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.
“What a rich, warm, velvety scarlet rose—the flower of love!” he exclaimed; and pressed his lips on the curling petals.
In that instant a memory of Floy, his lost young love, came to him in bitter agony.
He turned his head quickly toward the door.
It had seemed to him that he heard a long, low, quivering sigh behind the shadowy portières of violet silk.
And as he looked he saw vaguely—or was it only fancy?—a tiny hand all white and dimpled, gleam an instant on the shining silk, then vanish.