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