at their feebleness. Love was an Armada, and bore down upon the little
armament that thought called up, and rode it all to atoms.

Small wonder, then, that on their return on Monday morning, as little Rose
Delano stood in Ruth's room looking up into her friend's face, the dreamy,
starry eyes, the smiles that crept in thoughtful dimples about the corners
of her mouth, the whole air of a mysterious something, baffled and
bewildered her.

Upon Ruth's writing-table rested a basket of delicate Marechal Niel buds,
almost veiled in tender maiden-hair; the anonymous sender was not unknown.

"It has agreed well with you, Miss Levice," said Rose, in her gentle,
patient voice, that seemed so out of keeping with her young face. "You
look as if you had been dipped in a love-elixir."

"So I have," laughed Ruth, her hand straying to the velvety buds; "it has
made a 'nut-brown mayde' of me, I think, Rosebud. But tell me the city
news. Everything in running order? Tell me."

"Everything is as your kind help has willed it. I have a pleasant little
room with a middle-aged couple on Post Street. Altogether I earn ten
dollars over my actual monthly expenses. Oh, Miss Levice, when shall I be
able to make you understand how deeply grateful I am?"

"Never, Rose; believe me, I never could understand deep things; that is why
I am so happy."

"You are teasing now, with that mischievous light in your eyes. Yet the
first time I saw your face I thought that either you had or would have a