movements always betraying the diffidence of solitary habit. The lips were
her finest feature, their perfect outline indicating sweetness without
feebleness of character. Such a girl is at her best towards the stroke of
thirty. Rose had begun to know herself; she needed only opportunity to act
upon her knowledge.

A train would take them back to the seaside. At the railway station Rose
seated herself on a shaded part of the platform, whilst her father, who was
exceedingly short of sight, peered over publications on the bookstall.
Rather tired after her walk, the girl was dreamily tracing a pattern with
the point of her parasol, when some one advanced and stood immediately in
front of her. Startled, she looked up, and recognised the red-haired
stranger of the inn.

'You left these flowers in a glass of water on the table. I hope I'm not
doing a rude thing in asking whether they were left by accident.'

He had the flowers in his hand, their stems carefully protected by a piece
of paper. For a moment Rose was incapable of replying; she looked at the
speaker; she felt her cheeks burn; in utter embarrassment she said she knew
not what.

'Oh!--thank you! I forgot them. It's very kind.'

Her hand touched his as she took the bouquet from him. Without another word
the man turned and strode away.

Mr. Whiston had seen nothing of this. When he approached, Rose held up the
flowers with a laugh.