She gazed after her almost yearningly till she had passed through the street door, then turned to replace the boxes of handkerchiefs on the shelves.
And as she did so, she noticed that the lady had carelessly left her well-filled purse on the counter under a drift of snowy lawn.
“Oh!” she cried, breathlessly, catching it up and rushing in swift pursuit.
The footman was just opening the carriage door for his lady when Floy appeared, her sweet face like a rose, her hair a tangle of gold in the sunshine.
“Madame—Mrs. Beresford—your purse! You left it on the counter!” she cried, incoherently.
“Thank you very much, my dear,” answered the lady, turning and taking the purse, and the girl’s hand with it. Gazing admiringly at Floy, she laughed sweetly, and exclaimed: “Do you know how I chanced to forget it? You are so very pretty, I kept staring at you as if you were a picture until the purse must have dropped unconsciously from my hand. It was very good of you to run after me with it, and I shall reward you with some of the contents.”
And she was opening the dainty gold-mounted porte-monnaie, when Floy’s little hand closed it impetuously.
“No, no, you must not—I can not accept it!” she exclaimed, confusedly, but with a little imperious air that bespoke secret indignation; and with a courteous bow to the surprised lady, she hurried back into the store.
Mrs. Beresford entered her carriage, feeling somehow as if she had been gently snubbed, and saying to herself, half smiling:
“The saucy little thing! I should have thought she would be glad to get five dollars so easily. I should have liked to reward her for her honesty, too, for some girls would have been mean enough to keep the purse. There’s five hundred dollars in it, too, that I brought out to spend on a bridal gift for Cousin Marion. But that girl, so lovely and dainty, made me forget everything. She’s proud enough and pretty enough for a princess, and it’s a pity she’s poor, for beauty is too often a curse to a poor salesgirl.”