“Oh, if she only knew the name of that lover!” thought Floy, with quickened heart-beats; but she did not feel much frightened. She hoped that the haughty Beresfords who admired her so much would find it easy to forgive St. George for his choice. But in the meantime she must keep her pretty secret, as he had commanded her to do. She would not tell them a word till he should take her by the hand and say: “Pretty little Floy is my heart’s choice.” How impatiently she waited for that day, only God and the angels knew. For the thought of his illness and the secret terror that he might die, far away from his beloved, kept Floy awake many hours each night. But if Alva were uneasy over her sick brother, she concealed it cleverly, or did not think that her pretty model had any interest in the subject, for she never mentioned it again until more than a week had passed away. Then Floy, tortured by a secret unrest, cried out one day: “Have you never heard from your parents yet?” Alva was so busy she did not look around from her picture, and only answered: “No. It is only a week since they went, you see, and they would not send a cablegram unless St. George was very ill. I dare say it was all a false alarm.” Floy feared it was not, for although she had written secretly to the postmaster at Mount Vernon to forward her letters, none had been received, and she knew there must be some reason for his ceasing to write. At last she ventured on a little loving letter to him, but by freak of fate it went astray, and the lover’s heart lost the joy it would have brought. At length there came letters for Alva from abroad, and then she said to Floy: “It was all true about my brother, mamma says. He has been very, very ill with brain fever, and came near to death.” They were sitting alone in the twilight, so Alva did not see the corpse-like pallor of the listener’s face as Floy clinched her dimpled hands together in her lap, silently praying Heaven not to let her cry out in her anguish and betray her loving secret. “But,” continued Alva, “the crisis passed the day they reached London, and my brother is slightly better. The physicians say he may recover--unless he has a relapse.” Floy could not answer one word. It was all that she could do to keep her reeling senses from failing altogether. St. George, her heart’s love, her idol, ill unto death, and parted from her by the breadth of the terrible sea! Oh, it was cruel, cruel! And she dared not cry out to this woman, his own sister: “Pity me, sympathize with me, for I love him; he is my own, my own, and if he dies my heart will break!” Not one word of grief must she utter unless the tidings came that he was dead. Then she might open the flood-gates of her love and despair, for betrayal would not matter when he was gone. But she sat like a stone in the twilight of the room, so cold, so white, so still, and waited for Alva to say more.