But Miss Beresford noticed that whenever she took the little beauty for a drive in the park, as she often did, Floy was always muffled in a very thick veil, through whose meshes even the keen eyes of love or hate could scarcely have detected her identity.
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.