earily.

"All the roses are dead," she said softly; "the time of roses is over."

"No, it is not over; it will come back again at the proper season," said
Trevor; "and don't think that I--"

"But do you know--"

"I know," he answered gravely. He bowed his head; then he drew a chair
forward.

"I must speak to you," he said.

"You know everything?" she repeated.

"I do," he said. "I am glad you came to mother and told her. It is true
I suspected much. You know that passage in Miss Keys's handwriting which
I told you about some time ago, and the identically same passage in the
newspaper article which was supposed to be yours?--to a great extent my
eyes were opened at that time, but not completely."

"You look very, very angry," she said.

"I am angry," he answered; "but, I think I can say with truth, not with
you."

"With Bertha?"

"Please do not mention her name."

"But I have been to blame: I have been terribly weak."

"You have been terribly weak; you have been worse. You have done wrong,
great wrong; but, Florence--may I call you by your Christian
name?--winter comes in every year, but it is followed by spring, and
spring is followed by summer, and in summer the roses bloom again, and
the time of roses comes back, Florence, and it will come back even to
you."

"No, no," she said, and she began to sob piteously.

"You have been so good, so more than good to me," she said. "If you had
known you would have despised me."

"If I had known I should have gone straight to Miss Keys and put a stop
to this disgraceful thing," was the young man's answer. "I suppose,
Florence," he added, after a pause, "you, if you have time to think of
me at all, pity me now because I am a penniless man."

"Oh, no, no," she replied; "it is not good for people to be too rich. I
have quite come to be of that opinion."

"Thank God, then, we are both of one way of thinking because God, though
He has not given you this special talent, has given you much."

"Much," she repeated, vaguely.

"Yes," he repeated, speaking earnestly: "He has given you
attractiveness, great earnestness of purpose, and oh! a thousand other
things. He has at least done this for you, Florence: He has made you so
that in all the wide world you are the only woman for me. I can love no
one but you, Florence--no one else--no one else, even though you did
fall."

"You cannot: it is impossible," answered Florence. "You cannot love me
now."

"I have loved