“Alva!” he called, thinking she had followed him for a tender little chat.
But there was no reply.
He sprung to the portières and thrust them aside, but the long, brightly lighted corridor was empty.
He returned to his room slowly, thinking in a solemn awe:
“It was not my fancy. I distinctly saw a little hand—small, white and dimpled—vanishing away. It was her hand—my Floy’s—beckoning me to the world of shadows.”
All night, whether waking or sleeping, she was in his thoughts—his dead love.
The odor of the roses, their bloom and beauty, had recalled her to his mind as she had been the night that he had dreamed of her among the roses—blessed dream that had sent him to her side to save her from deadly peril!
She was with the angels now—lovely little Floy!—but she had hovered near him to-night; he knew by the little welcoming hand that had gleamed there a moment among the folds of violet silk.
Dear little hand! How he had loved its dimpled beauty! How soft and warm and thrilling it had been when he pressed it! Alas! it was only an icy shadow now!
“Dear Heaven, I wish that I might die and follow little Floy to her bright home!” he groaned, despairingly.