“Oh, no--no; I am happy enough!” protested the poor child; who felt relieved when she was alone and could throw off the mask of indifference and let her tears flow unrestrainedly over her broken love-dream. She was so young, so friendless, and this love had become a part of her life. She could not see how she was going to live with this aching heart. But she could not own her sorrow to St. George Beresford’s sister, never--never! She would go away and die sooner than that. With her own little trembling white hands she carried the great basket of roses to his luxurious suite of rooms. She arranged every bud and flower to look their best for his eyes, and the single bud in the tiny crystal vase on his toilet-table she kissed twice, thinking: “It is so sweet and fragrant he may perhaps wear it on his coat, and think of me.” Alva came in, and looked about her with delight. “Why, Cupid, you have made it a bower of roses. Are you sure you have left any for me?” she laughed, admiringly. “The florist said he would bring you some more,” answered Floy, blushing because she had taken so many for her darling’s room. “Then you must finish the arrangements, dear; for it is time to go and meet them now, and you refuse to accompany me.” “Oh, I could not--I could not!” Floy cried, affrighted; and Miss Beresford cried, gayly: “What a bashful child you are, Cupid!” She was turning away when Floy caught her sleeve, and gasped, imploringly: “You must promise me one thing. I shall not see them to-night. You will let me keep my room till to-morrow, and not send for me to come down this evening? For--for--of course you will have many things to talk of, you four, and a stranger would be in the way.” Alva saw that she was painfully in earnest, but she thought it was only girlish bashfulness. She smiled indulgently, and said: “Perhaps you are right. We shall have much to talk of, and it might not interest a gay little girl like you. Besides, they will be tired and will retire soon, so you may easily be excused till to-morrow.” She hurried down to the waiting carriage, and Floy, with one last tender glance about the room, went to her task of decorating Mrs. Beresford’s suite of rooms, her heart heavy with pain as she thought of the proud, rich woman who had come between her son and his heart’s true love. When they came at last, Floy was at her window, peeping between the lace curtains for one furtive glance at the beloved face; and when she saw him step from the carriage at last, so pale, so wan, so ill, like a wraith of her debonair lover, it almost broke her fond, pitying heart. CHAPTER XXXIX. A LITTLE HAND. Alva was right about the travelers being weary. They retired early to their rooms that evening, St. George first of all. “How sweet, how beautiful!” he cried, when the odor of the roses greeted him from every side. He went up to the table, where a half-blown bud in a slender crystal vase charmed him with its crimson beauty.