night. But once in the year this aged cactus blossomed, and on this white night, the happiest in all Philip Rondelet's life, the cereus had bloomed for him. The delicate waxen petals slowly unfolded, revealing the deep heart which seemed to glow with a hidden flame. The perfume, unlike that of any other flower, floated about him like an incense. As he kept his vigil with the wondrous blossom, it seemed to him that the eyes of his soul were looking into a heart as fresh and fragrant. He believed that he could see the light of love burning for him, faint and tender as the mystic radiance of the cereus. Margaret loved him. For the first time he believed that his heart's desire was granted. She loved him. Why else should she have smiled so happily in his face? Why had she talked with him in the old, unreserved way that had been hers ere the cloud had come between them? Why had she, with that inimitable gesture of grace and shyness, taken the flowers from her breast and laid them in his hand, letting her own linger while he kissed the little palm till it was pink with blushes? Margaret loved him; and happy in that belief after the long doubt and fear, dismissed now forever, he fell asleep.
With the morrow came his daily tasks and the remembrance of that other promise he had made Robert, to find Therese and save her from the
