At other times she thought of them as a bridal wreath, purer than the purest orange-blossom that ever decked a bride.  Once, too—­this was when she was nearing the end of the voyage—­there came to her a magic whiff of wet bog-myrtle that made her fancy that she must be a bride indeed.

At last, just when it seemed to her that her boat was gently grounding upon the sand where the little white roses grew, she opened her eyes widely, wonderingly, and realised that the voyage was over.

She was lying in her own little room at The Ship, and Mrs. Peck, with motherly kindness writ large on her comely, plump face, was bending over her with a cup of steaming broth in her hand.

Columbine gazed at her with a bewildered sense of having slept too long.

Mrs. Peck nodded at her cheerily.  “There, my dear!  You’re better, I can see.  A fine time you’ve given us.  I thought as I should never see your bright eyes again.”

Columbine put forth a trembling hand with a curious feeling that it did not belong to her at all.  “Have I been ill?” she said.

Mrs. Peck nodded again cheerily.  “Why, it’s more than a week you’ve been lying here, and how I have worrited about you!  Prostration following severe shock was what the doctor called it, but it looked to me more like a touch of brain fever.  But there, you’re better!  Drink this like a good girl, and you’ll feel better still!”

Meekly, with the docility of great weakness, Columbine swallowed the proffered nourishment.  She wanted to recall all that had happened, but her brain felt too clogged to serve her.  She could only lie and gaze and gaze at a little vase of wild white roses that faced her upon the mantelpiece.  Somehow those roses seemed to her to play an oddly important part in her awakening.

“Where did they come from?” she suddenly asked.

Mrs. Peck glanced up indifferently.  “They’re just those little common things that grow with the pinks on the cliff,” she said.

But that did not satisfy Columbine.  “Who brought them in?” she said.  “Who gathered them?”

Mrs. Peck hesitated momentarily, almost as if she did not want to answer.  Then, half defiantly, “Why, Rufus, to be sure,” she said.

“Rufus!” A great hot wave of crimson suddenly suffused Columbine’s face—­a pitiless, burning blush that spread tingling over her whole body.

She lay very still while it lasted, and Mrs. Peck set down the cup and, rising energetically, began to tidy the room.

At length, faintly, the girl spoke again:  “Aunt Liza!”

Mrs. Peck turned.  There was a curious look in her eyes, a look half stern and yet half compassionate.  “There, my dear, that’ll do,” she said.  “I think you’ve talked enough.  The doctor said as I was to keep you very quiet, especially when you began to get back your senses.  Shut your eyes, do, and go to sleep!”

But Columbine’s eyes remained open.  “I’m not sleepy,” she said.  “And I must speak to you.  I want to know—­I must know”—­she faltered painfully, but forced herself to continue—­“Rufus—­did he—­did he really come back—­that night?”