I was walking with one of the gardeners down one
of the long shady paths of that lovely little island, with its
curiously foreign look, when we suddenly came face to face with
Derrick and Freda. They were talking earnestly, and I could see her
great grey eyes as they were lifted to his--perhaps they were more
expressive than she knew--I cannot say. They both started a little
as we confronted them, and the colour deepened in Freda's face. The
gardener, with what photographers usually ask for--'just the faint
beginning of a smile,'--turned and gathered a bit of white heather
growing near.
"They say it brings good luck, miss," he remarked, handing it to
Freda.
"Thank you," she said, laughing, "I hope it will bring it to me. At
any rate it will remind me of this beautiful island. Isn't it just
like Paradise, Mr. Wharncliffe?"
"For me it is like Paradise before Eve was created," I replied,
rather wickedly. "By the bye, are you going to keep all the good
luck to yourself?"
"I don't know," she said laughing. "Perhaps I shall; but you have
only to ask the gardener, he will gather you another piece
directly.
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