Rebecca stopped and stared at the other woman in amazement and
alarm. The great handsome blonde creature stood speechless, livid,
gasping, with her hand to her heart, her lips parted in a horrible
caricature of a smile.

"Are you sick!" cried Rebecca, drawing near. "Don't you want me to
get you some water!"

Then Mrs. Dent recovered herself with a great effort. "It is
nothing," she said. "I am subject to--spells. I am over it now.
Won't you come in, Miss Flint?"

As she spoke, the beautiful deep-rose colour suffused her face, her
blue eyes met her visitor's with the opaqueness of turquoise--with
a revelation of blue, but a concealment of all behind.

Rebecca followed her hostess in, and the boy, who had waited
quiescently, climbed the steps with the trunk. But before they
entered the door a strange thing happened. On the upper terrace
close to the piazza-post, grew a great rose-bush, and on it, late
in the season though it was, one small red, perfect rose.

Rebecca looked at it, and the other woman extended her hand with a
quick gesture. "Don't you pick that rose!" she brusquely cried.

Rebecca drew herself up with stiff dignity.

"I ain't in the habit of picking other folks' roses without leave,"
said she.