“No, it’s coming here!” returned Polly.  The lights blazed toward them.

They waited, and a man stepped out.

“Mr. Randolph!” breathed Polly, as he emerged from the shadows.

“I feel somewhat like an intruder,” said the president, as he grasped the hand of Doodles.  “When Colonel Gresham invited me I told him my coming was impossible.  Then things cleared up a little—­and here I am!”

A visible stir succeeded Nelson Randolph’s entrance.  Mrs. Stickney and Colonel Gresham welcomed him most cordially, and Polly, as president of the Hiking Club, greeted him with a characteristic little speech.

Presently the unexpected guest was moving easily among the others, passing from group to group with hearty handshakes and happy words, at last coming face to face with Juanita Sterling.

She had watched him nearing her corner, the while politely attending to Miss Leatherland’s intermittent chit-cnat and vainly trying to banish from her mind the recent assertions of Miss Major.  With his first word, however, they fled, and she found herself talking to the president unabashed and unafraid.

“I am glad to have the opportunity of telling you how much I thought of those beautiful roses,” she said; “I never saw handsomer ones.”

“It is good to know you enjoyed them.  I hoped to have the pleasure of taking you out to Adalina Park in the height of the rose season.”  Was there an inquiry in the eyes that bent to hers?

She felt the flush sweep up her cheeks.  “I should have been delighted to go,” she replied.  Hurriedly she tried to think of something to add to the brief sentence, but her mind was confused, and the seconds slipped by.

“I was sorry it happened so,” he went on; “but we will try it again.  Adalina Park is in its full glory now, and there are pretty drives outside of the parks.”  He smiled whimsically.

Then came the question that put her in doubt whether she should tell him the truth or not—­“When should I be most likely to find you disengaged?”

“Almost any time,” she answered, having decided that she would leave him to discover why she had not responded to his invitation.  “Work is never pressing at the Home.”

“Isn’t it?” A puzzled look flickered in his eyes—­or was it only her fancy?

A little flutter about the piano told that somebody was to play or sing.  David took the seat and began a prelude.  Then he sang in a clear, fresh voice:—­

  “Red as the wine of forgotten ages,
    Yellow as gold of the sunbeams spun,
  Pink as the gowns of Aurora’s pages,
    White as the robe of a sinless one,
  Sweeter than Araby’s winds that blow—­
  Roses, roses, I love ye so!”

“Who is that boy?” Nelson Randolph asked.  “Some relation of Colonel Gresham’s, isn’t he?”

“His grandnephew, David Collins.”

“He has a fine voice.”