A new access of tenderness seemed to have come over Fitzgerald; partly because happiness rendered her beauty more radiant, and partly because secret thoughts that were revolving in his mind brought some twinges of remorse.  He had never seemed more enamored, not even during the first week in Nassau, when he came to claim her as his bride.  Far down in the garden was an umbrageous walk, terminating in a vine-covered bower.  They remained there a long time, intertwined in each other’s arms, talking over the memories of their dawning consciousness of love, and singing together the melodies in which their voices had 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 they served to while away a listless hour, there was nothing in them to strengthen or refresh the soul.  The isolation was the more painful because there was everything around her to remind her of the lost and the absent.  Flora’s unfinished embroidery still remained in the frame, with the needle in the last stitch of a blue forget-me-not.  Over the mirror was a cluster of blush-roses she had made.  On the wall was a spray of sea-moss she had pressed and surrounded with a garland of small shells.  By the door was a vine she had transplanted from the woods; and under a tree opposite was a turf seat where she used to sit sketching the cottage, and Tulee, and Thistle, and baskets of wild-flowers she had gathered.  The sight of these things continually brought up visions of the loving and beautiful child, who for so many years had slept nestling in her arms, and made the days tuneful with her songs.  Then there was Gerald’s silent flute, and the silken cushion she had embroidered for him, on which she had so often seen him reposing, and thought him handsome as a sleeping Adonis.  A letter from him made her cheerful for days; but they did not come often, and were generally brief.  Tom came with the carriage once a week, according to his master’s orders; but she found solitary drives so little refreshing to body or mind that she was often glad to avail herself of Tulee’s company.