“I guess he’s found her!” cried the sympathizing men. “Let us go and see.”
They found John Brooks insensible, lying prone on his face, grasping a tiny little glove in one hand, and in the other a snowy little handkerchief, which bore, in one corner, worked in fanciful design, the name of “Daisy.”
CHAPTER XVII.
Glengrove was one of the most beautiful spots in the south of Florida. The house––similar to many in the South in style of architecture––stood in the midst of charming grounds which were filled with flowers. To the left of the house was a large shrubbery which opened on to a wide carriage-drive leading to the main road, but the principal attraction of Glengrove was its magnificent orange grove, where the brilliant sunshine loved to linger longest among the dark-green boughs, painting the luscious fruit with its own golden coloring––from green to gold. A low stone wall divided it from the beach which led to the sea.
It was early morning. In an elegant boudoir, whose oriel window overlooked the garden, sat three young ladies, respectively, Bessie Glenn, two-and-twenty; Gertie Glenn, twenty; and Eve Glenn, eighteen––all dark-eyed, dark-haired, and handsome, yet each of a distinct different type.
“I declare, Bess,” cried Gertie, indignantly, twisting the telegram she held in her hand into a wisp, “it’s from Uncle Jet! Guess what he says!”
“I couldn’t possibly,” yawns Bess, from the depths of her easy-chair; “it’s too much trouble.”