Worcester Morning Daily Spy

THE FACE IN THE CONSERVATORY.

By FLORENCE MARRYAT,

Author of "Love's Conflict,"

"My Own Child," "My Sister the Actress," etc.

(Copyright.)

From a child, I have been a devotee of Nature rather than Art, and from a very early age was a scientific botanist. The endless marvels to be discovered in the flora of our own and other countries has been a never-failing source of pleasure to me, and having adopted literature as a profession, I found myself at the age of five-and-twenty appointed editor and general manager of an important botanical journal connected with one of our best-known London papers. The position was a responsible and remunerative one, and I soon was in active correspondence with amateur and professional floriculturists in every part of the globe. The pile of letters that awaited my daily advent at the office would hardly be believed, and it was as much as I could do to answer them. My private room was playfully termed "The Lady's Bower," by the officials, so covered were its walls with specimens of plants, flowers, and vegetables from different parts of the world, and many that reached me caused me both study and trouble, so unlike were they from anything I had met with before. One day I found, amongst others, a foreign letter awaiting me, bearing the stamp of the Southern Brazils. The address was written in a delicate female hand, and the contents were as follows:

"To the Editor of the Sunflower:

"Sir—Will you be so good as to tell me the name, genus, and qualities of the enclosed fern? It was gathered by my brother at a place called Itacarussu, which is about thirty miles south of Rio Janeiro on the sea coast, where he saw specimens of it four feet high. The plant he brought me was only a foot in height, but has since attained three feet in my hot-house. I have shown it to various friends resident in the country, without being able to ascertain its classification, and as I am a great lover and collector of ferns, I have been advised to apply to you for information. Apologizing for the trouble I am giving you, I am, dear sir, yours faithfully,

"Concita d'Alren."

I carefully examined the leaf which my correspondent had enclosed in her letter, but could not remember ever having met with such a fern before. The leaf was long and narrow, tapering to a point; its upper surface was corrugated and its color variable, being of a pale green with pinkish bars across it: the edges, moreover, were furnished with small, sharp prickles, like those of a cactus. I could not believe at first that it was a fern at all. I showed the specimen to several of my colleagues, who upheld me in my opinion, and after some deliberation (though very loath to confess that my knowledge had been baffled in naming any botanical specimen), I was obliged to answer Miss d'Alren's letter, and say that I was unable to name her specimen, and thought she must have made a mistake in calling it a fern. But if not a fern, I could not tell her what it was, as it tallied with no genus known to me. So I wrote in shame and mortification, and felt that the transaction had lowered me in my own esteem. I did not expect to hear again, but after the lapse of a few weeks I found another letter in the same handwriting lying on my office table. I opened it rather impatiently. A photograph fell out of the envelope.

"I am troubling you again," wrote Miss d'Alren, "because the thought has struck me to have the plant, of which I forwarded you a leaf, photographed, so that you may better judge of its size, height and general appearance, which you will perceive is decidedly fern-like. My brother, who has had occasion to revisit Itacarussu, pronounces it to be one of the giant ferns so common in this climate, but the leaf differs from theirs in every particular, and I am more inclined myself to defer to your opinion, and classify it as a cactus and not a fern. But any information you may be able to send me will be most gratefully acknowledged by yours truly, Concita d'Alren."

I took up the photograph and examined it carefully. The grand plant stood in a tub to one side of the picture, amidst a blaze of flowering shrubs and tropical creepers. Rare varieties of the famous Brazilian orchids hung in festoons from the roof of the conservatory, whilst the floor was carpeted with foreign mosses and fairy ferns. The space seemed illimitable, and the house was crowded with rarities. How I longed to possess just such another for myself!

Plants from every climate were growing in close proximity; my correspondent had indeed reason to call herself an amateur. I put the photograph aside, and as soon as office hours were over, I carried it to my friend and adviser, Prof. Boscawen, in hopes that he might help me to decide the knotty question. But the professor proved to be as puzzled as myself. He had never met with such a fern, though he believed he was cognizant of all the known varieties, and in order to examine it more thoroughly, he brought out a powerful magnifying glass and applied it to the photograph.

"Cannot you classify it?" I demanded, rather impatiently, as the professor remained with his eyes glued to the picture. "It is evidently the same leaf as she enclosed in her letter. What puzzles me is the formation of it. I believe it is only one of the monstrous jungle cacti after all, and we have been wasting our time in examining it."

But still the professor kept his gaze fixed on the photograph.

"Say a bit!" he exclaimed: "I can see something very interesting here."

"What is it? Can you distinguish the pollen? But you are looking at the wrong plant, professor! The fern is in the tub on the left."

"I know what I'm about, Carroll, though I'm not looking at the same natural beauty as yourself. Just take this glass and look steadily to the right, between the leaves of that magnolia, and tell me what you see there."

I took the magnifier, as he directed me, and saw distinctly, peeping, as it were, from under the large, glossy leaves of the magnolia, a woman's face—the loveliest face, as I thought then, and have thought ever since, that I had ever seen. It was so faintly portrayed as to be invisible to the naked eye, and from what I knew of photography, I saw that it had never been intended to be included in the picture, but must have appeared for a moment and then withdrawn itself; but under the powerful glasses it was apparent enough. It was a youthful face, roguish, dimpled and merry, with large, dark eyes and sweet, feminine features, a pouting mouth and smiling lips.

"By Jove!" I exclaimed, starting backwards, "it is a woman!"

"Yes—and a deuced pretty woman into the bargain!" replied the professor; "better worth looking after than all the ferns in the universe. The portrait of your fair correspondent, evidently, and the owner of the conservatory—there is no doubt of that. She must have glanced round the corner to see her photographer at work, and been taken before she was aware of the fact. But I cannot make anything of her fern, for all that. Write her that it is not a fern at all, and ask if she can send you a seedling from it, and a better portrait of herself at the same time, in which you take more interest. That's what you'll do if you're wise, Carroll."

My friend dismissed me with a laugh at my expense, and I carried home the photograph and specimen leaf, but from that day I thought far more of the former than the latter. Botany and all its delights might have gone to the deuce before I would have parted with the face in the conservatory. I procured the most powerful magnifying glass obtainable, and would remain for hours, when freed from office work, gazing at the merry eyes and arch smile of Concita d'Alren, and wondering whether it would ever be my lot to meet the original. Meanwhile, I did not neglect to keep up our correspondence, and many were the sheets of paper which I covered with horticultural terms and descriptions in order to induce her to write me again. I did not forget to hint, either, how pleased I should be if my fate ever led me to the Brazils, that I might have the opportunity of studying its wondrous flora for myself. But I never told her that I had discovered her lovely face in the conservatory. Miss d'Alren wrote me again and again, forwarding numerous specimens of different Brazilian plants, which I had expressed a wish to examine, but always referring to what she persisted in terming her favorite fern, and expressing a desire that I could see it for myself, and hear her reasons for classifying it as she did. And I was gloating over her image the while and trying to think of a dozen different excuses to make a journey to Rio Janeiro and procure a personal introduction to her.

She never mentioned a father or mother in her letters, only her brother, who appeared to hold a roving commission over the country, and to leave her much by herself. Sometimes almost as though the same longing actuated us both—Miss d'Alren would mention the possibility of her visiting England, but she could not make up her mind to leave her garden and hothouses, and all her children, as she called her flowers. But she hoped, she said, that if ever pleasure or business took me to the Brazils, I would favor them with a visit, and stay at I Paradiso—as their plantation was called—as long as ever it was convenient to me. And after receiving such a letter from her, how I used to gaze at the lovely face peeping through the magnolia leaves, and burn to pack my valise and get off at once to ask her to share my studies and my life, thenceforward and forever. In fact, I was in love—in love with a shadow. I, Edward Carroll, who had attained the ripe age of five-and-twenty without having lost my heart to any woman, had fatally succumbed to the charms of a few white and black lines, which I had never been intended to see. After Concita d'Alren had formally invited me to stay at her house, our letters became far more frequent and familiar, and I actually asked her downright if it would be considered proper for me to accept her invitation, unless her brother seconded it. I almost thought I detected a strain of sarcasm in her reply, as she wrote me to dismiss all such prudish, English ideas from my mind. Her brother, Manuel, never interfered with her wishes, she averred; he would probably be at home when I arrived, and if not, she had a female relative in the house whose presence would afford us all the chaperonage desirable. And she ended that epistle by begging me to try and spend my coming Christmas vacation at I Paradiso so as to escape the severity of the English winter. She promised me plenty of shooting, if I would go; also of riding; and we would organize the most delightful botanizing excursions through the many forests that lay within a reasonable distance of their home.

The prospect fired me; I dreamt of it night and day, and commenced to store up my salary for the purpose of defraying the expenses of my voyage. Concita had said it would be useless my taking the journey for less than two months, and hoped I should be able to procure that amount of leave of absence from my editorial duties. Two whole months spent in the company of the owner of that adorable face! Why, I would have sacrificed every prospect I had in life to obtain such a privilege! I spoke to my chief at once on the subject—told him that the family doctor said my health was failing, on account of my too close attention to office work, and that if I did not take a decided change—by preference a sea voyage—he would not answer for the consequences. My chief is a good-natured and unsuspicious man. He asked me what I intended to do. I replied, with a downcast air, that I had friends in the Brazils who had offered to entertain me for a couple of months, and my medical adviser thought I could not do better than accept their invitation.

"Well, Carroll," he said kindly, "I don't quite see how we are to supply your place, but necessity knows no law. Do you think you could persuade Prof. Boscawen

"The very man!" I exclaimed. "I will sound him on the subject at once."

The professor proved quite willing to accept my rather handsome salary for the next quarter, and having borrowed what more I required of a long-suffering friend, I set sail in the beginning of December for Rio Janeiro. Where was I going? To whom was I going? What was I going for? I asked myself these questions a dozen times during the voyage, but could only find one answer to them—Concita, Concita, Concita! My heart and my instincts were propelling me onward, almost against my better judgment; still I felt forced to proceed, whether or not. I knew that my friends would have dubbed me a senseless idiot had they guessed my real errand, but I had taken good care not to betray my secret to any one. Not a soul but Prof. Boscawen knew that there was a face portrayed in the photograph, which I carried next my heart, and he seemed to have forgotten that he had ever discovered it. But I knew it, and that was enough. Often, during the tedious journey, did I take out my magnifying glass and examine afresh the pouting smile, the startled eyes, and the lissom grace of the charming hostess I was hastening to. Concita amidst her flowers, like the very spirit of the blossoms she revelled in! She was a fit guardian and lover of the beautiful, perishable things; thenceforward she would represent for me the essence of the nature that I adored. And if—our sympathies being so much in unison, our innocent tastes so similar, our pleasures derivable from the same pursuit—she might be induced to regard me with a favorable eye, what happiness, what content, would be mine! I was so full of this idea—I had allowed my mind to dwell so constantly upon the lovely face in the conservatory—that I forgot that Concita knew nothing of my infatuation, and was very nearly writing her a proposal of marriage before we met. However, I controlled my impatience as well as I was able, and having spent one night in Rio Janeiro, I set off on my journey to I Paradiso, which was situated at the foot of the Corcovado mountain, and only an hour's drive from the city.

As I came in sight of it, I thought it was the loveliest place I had ever seen. The white, green-shuttered house, surrounded by a verandah, embosomed in flowering creepers, lay on the side of a hill, in the midst of woods, which sheltered it on every side. The plantation which formed its approach was a mass of tropical blossoms, which trailed from tree to tree like many colored ribbons, while bright hued birds flitted from bough to bough, startling the eye with their brilliant and variegated plumage. It was indeed well named Il Paradiso, and when I thought of the Eve who presided over this Paradise—the Eve who had called me there from over the seas—the Eve whom I had determined, if possible, to win for myself—my heart beat rapidly with anticipation.

Arrived at the house itself, I was received in the verandah by a smiling Spanish woman servant, who informed me that Senorita d'Alren would be with me directly. Meanwhile she ushered me into a low, long room, sheltered from the rays of the midday sun by green jalousies, and which led from the further end into the very conservatory the picture of which I carried under my waistcoat. Yes, there were the beautiful plants and flowers which I had so much admired; there stood the tub with the famous fern, or cactus, the disputed genus of which had led to my present happy position—everything was there, just as I had pictured it, with the exception of the glowing young face peeping from beneath the leaves of the magnolia. But it would not be long now before I should gaze on the original of my dreams for myself. My reverie was interrupted by the door opening, and an old lady entered, smiling, to greet me. This was doubtless the female relation of whom my Concita had written, saying that she would form an excellent chaperon for us. I could see she was in some way related to the sweet face that had stolen my heart from me, because her eyes were also large and glowing, and her features small and delicate. I put her down at once as an aunt or elderly cousin of my enslaver.

"A thousand welcomes, Mr. Carroll, to Il Paradiso," she commenced, as we shook hands. "I trust that you do not feel too much fatigued after your journey. But doubtless you will enjoy the luxury of a bath, and if you will let Juanita conduct you to your room, you will find it awaiting you."

"I shall enjoy it above all things," I replied, for the roads had been intolerably dusty. "But I could not retire without being first introduced to my hostess, Miss d'Alren."

"Yes, yes!" she answered quickly, "and so I hastened to greet you. Ah! you recognize the conservatory, do you not? It is the same of which you received a photograph. And now you will have full opportunities of examining the fern and classifying it for yourself."

"With the assistance of Miss Concita d'Alren," I answered. "I fancy that she is as good a botanist as I am!"

"No, no, indeed!" said the old lady, laughing; "she lays claim to nothing of the sort!"

She was such a merry little old lady, with so neat and trim a figure, that I felt sure that I should like her. Her hair was gray, but she had a great quantity of it, and her head was covered by a scarf of black lace, what is called in Spain a mantilla. Her eyes were very bright and keen—almost mischievous—and she was dressed in a black silk dress trimmed with white lace. I put her down as an old maid, but one of a bright and cheerful disposition, and well fitted to guard and chaperon my beautiful Concita. She called the Spanish woman Juanita, notwithstanding my expressed desire to make the acquaintance of Miss d'Alren first, and ordered her to show me the way to the apartment prepared for my occupation, and where my valise had already preceded me. I was tired, and a bath and general change of attire were both grateful and refreshing to me. I had arrived at I Paradiso in the afternoon, and the dinner gong had sounded before I descended to the drawing-room again. The little old lady, whose name no one had mentioned before me, was waiting there. As the second gong sounded, she motioned me to accompany her to the dining-room.

"But," I stammered, glancing around me, "Miss Concita d'Alren, my hostess—shall I not have the pleasure of meeting her tonight?"

My companion laughed—I thought a little slyly.

"I am Concita d'Alren, Mr. Carroll," she replied: "I thought you knew that all along! Who did you imagine that I was? Some very impertinent person, I am afraid, who was taking upon herself liberties that did not belong to her."

"Oh, no, no, indeed!" I replied, blushing as red as fire in my confusion and mortification. "Only, you see, no one mentioned your name to me, and I thought—I fancied—that is, in fact—"

"You did not expect to see so venerable-looking a hostess," she interposed, still laughing, "and were rather disappointed at finding that I shall never see my fiftieth birthday again, eh?"

"Indeed—indeed—" I stammered.

"Now, Mr. Carroll, don't perjure yourself, because I am somewhat of a thought-reader, and can generally guess what people are thinking of. I ought to have sent you a photograph with my invitation, but I thought you would guess that no one but an old woman could have extended such a very frank invitation to a good-looking young man."

"And how did you know that I was young?" I asked her cheerfully, for the idea had flashed across my mind that if she did not possess the face in the conservatory, someone else did, and I would find that "someone else," if I died for it. "I am sure all my letters might have been written by my grandfather, they were so sober and discreet."

"Because we saw your portrait in the Sporting and Dramatic newspaper. You must not think that we are quite uncivilized out here! My brother delights in the current English literature, and keeps us well posted up in it."

Then the idea struck me to "pump" her (as it is called) respecting the owner of the face that had so enchanted me. Perhaps it belonged to the "female relative," after all.

"Your brother is not at home at present, I believe?" I commenced.

"No. He has business at Buenos Ayres, and had to start the day before yesterday. But I hope he will be back again long before you think of leaving I Paradiso. He is very anxious to make your acquaintance."

"But you are not alone, Miss d'Alren? The lady you wrote me of—"

"Oh, my great-aunt, Senora Elisa! Poor dear! she would have been the first to welcome you to Il Paradiso, but she is unfortunately confined to her own rooms with an attack of rheumatism. Never mind. We will manage to amuse ourselves without either of them."

Her great-aunt! And the senorita had confessed to being 50 herself! Certainly Senora Elisa could not be the owner of the lovely face peeping between the magnolia leaves! After the meal was concluded, and Miss d'Alren and I were sitting in the conservatory together, examining and admiring the plants over our cups of coffee, I ventured to tell her of the shadow which I had discovered in the photograph.

"When you wrote me of your female relative—" I began.

"How anxious you seem to be about my female relative!" she cried quickly. "I shall really have to drag the poor old lady down stairs to satisfy your curiosity! I begin to think you believe her to be a fiction!"

"No, no, indeed, Miss d'Alren!" I replied; "I was only going to observe that in the picture of your conservatory, which you were good enough to send me, I discovered the faintest semblance of a woman's face, and jumped at once to the conclusion that it must be that of the lady you alluded to."

"A face in the photograph!" exclaimed Miss d'Alren, frowning.

"Yes. Some day I will show it to you, though it must have come out, of course, in all the copies. A young, fair face—very pretty indeed; the owner must have just glanced round the corner as the photographer was at work and immediately withdrawn herself; but the features are distinct enough under the magnifying glass. I suppose you have not observed them yourself?"

"Certainly not!" she replied, "or I should have had the negative destroyed. It is probably the portrait of one of those impertinent Brazilian girls, who are always prying into what does not concern them. You must destroy that photograph, Mr. Carroll, and let me give you another."

"Not for worlds!" I exclaimed hastily; then, observing her surprise, I added: "I am an admirer of nature under every form, remember, and the little face does not look at all amiss amidst the other blossoms."

I fancied that my hostess did not seem over well pleased at my admission, so I prudently avoided the subject for the remainder of the evening, secretly resolving meanwhile to keep my eyes open whilst at Il Paradiso, and be on the look out for the original of my lovely photograph.

The next few days passed in a very pleasant manner. Each morning, as soon as our early breakfast was concluded, a carriage was ready to convey my hostess and myself to some of the beautiful woods surrounding the estate, where we spent the hours collecting and classifying the various ferns and palms and orchids we found there, often resting beneath the shade of some magnificent tree, whilst we talked on other subjects more nearly concerning ourselves, though not more engrossing than our favorite pursuit of botany. To me these days were filled with the purest delight, and I found Miss d'Alren so companionable, and so merry and talkative, that I had almost forgotten that she numbered fifty summers, and was not the woman I had journeyed to the Brazils to see. For one who had lived all her life out of England, she was wonderfully cultivated; I found that her knowledge of botany almost excelled my own, and that she possessed the kindly, sympathetic nature of which the love of flowers and animals is a sure token. She had a great skill in music also, and would carry her guitar into the woods, and there play and sing to me, her voice being wonderfully true and clear for a woman of her age. In fact, by the time Manuel d'Alren returned to his home, his sister and I were close friends, though the object of my visit was not yet attained, and I had seen nothing of the sweet face in the conservatory. I found Manuel to be a fine, handsome young man of about four-and-twenty, quite young enough, both in age and appearance, to have been the son, instead of the brother, of Concita d'Alren. I ventured to ask her one day, shortly after his arrival, if he were not her half-brother.

"Oh, dear, no!" she answered quickly, and then added in some confusion, as if the subject were unpleasant to her: "That is to say, there is a great difference between our ages, as you can see, Mr. Carroll, but I am the eldest of my father's family, and Manuel is the youngest. I have had all the trouble of him, and feel as if I were his mother."

I saw the matter was distasteful to her, and did not allude to it again. One day she caught me gazing at the face in the photograph she had sent me.

"What is that?" she asked. "Is that the picture you promised to show me? Please let me see it now, Mr. Carroll."

I handed her the magnifying-glass in silence, and as she used it I watched the red flush mount from her cheeks to the roots of her gray hair.

"Extremely impertinent!" she murmured; "but there is no knowing what these serving maids will not do."

"You recognize the face, then, Miss d'Alren?" I inquired.

"Yes," she replied in a low voice. "Is it that of one of your attendants?"

"You are very inquisitive! Why should you wish to know? What interest can a mere face possess for you, Mr. Carroll?"

"You shall hear," I replied. "You have been so kind and good to me since my arrival that I will tell you my secret, and trust to you not to turn a foolish young man's romantic fancy into ridicule."

"I should certainly not feel inclined to ridicule any serious feelings of yours, Mr. Carroll," said Miss d'Alren.

"This is serious, though founded on so slight a cause, because I have nursed it now for so many months. I am in love with that face, Miss d'Alren—hopelessly and irrevocably in love. I have told it all my hopes and wishes; have talked to it in the night season; shall I even go so far as to tell you (at the expense, perhaps, of your taking any further interest in me) that I journeyed to Rio Janeiro solely in the fond hope that I might see the owner of that sweet face and ask her to be my wife?"

"I think that was carrying your fancy a little too far, Mr. Carroll," said my hostess gravely.

"I know it was. I know that most men and women would call me a fool for dreaming of such a thing. But the fact remains I am a fool. Yet I cannot get rid of the hope, nor drive the dream away."

"And would it make you happy to meet the possessor of that face, Mr. Carroll?"

"Happier than I can tell you, Miss d'Alren."

"But suppose she proved to be utterly uncompanionable—a foolish girl, uneducated, inexperienced, unfitted to excite your admiration or become your wife?"

"I can hardly believe in such a contingency, but I will take the risk of it."

"You shall meet her, then."

"What! You know her!" I cried joyfully.

"Yes, I know her. I know also that she is anything but like the girl you imagine her to be. Very, very far from it. But I believe her to be honest, and the rest you must decide for yourself."

And Miss d'Alren sighed gently, as though in introducing me to her friend she was relinquishing some secret hope on her own part. Could our intimate intercourse have excited more than a maternal interest in her breast for me? My vanity suggested the question, but I put it away from me at once.

"When shall I see your friend?" I demanded eagerly.

"This evening, after dinner," replied Miss d'Alren. "Wait in the conservatory for her, and I will take my brother out of the way, so that you may have a good, long talk together."

I was so excited at the prospect which had so suddenly opened before me that I let Miss d'Alren leave me without ever asking the name of my fair inamorata, or if she had been also prepared to encounter me. However, the dinner hour was close at hand, and I sauntered to my room, prepared to make as careful a toilet as possible so as to appear at my best in the eyes of the face in the conservatory. I hardly ate a mouthful at dinner, a thing so unusual that my hostess smilingly remarked upon it, and reminded me that I required all my strength and courage for the ordeal which lay before me. But I could not eat. I was sick with excitement and anticipation. As we rose from table, I heard Miss d'Alren invite her brother to visit the plantation, and they left the room together, whilst she called to me over her shoulder to amuse myself as best I could in the drawing room till they returned.

As soon as their footsteps had died away, I flew to the conservatory, and ensconcing myself with a book beneath the shade of one of the giant palms, and just opposite the magnolia tree, I tried to read, whilst every nerve was on the alert to catch the first sound of the coming of the woman of my dream.

After several false alarms, I resolved to be patient, and fixed my eyes determinedly upon my book; but presently they roved restlessly again towards the entrance of the conservatory, when, to my astonishment and delight, I saw, peeping between the leaves of the magnolia, the very lady of my heart—the fair unknown who had occupied all my thoughts for so many weeks. I sprang from my seat and rushed towards her.

"Oh, who are you? How are you called?" I exclaimed ecstatically, as I held out my arms towards her. "Has Miss d'Alren told you that—"

"O, Mr. Carroll! Don't you know me?" cried a fluttering voice, which I recognized, notwithstanding, as that of my hostess. "I am Concita!"

And with her wig of grey hair in one hand, and her old-fashioned cap in the other, Miss d'Alren stood before me, undisguised, as the woman I had worshipped in secret for so long. I threw my arms round her, and our lips met in a warm kiss.

"And so, you wicked girl," I said, "you have been cheating me all this while—extracting my most sacred secrets from me under the guise of friendly old age, whilst—whilst—oh! how could you have the barbarity to keep this happiness from me so long?"

"Edward, what could I do? Manuel was away from home, and my great-aunt, Senora Elisa, fell sick the very day you were expected to arrive. It would not have been correct for a young girl like me to receive a strange gentleman all by myself, so I conceived the idea of borrowing Aunt Elisa's things, until she should be able to resume them. And so—and so—you really liked me before ever we met?" said Concita shyly.

"Really loved you, you mean," I answered, as I embraced her anew. "and meant to make you my wife, whether you would or no! And now, which is it to be?"

"But you have kissed me!" cried Concita. "Such a thing was never known in this country, that a young man should kiss a girl to whom he is not fiancé."

"We will remedy that without delay. We will be fiancés from this moment, Concita," I replied.

And, to make a long story short, the woman of my dream consented, and when I returned to England two months afterwards, I took the owner of the face in the conservatory back with me, as my wife.

And would you believe it?—though Concita and I are as ardent lovers of botany as ever—though she helps me with my work, and our garden and hot-houses are the envy and wonder of all rival floriculturists—that fern that was gathered by the seashore in Itacarussu remains unclassified to this day.

(The End.)