bright head defiantly, then leaning it half despondently on her arm. Wearied by the pleasures of the long, bright day, she sunk into slumber. Sweet dreams came to her there in the fragrant gloom of the warm spring night. To her fancy she was walking with St. George Beresford in a beautiful rose garden. Overhead there leaned a sky all darkly, beautifully blue, while little fleecy clouds tempered the golden brightness of noon. From afar there came to her the soft murmur of the sea blended with low, soft music divinely sweet and tender--the music of love.