“You proud little Cupid, it will not be charity. Aren’t you going to pose for me? I shall put your face into lovely pictures, and I shall have to pay you well for the privilege. The new outfit will be a payment in advance on my debt, that is all.” “Oh, thank you--thank you!” cried Floy, dimpling with delight at the thought of having new clothes when St. George came home. “For I do not wish him to see me shabby and unsuited in my dress to my beautiful surroundings,” she thought, with honest pride in herself. Alva bid her a kind good-night and retired, leaving her in such a flutter of delight that it was several hours before her eyelids closed, thought and hope were so busy over the future. The next morning she breakfasted alone with Alva and the latter said: “I did not tell you last night that my parents sailed for Europe yesterday.” Floy looked so surprised that she added: “They read in the paper a telegraphic dispatch from the London reporter that my brother St. George is quite ill in London.” “_Ill!_” almost shrieked poor Floy. Her eyes drooped, her rosy face went white, she trembled so that Miss Beresford thought she was going to faint. “My dear child, what is the matter--are you also ill?” she demanded, in alarm and surprise. Floy recovered herself with an effort. “Pardon me; I felt deathly sick for a moment,” she faltered; then added: “I am afraid I lost what you were saying, Miss Beresford. But please go on; I am better now.” “I was saying that my brother is ill in London, and my parents sailed yesterday to bring him home as soon as he is better,” replied Alva. “Oh, I hope he is not very ill!” sighed Floy, very pale still, in spite of her declaration that she was better. “Oh, no, I have no idea that there is much the matter with St. George, for he would have had his physician cable us, of course, if he had been really ill. These dispatches from foreign correspondents to their papers are often greatly exaggerated in the interests of sensationalism,” replied Alva, carelessly; adding, after a moment: “But my parents fairly idolize their only son, so they took quick alarm and hurried over the sea to bring home the invalid.” They left the table, and Alva led Floy to her beautiful studio, where wealth and taste had united in adorning a most beautiful apartment. Priceless rugs covered part of the inlaid floor, and exquisite statues gleamed whitely from velvet-draped niches, while pictures were scattered everywhere, some framed, some in an unfinished condition on their easels, yet all showing the work of a master-hand. Here and there were vases of flowers perfuming the air with their sweetness, while silken curtains of rare design filtered the garish light of day into soft, rosy shadows. “Rich was the shadow of the room, And bright the sifted sunlight’s bloom, That lofty wall and ceiling sheathed; Heavy the perfumed air she breathed.