must thank you for my lovely roses."

He watched her face with evident interest and it seemed that his own
countenance had become less haggard and sad than formerly.

"Let me introduce my friends," said the girl, with sudden recollection
of her duty. "This is Mr. Merrick, my good friend and benefactor; and
this is Major Doyle and his daughter Miss Patricia Doyle, both of whom
have the kindest hearts in the world; Miss Beth De Graf, Mr. Merrick's
niece, has watched over and cared for me like a sister, and--oh, I
forgot; Miss Patsy is Mr. Merrick's niece, too. So now you know them
all."

The man nodded briefly his acknowledgment.

"You--you are Mr. Jones, I believe, of--of Boston?"

"Once of Boston," he repeated mechanically. Then he looked at her and
added: "Go on."

"Why--what--I don't understand," she faltered. "Have I overlooked
anyone?"

"Only yourself," he said.

"Oh; but I--I met you last night."

"You did not tell me your name," he reminded her.

"I'm Myrtle," she replied, smiling in her relief. "Myrtle Dean."