All around her were the rarest roses filling the summer air with fragrance--roses intwining shady bowers of lattice-work, roses wreathing triumphal arches, roses bordering long winding walks, delicious thickets of roses so dense that the sun’s rays had not yet dried the dew from their velvet petals. On her head was a wreath of pink roses, at the waist of her beautiful fleecy white gown, were white and pink ones blended in exquisite contrast. By her side, with his arm about her slender, supple waist, walked handsome St. George Beresford. They were lovers. And in this beautiful rose garden they seemed to be as much alone as Adam and Eve were in Eden. No faintest sound of the great surging, wicked world intruded on the delicious solitude--nothing came to their hearing save the low murmur of the distant sea, that soft music breathing the soul of love, and the song of birds mating and nesting in the rose-trees that shook down their bloomy petals in rosy clouds over every path. They did not miss nor want the world in this Eden. They were all in all to each other, this beautiful pair of lovers. They roamed here and there with their arms about each other, speaking but little, only now and then Beresford would pause to draw her into his arms and caress her, murmuring between ardent kisses: “My only love, my bride!” Beautiful, dark-eyed, jealous Maybelle Maury was forgotten just as entirely as though she had never existed. They were blissfully happy in this dream that Floy was dreaming there that May night in the grim shadow of Suicide Place. But suddenly a dark, portentous cloud overspread the sky, and a low rumble of thunder shook the earth. The soft voice of the sea changed to a hollow roar, as though a storm were lashing its waves into fury, and the tender music wailed itself into silence like the cry of a broken heart. The winds rose and lashed the rose-trees in a furious gale, till the air was full of their flying petals and spicy perfumes. The song-birds fled affrighted, and their little nests were dashed upon the ground. “Oh, I am so frightened! Save me!” sobbed pretty Floy, clinging to her fond lover, who clasped and kissed her again, whispering that there was no danger for her while he was by his little darling’s side. But at that very moment a flash of lightning irradiated the gloom, and Floy saw a woman dashing toward her in insane fury. She had the dark, beautiful, jealous face of Maybelle Maury, and she rushed between them and thrust Floy away. “Go, girl, go! He is mine, mine, mine!” she was crying, madly, when all at once Floy awoke, as we do in dreams at some moment of unbearable grief and woe. Her dream had been only half a dream, after all.