drunk on sunset and phlox, Miss Vesta?"

"Oh, I trust not, I trust not!" said Miss Vesta, hurriedly, and she
made haste to change the subject. She as well as her sister found
the young doctor's expressions overstrong at times, yet she loved
the lad.

"The roses are at their sweetest now," she said, leading the
conversation gently away from the too passionate white phlox, on
which the moth was still waving its wings drowsily. "This black
damask is considered very fine, but I love the old-fashioned June
roses best."

"'She loves you, noble roses, I know!'" said Geoffrey, who certainly
was not himself to-night. "This one is exactly like you, Miss Vesta.
Look at it; just the colour of ivory with a little sunset mixed in.
Now you know what you look like."

"Oh, hush, my dear young friend!" said Miss Vesta. "You must not--
really, you know--talk in this way. But--it is curious that you
should have noticed that particular rose; it--it is the kind I used
to wear when I was young."

She looked up at the lamp in the window. Geoffrey's eyes followed
hers. Involuntarily he laid his hand on hers. "Dear Miss Vesta!" he
said, and his strong, hearty voice could be very gentle. "Miss Blyth
told me. Does it still hurt, dear lady?"

Miss Vesta's breath fluttered for a moment, but it was only a moment.
Her soft white fingers, cool as rose-leaves, returned the pressure