w an old garden up at an old country-place, where
my mother used to live as a girl. It used to be filled up with roses,
and I always think of the roses there as sweeter than any others in the
world."

"Yes, I like the old-fashioned roses best too," she said, with that
similarity of taste which always pleased him.

"The next time I come to see you I am going to bring you some of those
roses," he said. "My mother used to tell me of my father going out and
getting them for her, and I would like you to have some of them."

"Oh! thank you. How far is it from your home?"

"Fifteen or twenty miles."

"But you cannot get them there."

"Oh! yes, I can; the fact is, I own the place." She looked interested.
"Oh! it is not worth anything as land," he said, "but I love the
association. My mother was brought up there, and I keep up the garden
just as it was. You shall have the roses. Some day I want to see you
among them." Just then there was a step behind him. She rose.

"Is it ours?" she asked someone over her shoulder.

"Yes, come along."

Floyd glanced around. It was the "son of the great Router".

She turned to Floyd, and said, in an earnest undertone, "I am very
sorry; but I had an engagement. Good-by." She held out her hand. Floyd
took it and pressed it.

"Good-by," he said, tenderly. "That is all right."

She took the-son-of-the-great-Router's arm.

*****

One afternoon, a month after Miss Dangerlie's reception, Henry Floyd
was packing his trunk. He had just looked at his watch, when there was a
ring at the bell. He knew it was the postman, and a soft look came over
his face as he reflected that even if he got no letter he would see her
within a few hours. A large box of glorious old-fashioned roses was on
the floor near him, and a roll of money and a time-table lay beside
it. He had ridden thirty miles that morning to get and bring the roses
himself for one whom he always thought of in connection with them.

A letter was brought in, and a pleased smile lit up the young man's face
as he saw the handwriting. He laid on the side of the trunk a coat that
he held, and then sat down on the arm of a chair and opened the letter.
His hand stroked it softly as if it were of velvet. He wore a pleased
smile as he began to read. Then the smile died away and a startled look
took its place. The color faded out of his face, and his mouth closed
firmly. When he was through he turned back and read the letter all over
again,