Why did Robert Ellerton’s heart leap so suddenly and fiercely within his bosom as his gaze rested upon the fair girl?
He bent eagerly forward for a better view of her lovely features.
They seemed strangely familiar—strangely like the face of one who had long been cherished and enshrined within the holy of holies of his heart, and he felt almost sure that the elegant floral offering had come from her dainty hand.
He cast his eyes again upon the flowers, and started as he saw, coiled between the pure leaves, a little perfumed note.
He quivered in every nerve as he drew it quickly from its hiding-place, and unfolded it.
A cry almost burst from his lips as the words within met his gaze. They were simple, chaste, yet breathing an intense longing for the one to whom they were addressed.
“Robbie, I am here; I could not stay away. Oh, come and tell me if I am welcome.
Dora.
“At the Glenburn House.”
For a moment he sat clasping that precious missive, in a trance of motionless delight. He almost feared to move lest he should break the spell. His face was pale as marble, and he could scarcely credit the evidence of his own senses. He feared to raise his eyes lest the vision should have vanished, and he find it all a dream.