CHAPTER VIII

Marion sat up in bed and opened the box in amazement, almost fright. There was no card, nothing even on the box to identify the florist. Just the sweet, mute faces of the lovely flowers. The astonished, gaping maid stood by in wonder, but could give no explanation save the many-times-reiterated account of her conversation with the boy. Marion laughed into the box, and cried into it. She had been feeling so lonely, and her head and limbs ached so fearfully, before this box came. Almost she had repented staying in th…