Miss Beresford remarked on this one day, and Floy faltered out something about sunburn and freckles. “Oh-h, I see! You are afraid of spoiling that rose-and-lily complexion, and I can scarcely blame you,” laughed Miss Beresford, whose rich olive complexion could bear well the kisses of the wind and sun. Then, as she saw how sensitively Floy blushed at her words, she added: “Or, more likely, you are shy of the admiring glances you would meet if unveiled.” Floy had no answer ready, for she did not wish to tell the lady that she feared to be recognized by an enemy. CHAPTER XXXVIII. A BOWER OF ROSES. So, while Floy’s enemy sought her all in vain, the day of her lover’s return came at last. It was two months now since their parting at the cottage door, in the May moonlight, under the drooping vines that shaded the porch--two months since that last kiss of love so true and warm and tender. The burning heats of July held the world in their hot grasp, and the little spring flowers were faded and gone, as were the tender hopes of Floy’s heart. But all that last day she busied herself, flitting hither and thither, helping Alva to make the house beautiful for the returning dear ones. “My brother loves flowers, especially roses, most dearly; so we will have roses everywhere,” said Alva. Floy’s heart beat fast, and she flushed, then paled again, as she remembered that strange dream of roses--hers and St. George’s--that summer night of their first meeting--the dream that had seemed to draw their hearts closer together. “But his love grew cold before the sweet roses faded,” she sighed from the bottom of her sad young heart. Then something seemed to whisper tauntingly: “He is rich, and grand, and handsome, and can choose from the proudest women in the world. You should have known from the first that you could not hold his fickle fancy--a simple little maiden like you.” As she passed and repassed the grand plate-glass mirrors she would look into them anxiously, and with dissatisfaction. She saw that she was wonderfully lovely, that her hair was bright as spun gold, her eyes as blue as violets, her mouth a budding rose, her complexion as gloriously tinted as a rose-lipped sea-shell, her dimples entrancing--but after all it seemed to her a babyish kind of beauty. She thought that the dark queenly style of beauty of Alva and Maybelle was hundred times more attractive than her blonde type of beauty. Poor little Floy was sadly changed since she had heard that her lover’s heart had grown cold. She had lost the sauciness from her smile, the sparkle from her eyes, and now and then a low, repressed sigh heaved her tortured breast. Miss Beresford could not help seeing the change. It puzzled and perplexed her, until she said at last: “You are not happy here with me, Floy. Perhaps I go out too often in society and leave you here alone. I will stay at home more hereafter.”