Alice came down the steps.  Farnham, seeing her encumbered by her books, took them from her, and they went down the walks to the conservatory.  They found Ferguson sitting, with the same rapt observation, before his tropical darling.  As the ladies entered, he rose to give them seats, and then retired to the most distant corner of the room, where he spent the rest of the evening entirely unaware of any one’s presence, and given up to the delight of his eyes.  The bud was so far opened that the creamy white of the petals could be seen within the riven sheath, whose strong dark color exquisitely relieved the pallid beauty it had guarded so long.  The silky stamens were still curled about the central style, but the splendor of color which was coming was already suggested, and a breath of intoxicating fragrance stole from the heart of the immaculate flower.

They spoke to each other in low tones, as if impressed with a sort of awe at the beautiful and mysterious development of fragrant and lovely life going forward under their sight.  The dark eyes of Alice Belding were full of that vivid happiness which strange and charming things bring to intelligent girlhood.  She was looking with all her soul, and her breath was quick and high, and her soft red lips were parted and tremulous.  Farnham looked from her to the flower, and back again, gazing on both with equal safety, for the one was as unconscious of his admiring glances as the other.

Suddenly, the sound of bells floated in from the neighboring street, and both of the ladies started.  “No, don’t you go,” said Mrs. Belding to her daughter.  “I must, because I have to see my ’Rescue the Perishing.’  But you can just as well stay here and make your sketch.  Mr. Farnham can take care of you, and I will be back in an hour.”

“But, mamma!” cried Miss Alice, too much scandalized to speak another word.

“I won’t have you lose this chance,” her mother continued.  “I am sure Mr. Farnham will not object to taking care of you a little while; and if he hasn’t the time, Fergus will bring you home—­hm, Fergus?”

“Ay, madam, with right guid will,” the gardener said, his hard face softening into a smile.

“There, sit down in that chair and begin your sketch.  It is lovely just as it is.”  She waited until Alice, whose confusion had turned her face crimson, had taken her seat, opened her sketch-book, and taken her pencils in her trembling hands, and then the brisk and hearty woman drew her shawl about her and bustled to the door.

“I will walk to the church door with you,” said Farnham, to the infinite relief of Alice, who regained her composure at the instant, and began with interest to sketch the flower.  She thought, while her busy fingers were at work, that she had perhaps been too prudish in objecting to her mother’s plan.  “He evidently thinks nothing of it, and why should I?”