The Finding of Jasper Holt by Grace Livingston Hill

It was late when Jean awoke. The household had been quiet on her account, and breakfast was delayed. Jean came down white with her vigil, but sweet and smiling notwithstanding.

The morning had brought clear vision and she was sure now that the paper in her possession must be given to Holt and no other. She had settled so much and would await her opportunity. This decided, her mind was at peace, and she entered the dining-room with a smile of greeting for everyone.

Late as it was, the master of the house had not yet appeared and the family stood about waiting for him. But as Jean entered the servant came in from an opposite door with his arms full of roses, and stood before her.

Such roses! Jean had never seen such wealth of beauty, such luxuriance of coloring. They all exclaimed in wonder over them! Clear golden-yellow with a deep, rosy tint at heart like liquid rubies spilled into them. Great heavy-headed buds and full blown roses in abundance, many of them still on the trailing vines, as if they had been plucked with ruthless hand to offer to a queen; their fragrance filled the room like a burst of incense from some oriental shrine. The servant laid them in her arms as though he were offering her a crown and sceptre.

"How wonderful! " murmured the girl, receiving them and laying her face reverently down to their exquisite beauty. "Where did they come from? Are they mine? Do they grow here?"

"I found them at the door, Miss," said the man respectfully. "There's only a card with your name."

"Why, how strange! " said Mrs. Harrington, stepping forward to inspect the card. "Who could have sent them? I have told a number of the young men about your coming, and they are all eager to see you; but it's strange that whoever sent these beautiful roses shouldn't have given his name. They are wonderfully rare. Somebody must have squandered his month's earnings on them. They couldn't have been bought around here. I suppose they came from some florist a long way off."

The discreet servant narrowed his eyes and turned away suddenly as he saw his master enter.

"Just look here, James, what beautiful roses someone has sent Jean! Wasn't that lovely of him, whoever he is? They were at the door when John opened it this morning, and no name on them! Who do you suppose could have sent them? Stockton Holmes, or Gartney Fowler, or even Captain Wetherill, perhaps?"

But the master of the house glanced sharply at the roses and a frown came between his brows.

"There's only one place around here where roses like that grow," he announced ominously.

His wife looked at him with a frightened expression.

"You don't mean -- -- ?"

"Yes," said Harrington. "They're Holt's Golden Sunset!"

There was an ominous silence as the husband and wife looked at each other. Then Mrs. Harrington turned to her sister, who stood behind her roses with an exquisite flush on her cheeks and a soft, burning light of battle in her eyes.

"Jean, did you know where they came from? " her sister asked, almost haughtily.

But Jean's lovely face showed no sign of intimidation as she raised it, gravely sweet, from the roses which she held as she might have held a little child.

"I thought perhaps Mr. Holt sent them," she said simply. "He told me about his roses. But excuse me just a minute till I put them in water. I won't keep you waiting."

When Jean returned after laying her roses tenderly in the wash-bowl in her room and bending to touch her lips to their petals, there was no look on her face as if anything unusual had passed except a kind of glorified light in her eyes. She began at once to give her sister a message from their mother, tactfully ignoring the flowers and their donor. But Harrington's set look did not relax during the entire meal.

After breakfast there was the whole place to be seen; the garden, the horses, the rabbits, and the new lawn-tennis court, the only one in town, where the young officers from the Fort came down to play sometimes.