The Motion Picture Story Magazine (Aug 1913-Jan 1914)

94 THE MOTION PICTURE STORY MAGAZINE her cheeks raced the vagrant blood in telltale waves. "I — I — you mustn't say any more — yet. ' ' "But I may some time?" he cried eagerly. "You dont know, dear, quite what you mean to me. I 've been maybe a little wild, but never since I saw you, dear. The thought of you is like a flower fragrance in my heart. Why, you are a flower, little girl, a blush rose, with daffodil hair and gentian eyes, and a soul like a lily — ' ' Love makes every one lyric, and Carl Von Veldt was very much in love. But Agnes, even as her heart leaped exultingly at his warm, ardent words, felt troubled. In the joy of her own concerns, had she not been traitorous to her father, waiting, growing feebler, grayer in his tiny, shabby shop, beside his barren rose? Now she lifted her head, with sudden purpose, looking her lover in the eyes. "Still I am not as beautiful, for instance" — she hesitated until the thumping of her heart would let her speak carelessly — "as — as — the Blue Rose?" Carl dropped her hands abruptly. "Blue Rose ?" he queried amazedly. "Oh! yes, dad's latest fad. But how did you know about it, dear?" ' ' Oh ! even clerks read the papers, " Agnes laughed gayly. "Come, prove you meant what you said by showing me — I 'm awfully interested — the blue flower. It must be wonderful." "Oh no, it's quite hideous." Carl shrugged his shoulders. "But, of course, I'll show you, Miss Curiosity, tho it's nothing to look at." ' ' Nothing ! You call this nothing ? ' ' Agnes breathed, a little later. Her round, pink face was strangely drained of its sweet color as she gazed down at the blossom with eyes that were dilated with the ache of tears. Far more beautiful than the halfopened bud her father had cherished, this rose swung, nearly full, upon its stem, a glow of satin-surfaced color, bluer than the blueness of her eyes. "Dad's going to exhibit it at the flower-show tomorrow, I believe," said Carl, contemptuously. "For my part, I dont see the sense of a flower like that. I prefer roses pink or red as the Lord made 'em, and feminine women who dont want to vote. That's why I love you, Agnes •" "Where did your father get it?" interrupted Agnes, hastily. "Or did he grow it here himself ? ' ' "Heavens, no! Dad doesn't know enough about growing things not to plant tulips upside down," the candid son laughed. "It's the greatest joke how he came to get hold of that rose. I'll tell you if you'll keep mum " Three moments later, a mamad creature faced the astonished raconteur, eyes ablaze with fury, scorn and anger in every gracious line. It was as unexpected as tho a flower had fallen into a fit of temper. "You coward and thief!" said Agnes, slowly, unaware, in the misery of the greater pain, how her own words cut into her heart. "I am the girl you tricked so 'neatly,' and my father — oh ! my poor father — is the florist whose life-work you took from him. No ! Not a word more to me — ■ ever!" She stumbled, thru her tears, from the room and across another greenhouse to the door of Von Veldt's office. The tremulous knock was answered by the florist himself, who fell back astounded before the wild little figure confronting him with heaving breast and stormy eyes. "Mr/ Von Veldt," cried Agnes, ' ' Mr. Von Veldt, I 've come to ask you to give back my father 's rose. ' ' "Rose?" The florist's voice was querulous. ■ ' What rose, my girl, and who, pray, is your father, and why, may I ask, should I 'give back' anything to any one ? ' ' "My father is Matthew Keith," said the girl, meeting his eyes steadily. "You should give the rose back because you stole it, or allowed it to be stolen. I am speaking of the Blue Rose, sir." There was a congested pause. Von Veldt bit his lip angrily, but, under the clear young eyes, felt his ready denial slink away ashamed. "Well, really," he burst out at last, sneeringly, "this is a likely story,