love, and singing together the melodies in which their voices had
first mingled.

Their road home was through woods and groves festooned with vines,
some hanging in massive coils, others light and aerial enough for
fairy swings; then over the smooth beach, where wave after wave leaped
up and tossed its white foam-garland on the shore. The sun was sinking
in a golden sea, and higher toward the zenith little gossamer clouds
blushingly dissolved in the brilliant azure, and united again, as if
the fragrance of roses had floated into form.

When they reached the cottage, Rosa passed through the silent little
parlor with swimming eyes, murmuring to herself: "Poor little
Floracita! how the sea made me think of her. I ought not to have been
so happy."

But memory wrote the record of that halcyon day in illuminated
manuscript, all glowing with purple and gold, with angel faces peeping
through a graceful network of flowers.

CHAPTER X.

Rosabella had never experienced such loneliness as in the months
that followed. All music was saddened by far-off echoes of past
accompaniments. Embroidery lost its interest with no one to praise the
work, or to be consulted in the choice of colors and patterns. The
books Gerald occasionally sent were of a light character, and though
they served to while away a listless hour, there was nothing in them
to strengthen or refresh the soul. The isolation was the more painful
because there was everything around her to remind her of the lost and
the absent. Flora's unfinished embroidery still remained in the frame,
with the needle in the last stitch of a blue forget-me-not. Over the
mirror was a cluster of blush-roses she had made. On the wall was a
spray of sea-moss she had pressed and surrounded with a garland of
small shells. By the door was a vine she had transplanted from the
woods; and under a tree opposite was a turf seat where she used to
sit sketching the cottage, and Tulee, and Thistle, and baskets of
wild-flowers she had gathered. The sight of these things continually
brought up visions of the loving and beautiful child, who for so many
years had slept nestling in her arms, and made the days tuneful with
her songs. Then there was Gerald's silent flute, and the silken
cushion she had embroidered for him, on which she had so often seen
him reposing, and thought him handsome as a sleeping Adonis. A letter
from him made her cheerful for days; but they did not come often,
and were g