ne of the high, stone balconies of the Hotel _Venezia_.

There was one chance in ten that a certain tall, girlish figure might
appear there, as it had so often done in the carelessly fleeting days
that were already past and gone; there was one chance in twenty that it
might appear for his sake, that a fluttering white handkerchief might
assure him of certain pleasant things. He strained his eyes to the last
possible moment, in the hope of such a sight; but he was too mindful of
appearances even in the stress and strain of painful emotion, to take
out his opera-glass and turn it upon that point. He did, however, so far
forget himself, as to sigh profoundly, and without that guarded look to
right and left, which should always precede such an indulgence. That, in
itself, was a very marked concession to feeling.

There remained to Kenwick one consolation besides that of having behaved
handsomely to Daymond: he had left a fragrant, if not a lasting, memory
behind him. Would she not be pleased, would she not be touched, when,
presently, his roses were brought to her? She was to find them when she
came up from breakfast; his directions to the porter on that head had
been very explicit. And would not the roses, beautiful in themselves,
gain a telling significance, by reason of the message they bore? On the
reverse side of his card he had written, in his small, clear hand, the
words:

"All June I bound the rose in sheaves."

The line seemed to him extremely well chosen; it could hardly fail to
stimulate the imagination. He, himself, felt its haunting quality, and
he had repeated it, under his breath, as he followed the gardener about,
urging him to cull his choicest roses.

As he mused upon these things, the yacht, rounding Santa Elena, steamed
away to the Porto del Lido, and he suddenly became aware that Miss
Hortense Stickney's inquisitive eyes were fixed upon him. He was
instantly on his guard.

"Well, that's the last of Venice," he exclaimed, "and I'm glad of it.
One gets tired of dawdling about on a magnified frog-pond. One begins to
long for the open sea." Miss Stickney looked gratified, and Kenwick felt
himself once more in his element.

May Beverly, meanwhile, had been frankly delighted with the roses. So
enchanting did she find them, indeed, that she had merely glanced at
the card, and had tossed it into the waste-paper basket without looking
at the reverse side.

"Just think of it, Pauline!" she had cried