“You will let me see them!” he cried, eagerly; and Alva assented, saying:
“Yes, for I am sure they were composed by Floy herself, and intended for you, my dear. They are very simple and sad, and perhaps have but little literary merit, yet they breathe the love and constancy of a noble heart.”
She gave him the little book to read, and he turned the pages as though they were something sacred, for here and there they were blistered with Floy’s sad tears.
The letter that Floy had left for Alva had told but little of her love, and breathed only her indomitable pride. How different was the little book that in her hurry she had forgotten to take away!
Every tender word found an echo in St. George’s devoted heart, and when he came to the page that bore date of his home-coming, he was not ashamed of the tears that rose when he read the sad and tender lines so full of her love and sorrow and tenderness.
“YOU WILL KNOW.
“When lighter loves shall fail you in your need,
When the prop you lean on proves a broken reed,
When wrong and falsehood cause your heart to bleed;
“When all the world seems hollow, cold, and dark,