The suspense began to tell on the weakened nerves of the impatient lover, and his improvement became less marked as hope and expectation became dulled in his heart.
But in vain they urged him to desert the hot city for the cool breezes of Newport.
“It would seem like deserting my darling. I can not go until I find her,” he answered, resolutely; and so the burning August days found them lingering still in the city, though the aristocratic avenue was deserted save for them. They would not leave him there to fret and grieve alone over his trouble.
He was bitterly impatient over his lingering weakness that prevented him from taking an active part in the search for Floy.
“Be patient, dear; Mr. Landon will surely find her soon!” Alva would exclaim each day, her own heart aching in sympathy with his pain.
She brought from Floy’s room, for his eyes to feast on, the books the young girl had read and marked, and it was a melancholy joy to him to read every line her dear eyes had rested on or her pencil marked. It seemed to bring their sundered hearts closer together.
One day she chanced on a little blank-book in which Floy had been wont to scribble her girlish fancies when alone, and she found that many of her sweet thoughts had been clothed in poetic diction.
Poetry is the natural language of love, and Floy, in her sorrow, had fallen so often into this tender speech, that Alva’s tears fell like rain as she read the simple lines.
There was one little poem that bore date the very day of St. George’s home-coming, so she could not doubt that it was written for her brother.
“Who would have dreamed that bright, arch little Floy had such depths of womanly tenderness in her nature?” she exclaimed, when telling St. George about the sweet little verses.