r there, with an old friend of her mother for company,
he was told, and would not come back to the city before December.

It was a cold, stormy night in September, when he knocked at the door of
Miss Harrison's residence; but a cheery light shone from the window, and
streamed out of the door which the servant held open.

He inquired for Miss Harrison, and was shown at once into her presence.
She sat in a low chair, her dress of sombre black relieved by a white
ribbon at the throat, and by the chestnut light of the shining hair that
swept in unbound luxuriance over her shoulders. She rose to meet her
guest, scarcely recognizing Archer Trevlyn in the bronzed, bearded man
before her.

"Miss Harrison," he said, gently, "it is a cold night; will you not give
a warm welcome to an old friend?"

She knew his voice instantly. A bright color leaped to her cheek, an
embarrassment which made her a thousand times dearer and more charming to
Arch Trevlyn, possessed her. But she held out her hands, and said a few
shy words of welcome.

Arch sat down beside her, and the conversation drifted into recollections
of their own individual history. They spoke to each other with the
freedom of very old friends, forgetful of the fact that this was almost
the very first conversation they had ever had together.

After a while, Arch said:

"Miss Harrison, do you remember when you first saw me?"

She looked at him a moment, and hesitated before she answered.

"I may be mistaken, Mr. Trevlyn. If so, excuse me; but I think I saw you
first, years and years ago, in a flower store."

"You are correct; and on that occasion your generous kindness made me
very happy. I thought it would make my mother happy, also. I ran all the
way home, lest the roses might wilt before she saw them."

He stopped and gazed into the fire.

"Was she pleased with them?"

"She was dead. We put them in her coffin. They were buried with her."

Margie laid her hand lightly on his.

"I am so sorry for you! I, too, have buried my mother."

After a little silence, Arch went on.

"The next time you saw me was when you gave me these." He took out his
pocket-book, and displayed to her, folded in white paper, a cluster of
faded bluebells. "Do you remember them?"

"I think I do. You were knocked down by the pole of the carriage?"

"Yes. And the next time? Do you remember the next time?"

"I do."

"I thought so. I want to thank you, now, for your generous forbearan