"I should n't care if it were the hundredth; it's just lovely. Besides, Jack has n't seen it, you know."
Rose laughed. "Oh, yes, he has--on Martie; that night of the tea on the porch."
"Oh, well, that's different. What flowers are you going to wear?"
"I thought I wouldn't wear any, just for a change." Rose's face was veiled by the shining hair, which she was brushing, preparatory to coiling it high on her head; otherwise, Hazel would have seen the clear flush that warmed even the roots of the soft waves at the nape of her neck. Just then there was a knock. The maid opened the door, and Wilkins' voice was distinctly audible:--
"Jes' come fo' Miss Rose; dey wuz to come up right smart, so de boy say."
"Oh, more flowers. Who from?" cried Hazel, eagerly, while Wilkins strained his ears to catch the reply.
"From Mr. Sherrill," said Rose, opening the little envelope.
What she read on the card caused the blood to mount higher and higher, till temples and forehead flushed pink, then as suddenly to recede.
"May I open them, Rose, and won't you wear some if they 're from Jack?"
"Yes," said Rose, simply. The two girls leaned over the box as Hazel took off the wrapper--then the cover--then the inner tissue papers--then--