The Time of Roses. L. T. Meade

glad," he replied. "Is that your daughter?" he continued, as if he wished to turn the conversation.

      "That is my dear daughter Florence." Mrs. Aylmer spoke excitedly.

      Florence and Kitty Sharston were seated on the edge of a rock. Kitty was poking with her parasol at some sea-anemones which were clinging to the rock just under the water. Florence was gazing with a frown between her dark brows at her mother and the man who was by her mother's side. If she could have fled, she would, but Mrs. Aylmer, who knew Florence's ways to perfection, now raised her voice to a shrill scream.

      "Stay where you are, Florence; I am coming to sit with you, so is Mr. Trevor; don't stir until we come up."

      Poor Florence's blush was so vivid that it was well it was too far off to be noticed. There was nothing for it, however, but to obey. Mrs. Aylmer came up in high good humour, and made the necessary introductions.