agerly, "you told me the other day you liked
flowers. If you have not been in the conservatory, may I escort you
there?"

She silently accepted his arm, and they went through the magnificent
suite of rooms into the cool, fragrant conservatory.

The pretty fountain in the midst rippled musically, and the lamps
gleamed like pale stars among masses of gorgeous color.

Beatrice was almost bewildered by the profusion of beautiful plants.
Tier upon tier of superb flowers rose until the eye was dazzled by the
varied hues and brightness--delicate white heaths of rare perfection,
flaming azaleas, fuchsias that looked like showers of purple-red wine.
The plant that charmed Beatrice most was one from far-off Indian
climes--delicate, perfumed blossoms, hanging like golden bells from
thick, sheltering green leaves. Miss Earle stood before it, silent in
sheer admiration.

"You like that flower?" said Lord Airlie.

"It is one of the prettiest I ever saw," she replied.

In a moment he gathered the fairest sprays from the precious tree. She
cried out in dismay at the destruction.

"Nay," said Lord Airlie, "if every flower here could be compressed into
one blossom, it would hardly be a fitting offering to you."

She smiled at the very French compliment, and he continued--"I shall
always have a great affection for that tree."

"Why?" she asked, unconsciously.

"Because it has pleased you," he replied.

They stood by the pretty plant, Beatrice touching the golden bells
softly with her fingers. Something of the magic of the scene touched
her. She did not know why the fountain rippled so musically, why the
flowers seemed doubly fair as her young lover talked to her. She had
been loved. She had heard much of love, but she herself had never
known what it really meant. She did not know why, after a time, her
proud, bright eyes drooped, and had never met Lord Airlie's gaze, why
her face flushed and grew pale, why his words woke a new, strange,
beautiful music in her heart--music that never died until--

"I ask for one spray--only one--to keep in memory of this pleasant
hour," said Lord Airlie, after a pause.

She gave him a spray of the delicate golden bells.

"I should like to be curious and rude," he said, "and ask if you ever
gave any one a flower before?"

"No," she replied.

"Then I shall prize this doubly," he assured her.

That evening Lord Airlie placed the golden blossom carefully away. The
time came when h