“Who can they be from, Doro? Flowers, of course!”
Dorothy said nothing in reply; but in her heart she knew—she knew! The cord was untied at last, the tissue paper, all fragrant and dewy, lifted.
“Why!” said Tavia, rather in disappointment and doubt. “Not roses—or chrysanthemums—or—or——”
“Or anything foolish!” finished Dorothy, firmly.
She lifted from their bed of damp moss a bouquet of the simplest old-fashioned flowers; mignonette, and several long-stemmed, dewy violets and buttercups, pansies, forget-me-nots——
“He must have been robbing all the old-fashioned gardens around New York,” said Tavia. “But that’s a lovely ribbon—and yards of it.”
Dorothy did not speak at first. The cost of the gift meant nothing to her. Yet she knew that the monetary value of such a bouquet in New York must be far above what was ordinarily paid for roses and the like.
A note was nestling in the stems. She opened it and read:
“Dear Miss Dale:
“Was mighty sorry to hear you are still in retirement. Your friend said last evening that you were quite done-up. Now I am forced to leave in a hurry without seeing you. Sent bellhop up to your room and he reports ‘no answer.’