It might be the certainty of this which calmed her. She had no maiden doubts or hopes; not one. The possibility of Harold's loving her, or choosing her as his wife, never entered her mind.

Since the days of her early girlhood, when she wove such a bright romance around Sara and Charles, and created for herself a beautiful ideal for future worship, Olive had ceased to dream about love at all. Feeling that its happiness was for ever denied her, she had altogether relinquished those fancies in which young maidens indulge. In their place had come the intense devotion to her Art, which, together with her passionate, love for her mother, had absorbed all the interests of her secluded life. Scarcely was she even conscious of the happiness that she lost; for she had read few of those books which foster sentiment; and in the wooings and weddings she heard of were none that aroused either her sympathy or her envy. Coldly and purely she had moved in her sphere, superior to both love's joy and love's pain.

Reaching home, Olive sought not to enter the house, where she knew there could be no solitude. She went into the little arbour—her mother's favourite spot—and there, hidden in the shadows of the mild autumn night, she sat down, to gather up her strength, and calmly to think over her mournful lot.

She said to herself, "There has come upon me that which I have heard is, soon or late, every woman's destiny. I cannot beguile myself any longer. It is not friendship I feel: it is love. My whole life is threaded by one thought—the thought of him. It comes between me and everything else on earth—almost between me and Heaven. I never wake at morning but his name rises to my heart—the first hope of the day; I never kneel down at night but in my prayer, whether in thought or speech, that name is mingled too. If I have sinned, God forgive me; He knows how lonely and desolate I was—how, when that one best love was taken away, my heart ached and yearned for some other human love. And this has come to fill it. Alas for me!

"Let me think. Will it ever pass away? There are feelings which come and go—light girlish fancies. But I am six-and-twenty years old. All this while I have lived without loving any man. And no one has ever wooed me except my master, Vanbrugh, whose feeling for me was not love at all. No, no! I am, as they call me, 'an old maid,' destined to pass through life alone and unloved.

"Perhaps, though I have long ceased to think on the subject—perhaps my first girlish misery was true, and there is in me something repulsive—something that would prevent any man's seeking me as a wife. Therefore, even if my own feelings could change, it is unlikely there will ever come any soothing after-tie to take away the memory of this utterly hopeless love.

"Hopeless I know it is. He admires beauty and grace—I have neither. Yet I will not do him the injustice to believe he would despise me for this. Even once I overheard him say, there was such sweetness in my face, that he had never noticed my being 'slightly deformed.' Therefore, did he but love me, perhaps—O fool!—dreaming fool that I am! It is impossible!

"Let me think calmly once more. He has given me all he could—kindness, friendship, brotherly regard; and I have given him love—a woman's whole and entire love, such as she can give but once, and be beggared all her life after. I to him am like any other friend—he to me is all my world. Oh, but it is a fearful difference!

"I will look my doom in the face—I will consider how I am to bear it. No hope is there for me of being loved as I love. I shall never be his wife: never be more to him than I am now; in time, perhaps even less. He will go out into the world, and leave me, as brothers leave sisters (even supposing he regards me as such). He will form new ties; perhaps he will marry; and then my love for him would be sin!"

Olive pressed her hands tightly together, and crushed her hot brow upon them, bending it even to her knees. Thus bowed, she lay until the fierce struggle passed.

"I do not think that misery will come. His mother, who knows him best, was surely right when she said he would never take a second wife. Therefore I may be his friend still. Neither he nor any one will ever know that I loved him otherwise than as a sister might love a brother. Who would dream there could be any other thought in me—a pale, unlovely thing—a woman past her youth (for I seem very old now)? It ought not to be so; many women are counted young at six-and-twenty; but it is those who have been nurtured tenderly in joyous homes. While I have been struggling with the hard world these many years. No wonder I am not as they—that I am quiet and silent, without mirth or winning grace, a creature worn out before her time, pale, joyless, deformed. Yes, let me teach myself that word, with all other truths that 'can quench this mad dream. Then, perhaps knowing all hope vain, I may be able to endure.

"What am I to do? Am I to try and cleanse my heart of this love, as if it were some pollution? Not so. Sorrow it is—deep, abiding sorrow; but it is not sin. If I thought it so, I would crush it out, though I crushed my life out with it. But I need not. My heart is pure—O God, Thou knowest!

"Another comfort I have. He has not deceived me, as men sometimes deceive, with wooing that seems like love, and yet is only idle, cruel sport. He has ever treated me as a friend—a sister—nothing more! Therefore, no bitterness is there in my sorrow, since he has done no wrong.

"I will not cease from loving—I would not if I could. Better this suffering than the utter void which must otherwise be in my heart eternally, seeing I have neither father, mother, brother, nor sister, and shall never know any nearer tie than the chance friendships which spring up on the world's wayside, and wither where they spring. I know there are those who would bid me cast off this love as it were a serpent from my bosom. No! Rather let it creep in there, and fold itself close and secret. What matter, even if its sweet sting be death?

"But I shall not die. How could I, while he lived, and might need any comfort that I could give? Did he not say, 'Keep near me!' Ay, I will! Though a world lay between us, my spirit shall follow him all his life long. Distance shall be nothing—years nothing! Whenever he calls, 'Friend I need thee.' I will answer, 'I am here!' If I could condense my whole life's current of joy into one drop of peace for him, I would pour it out at his feet, smile content, and die. And when I am dead—he will know how I loved him—Harold—my Harold."

Such were her thoughts—though no words passed her lips—except the last. As she rose and went towards the house, she might even have met him and not trembled—she had grown so calm.

It was already night—but the mist had quite gone—there was only the sky and its stars.



CHAPTER XXXVI.

I know that I am promulgating a new theory of love; I know that in Olive Rothesay I dare to paint a woman full of all maidenly virtues, who has yet given her heart away unrequited—given it to a man who knows not of the treasure he has never sought to win. The case, I grant, is rare. I believe that a woman seldom bestows her love save in return for other love—be it silent or spoken—real or imaginary. If it is not so, either she has deceived herself, or has been deceived.

But the thing is quite possible—ay, and happens sometimes—that a woman unselfish, unexacting in all her affections, more prone to give than to receive, thinking perhaps very little of love or marriage, may be unconsciously attracted by some imagined perfection in the other sex, and be thus led on through the worship of abstract goodness until she wakes to find that she has learned to love the man. For what is love in its purest and divinest sense, but that innate yearning after perfection which we vainly hope to find in some other human soul; this is as likely to be felt by a woman as by a man—ay, and by one most pure from every thought of unfeminine boldness, vanity, or sin.

I know, too, that from many a sage and worthy matron my Olive has for ever earned her condemnation, because, at last discovering her mournful secret, she did not strive in horror and shame to root out this misplaced attachment. Then, after years of self-martyrdom, she might at last have pointed to her heart's trampled garden, and said, "Look what I have had strength to do!" But from such a wrecked and blasted soil what aftergrowth could ever spring?

Better, a thousand times, that a woman to whom this doom has come unwittingly, without her seeking—as inevitably and inexorably as fate—should pause, stand steadfast, and look it in the face, without fear. She cannot disguise it, or wrestle with it, or fly from it Let her meet it as she would meet death—solemnly, calmly, patiently. Let her draw nigh and look upon the bier of her life's dead hope, until the pale image grows beautiful as sleep; then cover it—bury it—if she can. Perhaps it may one day rise from the grave, wearing a likeness no longer human, but divine.

It is time that we women should begin to teach and to think thus. It is meet that we—maidens, wives, mothers, to whom the lines have fallen in more pleasant places—should turn and look on that pale sisterhood—some carrying meekly to the grave their heavy unuttered secret, some living unto old age, to bear the world's smile of pity, even of derision, over an "unfortunate attachment." Others, perhaps, furnishing a text whereupon prudent mothers may lesson romantic daughters, saying, "See that you be not like these 'foolish virgins;' give not your heart away in requital of fancied love; or, madder still, in worship of ideal goodness—give it for nothing but the safe barter of a speedy settlement, a comfortable income, a husband, and a ring."

Olive Rothesay, be not ashamed, nor afraid. Hide the arrow close in thy soul—lay over it thy folded hands and look upwards. Far purer art thou than many a young creature, married without love, living on in decent dignity as the mother of her husband's children, the convenient mistress of his household, and so sinking down into the grave, a pattern of all matronly virtue. Envy her not! A thousand times holier and happier than such a destiny is that silent lot of thine.

With meekness, yet with courage, Olive Rothesay prepared to live her appointed life. At first it seemed very bitter, as must needs be. Youth, while it is still youth, cannot at once and altogether be content to resign love. It will yearn for that tie which Heaven ordained to make its nature's completeness; it will shrink before the long dull vista of a solitary, aimless existence. Sometimes, wildly as she struggled against such thoughts, there would come to Olive's fancy dreams of what her life might have been. The holiness of lovers' love, of wedded love, of mother-love, would at times flit before her imagination; and her heart, still warm, still young, trembled to picture the lonely old age, the hearth blank and silent, the utter isolation from all those natural ties whose place not even the dearest bonds of adopted affection can. ever entirely fill. But, whenever these murmurings arose, Olive checked them; often with a feeling of intolerable shame.

She devoted herself more than ever to her Art, trying to make it as once before the chief interest and enjoyment of her life. It would become the same again, she hoped. Often and often in the world's history had been noted that of brave men who rose from the wreck of love, and found happiness in fame. But Olive had yet to learn that, with women, it is rarely so.

She felt more than ever the mournful change which had come over her, when it happened that great success was won by one of her later pictures—a picture unconsciously created from the inspiration of that sweet love-dream. When the news came—tidings which a year ago would have thrilled her with pleasure—Olive only smiled faintly, and a few minutes after went into her chamber, locked the door, and wept.

There was not, and there could not be, any difference made in her ordinary way of life. She still went to the Parsonage, and walked and talked with Harold, as he seemed always to expect. She listened to all his projects for the future—a future wherein she, alas! had no part Eagerly she strove to impress this fact upon her mind—to forget herself entirely, to think only of him, and what would be best for his happiness. Knowing him so well, and having over him an influence which he seemed rather to like, and which, at least, he never repelled, she was able continually to reason, to cheer him, and sympathise with him. He often thanked her for this, little knowing how every quiet word of hers was torn from a bleeding heart.

Walking home with her at nights, as usual, he never saw the white face turned upwards to the stars—the eyes wherein tears burned, but would not fall; the lips compressed in a choking agony, or opened to utter ordinary words in which his ear detected not one tremulous or discordant tone. When he sat in the house, absorbed in anxious thought, little he knew what looks were secretly fastened on his face, to learn by heart every beloved lineament, against the time when his visible likeness would be beheld no more.

Thus miserably did Olive struggle. The record of that time, its every day, its every hour, was seared on her heart as with a burning brand. Afterwards she never thought of it but with a shudder, marvelling how she had been able to endure all and live.

At last the inward suffering began to be outwardly written on her face. Some people said—Lyle Derwent first—that Miss Rothesay did not look so well as she used to do. But indeed it was no wonder, she was so engrossed in her painting, and worked far too much for her strength. Olive neither dissented nor denied: but she never complained, and still went painting on. Harold himself saw she was ill, and sometimes treated her with almost brotherly tenderness. Often he noticed her pale face, paler than ever beneath his eye, or, in wrapping her from the cold, observed how she shivered and trembled. And then Olive would go home and cry out in her misery,

"How long? how long? Oh, that this would cease, or else I die!"

She was quite alone at the Dell now, for Mrs. Fludyer had paid a flying visit home, and had taken back with her both Christal and the somewhat unwilling Lyle. Solitude, once sweet and profitable, now grew fearful unto Olive's tortured mind. And to escape it she had no resource, but that which she knew was to her like a poison-draught, and for which she yet thirsted evermore—the daily welcome at the Parsonage. But the web of circumstances, which she herself seemed to have no power to break, was at length apparently broken for her. One day she received a letter from her father's aunt, Miss Flora Rothesay, inviting—nay, entreating—her to visit Edinburgh, that the old lady might look upon the last of her race.

For a moment Olive blessed this chance of quitting the scenes now become so painful. But then, Harold might need her. In his present conflict of feeling and of purpose he had no confidant save herself. She would have braved years of suffering if her presence could have given him one hour's relief from care. But of this she must judge, so she set off at once to the Parsonage.

"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Gwynne, with a smiling and mysterious face, "of course you will go at once! It will do your health a world of good. Harold said so only this morning."

"Then he knew of the letter?"

"Why, to tell the truth, I believe he originated the plan. He saw you wanted change—he has such a regard for you, Olive."

Then he had done it all! He could let her part from him, easily, as friend from friend. Yet, what marvel! they were nothing more. She answered, quietly, "I will go."

She told him so when he came in. He seemed much pleased; and said, with more than his usual frankness,

"I should like you to know aunt Flora. You see, I call her my aunt Flora, too, for she is of some distant kin, and I have dearly loved her ever since I was a boy."

It was something to be going to one whom Harold "dearly loved." Olive felt a little comfort in her proposed journey.

"Besides, she knows you quite well already, my dear," observed Mrs. Gwynne. "She tells me Harold used often to talk about you during his visit with her this summer."

"I had a reason," said Harold, his dark cheek changing a little. "I wished her to know and love her niece, and I was sure her niece would soon learn to love her."

"Why, that is kind, and like yourself, my son. How thoughtfully you have been planning everything for Olive."

"Olive will not be angry with me for that?" he said, and stopped. It was the first time she had ever heard him utter her Christian name. At the sound her heart leaped wildly, but only for an instant. The next, Harold had corrected himself, and said, "Miss Rothesay" in a distinct, cold, and formal tone. Very soon afterwards he went away.

Mrs. Gwynne persuaded Olive to spend the day at the Parsonage. They two were alone together, for Harold did not return. But in the afternoon their quietness was broken by the sudden appearance of Lyle Derwent.

"So soon back from Brighton! Who would have thought it!" said Mrs. Gwynne, smiling.

Lyle put on his favourite sentimental air, and muttered something about "not liking gaiety, and never being happy away from Farnwood."

"Miss Rothesay is scarcely of your opinion; at all events, she is going to try the experiment by leaving us for a while."

"Miss Rothesay leaving us!"

"It is indeed true, Lyle. You see I have not been well of late, and my kind friends here are over-anxious for me; and I want to see my aunt in Scotland."

"It is to Scotland you are going?—all that long dreary way? You may stay there weeks, months! and that while what will become of me—I mean of us all at Farnwood?"

His evident regret touched Olive deeply. It was something to be missed, even by this boy: he always seemed a boy to her, partly because of olden times, partly because he was so boy-like and unsophisticated in mind and manner.

"My dear Lyle, how good of you to think of me in this manner! But indeed I will not forget you when I am away."

"You promise that?" cried Lyle, eagerly.

Olive promised; with a sorrowful thought that none asked this pledge—none needed it—save the affectionate Lyle!

He was still inconsolable, poor youth! He looked so drearily pathetic, and quoted such doleful poetry, that Mrs. Gwynne, who, in her matter-of-fact plainness, had no patience with any of Lyle's "romantic vagaries," as she called them, began to exert the dormant humour by which she always quenched his little ebullitions. Olive at last considerately came to the rescue, and proposed an evening stroll about the garden, to which Lyle gladly assented.

There he still talked of her departure, but his affectations were now broken by real feeling.

"I shall miss you bitterly," he said, in a low tone; "but if your health needs change, and this journey is for your good, of course I would not think of myself at all."

—The very expressions she had herself used to Harold! This coincidence touched her, and she half reproached herself for feeling so coldly to all her kind friends, and chiefly to Lyle Derwent, who evidently regarded her with much affection. But all other affections grew pale before the one great love. Every lesser tie that would fain come in the place of that which was unattainable, smote her with only a keener pain.

Still, half remorsefully, she looked on her old favourite, and wished that she could care for him more. So thinking, her manner became gentler than usual, while that of Lyle grew more earnest and less dreamy.

"I wish you would write to me while you are away, Miss Rothesay; or, at all events, let me write to you."

"That you may; and I shall be so glad to hear all about Harbury and Farnwood." Here she paused, half-shaming to confess to herself that for this reason chiefly would she welcome the letters of poor Lyle.

"Is that all? Will you not care to hear about me? Oh, Miss Rothesay," cried Lyle, "I often wish I was again a little boy in the dear old garden at Oldchurch."

"Why so?"

"Because—because"—and the quick blood rose in his cheek. "No, no, I cannot tell you now; but perhaps I may, some time."

"Just as you like," answered Olive, absently. Her thoughts, wakened by the long-silent name, were travelling over many years; back to her old home, her happy girlhood. She almost wished she had died then, while she was young. But her mother!

"No, I am glad I lived to comfort her." she mused. "Perhaps it may be true that none ever leave earth until they are no longer needed there. So I will even patiently live on."

Unable to talk more with Lyle, Olive re-entered the Parsonage. Harold sat reading.

"Have you long come in?" she asked in a somewhat trembling voice.

He answered, "About an hour."

"I did not see you enter."

"It was not likely; you were engaged with my brother-in-law. Therefore I would not disturb you, but took my book."

He spoke in the abrupt, cold manner he sometimes used. Olive thought something had happened to annoy him. She sat down and talked with him until the cloud passed away.

Many times during the evening Lyle renewed his lamentations over Miss Rothesay's journey; but Harold never uttered one word of regret. When Olive departed, however, he offered to accompany her home.

"Nay—it is such a rainy night—perhaps"——

"Very well, since you choose it so," and he sat down again. But Olive saw she had wounded his pride, only his pride; she said this to her heart, to keep down its unconscious thrill. She replied, hesitatingly:

"Still, as we shall not have many more walks together, if"——

"I will come," he said, smiling.

And he came. Moreover, he contrived to keep her beside him. Lyle, poor fellow, went whistling in solitude down the other side of the road, until at the Dell he said goodnight, and vanished.

Harold had talked all the way on indifferent subjects, never once alluding to Olive's departure. He did so now, however, but carelessly, as if with an accidental thought.

"I wonder whether you will return before I leave Har-bury—that is, if I should really go. I should like to see you once again. Well, chance must decide."

Chance! when she would have controlled all accidents, provided against all hindrances, woven together all purposes, to be with him for one single day!

At once the thought broke through the happy spell which, for the time, his kindness had laid upon her. She felt that it was only kindness; and as such he meant it, no more! In his feelings was not the faintest echo of her own. A sense of womanly pride arose, and with it a cruel pang of womanly shame. These lasted while she bade him good-night, somewhat coldly; then both sank at once, and there remained to her nothing but helpless sorrow.

She listened for the last sound of his footsteps down the road. But she heard them not; and thought, half-sighing, how quickly he must have walked away!

A very few days intervened between Miss Rothesay's final decision and her departure. During this time, she only once saw Harold Gwynne. She thought he might have met her a little oftener, seeing they were so soon to part. But he did not; and the pain it gave warned her that all was happening for the best. Her health failing, her cheerful spirit broken, even her temper growing embittered with this mournful struggle, she saw that in some way or other it must be ended. She was thankful that all things had arranged themselves so plainly before her.

There was planned no farewell meeting at the Parsonage; but Mrs. Gwynne spent at the Dell the evening before Olive's departure. Harold would have come, his mother said, but he had some important matters to arrange; he would, however, appear some time that evening. However, it grew late, and still his welcome knock was not heard. At last one came; it was only Lyle, who called to bid Miss Rothesay good-bye. He did so dolorously enough, but Olive scarcely felt any pain.

"It is of no use waiting," said Mrs. Gwynne. "I think I will go home with Lyle—that is, if he will take my son's place for the occasion. It is not quite right of Harold; he does not usually forget his mother."

Olive instinctively hinted some excuse. She was ever prone to do so, when any shadow of blame fell on Harold.

"You are always good, my dear. But still he might have come, even for the sake of proper courtesy to you."

Courtesy!

Mrs. Gwynne entreated Olive to call at the Parsonage on her journey next morning. It would not hinder her a minute. Little Ailie was longing for one good-bye, and perhaps she might likewise see Harold. Miss Rothesay assented. It would have been hard to go away without one more look at him—one more clasp of his hand.

Yet both seemed denied her. When Olive reached the Parsonage, he was not there. He had gone out riding, little Ailie thought; no one else knew anything about him.

"It was very wrong and unkind," said Mrs. Gwynne in real annoyance.

"Oh, no, not at all," was all that Olive murmured. She took Ailie on her knee, and hid her face upon the child's curls.

"Ah, dear Miss Rothesay, you must come back soon," whispered the little girl. "We can't do without you. We have all been much happier since you came to Harbury; papa said so, last night."

"Did he?"

"Yes; when I was crying at the thought of your going away, and he came to my little bed, and comforted me, and kissed me. Oh, you don't know how sweet papa's kisses are! Now, I get so many of them. Before he rode out this morning he gave me half-a-dozen here, upon my eyes, and said I must learn all you taught me, and grow up a good woman, just like you. What! are you crying? Then I will cry too."

Olive laid her thin cheek to the rosy one of Harold's daughter; she wept, but could not speak.

"What kisses you are giving me, dear Miss Rothesay, and just where papa gives me them, too. How kind! Ah, I love you—I love you dearly."

"God bless and take care of you, my dear child—almost as dear as though you had been born my own," was Mrs. Gwynne's farewell, as she bestowed on Olive one of her rare embraces. And then the parting was over.

Closing her eyes—her heart;—striving to make her thoughts a blank, and to shut out everything save the welcome sense of blind exhaustion that was creeping over her, Olive lay back in the carriage, and was whirled from Harbury.

She had a long way to go across the forest-country until she reached the nearest railway-station. When she arrived, it was already late, and she had barely time to take her seat ere the carriages started. That moment her quick ear caught the ringing of a horse's hoofs, and as the rider leaped on the platform she saw it was Harold Gwynne. He looked round eagerly—more eagerly than she had ever seen him look before. The train was already moving, but they momently recognised each other, and Harold smiled—his own frank affectionate smile. It fell like a sunburst upon Olive Rothesay.

Her last sight of him was as he stood with folded arms, intently watching the winding northward line. Then, feeling that this had taken away half her pain, she was borne upon her solitary journey.



CHAPTER XXXVII.

There is not in the world a more exquisite sight than a beautiful old age. It is almost better than a beautiful youth. Early loveliness passes away with its generation, and becomes at best only a melancholy tradition recounted by younger lips with a half-incredulous smile. But if one must live to be the last relic of a past race, one would desire in departing to leave behind the memory of a graceful old age. And since there is only one kind of beauty which so endures, it ought to be a consolation to those whom fate has denied the personal loveliness which charms at eighteen, to know that we all have it in our power to be beautiful at eighty.

Miss, or rather Mrs. Flora Rothesay—for so she was always called—appeared to Olive the most beautiful old lady she had ever beheld. It was a little after dusk on a dull wet day, when she reached her journey's end. Entering, she saw around her the dazzle of a rich warm fire-light, her cloak was removed by light hands, and she felt on both cheeks the kiss of peace and salutation.

"Is that Olive Rothesay, Angus Rothesay's only child? Welcome to Scotland—welcome, my dear lassie!"

The voice lost none of its sweetness for bearing, strongly and unmistakably, the ".accents of the mountain tongue." Though more in tone than phrase, for Mrs. Flora Rothesay spoke with all the purity of a Highland woman.

Surely the breezes that rocked Olive's cradle had sung in her memory for twenty years, for she felt like coming home the moment she set foot in her native land. She expressed this to Mrs. Flora, and then, quite overpowered, she knelt and hid her face in the old lady's lap, and her excitement melted away in a soft dew—too sweet to seem like tears.

"The poor lassie! she's just wearied out!" said Mrs. Flora, laying her hands on Olive's hair. "Jean, get her some tea. Now, my bairn, lift up your face. Ay, there it is—a Rothesay's, every line! and with the golden hair too. Ye have heard tell of the weird saying, about the Rothesays with yellow hair? No? We will not talk of it now." And the old lady suddenly looked thoughtful—even somewhat grave. When Olive rose up, she made her bring a seat opposite to her own arm-chair, and there watched her very intently.

Olive herself noticed her aunt with curious eyes. Mrs. Flora's attire was quite a picture, with the ruffled elbow-sleeves and the long, square boddice, over which a close white kerchief hid the once lovely neck and throat of her whom old Elspie had chronicled—and truly—as "the Flower of Perth." The face, Olive thought, was as she could have imagined Mary Queen of Scots grown old. But age could never obliterate the charm of the soft languishing eyes, the almost infantile sweetness of the mouth. Therein sat a spirit, ever lovely, because ever loving; smiling away all natural wrinkles—softening down all harsh lines. You regarded them no more than the faint shadows in a twilight landscape, over which the soul of peace is everywhere diffused. There was peace, too, in the very attitude—leaning back, the head a little raised, the hands crossed, each folded round the other's wrist. Olive particularly noticed these hands. On the right was a marriage-ring which had outlasted two lives, mother and daughter; on the left, at the wedding-finger, was another, a hoop of gold with a single diamond. Both seemed less ornaments than tokens—gazed on, perhaps, as the faint landmarks of a long past journey, which now, with its joys and pains alike, was all fading into shadow before the dawn of another world.

"So they called you 'Olive,' my dear," said Mrs. Flora. "A strange name! the like of it is not in our family."

"My mother gave it me from a dream she had."

Olive.

"Now, my bairn, lift up your face."



"Ay, I mind it; Harold Gwynne told me, saying that Mrs. Rothesay had told him. Was she, then, so sweet and dainty a creature—your mother? Once Angus spoke to me of her—little Sybilla Hyde. She was his wife then, though we did not know it. Poor Angus, we loved him very much—better than he thought. Tears again, my dearie!"

"They do not harm me, Aunt Flora."

"And so you know my dear Alison Balfour? She was younger than I, and yet you see we have both grown auld wives together. Little Olive, ye have come to me in a birthday gift, my dear. I am eighty years old to-day—just eighty years, thank the Lord!"

The old lady reverently raised her blue eyes—true Scottish eyes—limpid and clear as the dew on Scottish heather. Cheerful they were withal, for they soon began to flit hither and thither, following the motions of Jean's "eident hand" with most housewifely care. And Jean herself, a handmaid prim and ancient, but youthful compared to her mistress, seemed to watch the latter's faintest gesture with most affectionate observance. Of all the light traits which reveal character, none is more suggestive than the sight of a mistress whom her servants love.

After tea Mrs. Mora insisted on Olive's retiring for the night. "Your room has a grand view over the Braid Hills. They call them hills here; but oh! if ye had seen the blue mountains sweeping in waves from the old house at home. Night and day I was wearying for them, for years after I came to live at Morningside. But one must e'en dree one's weird!"

She always spoke in this rambling way, wandering from the subject, after the fashion of old age. Olive could have listened long to the pleasant stream of talk, which seemed murmuring round her, wrapping her in a soft dream of peace. She laid down her tired head on the pillow, with an unwonted feeling of calmness and rest. Even the one weary pain that ever pursued her sank into momentary repose. Her last waking thought was still of Harold; but it was more like the yearning of a spirit from beyond the grave.

Just between waking and sleeping Olive was roused by music. Her door had been left ajar, and the sound she heard was the voices of the household, engaged in their evening devotion. The tune was that sweetest of all Presbyterian psalmody, "plaintive Martyrs." Olive caught some words of the hymn—it was one with which she had often, often been lulled to sleep in poor old Elspie's arms. Distinct and clear its quaint rhymes came back upon her memory now:

The Lord's my shepherd, I'll not want, He makes me down to lie In pastures green, He leadeth me The quiet waters by.

Yea, though I walk in death's dark vale, Yet will I fear none ill; For Thou art with me, and Thy rod And staff me comfort still.

Poor lonely Olive lay and listened. Then rest, deep and placid, came over her, as over one who, escaped from a stormy wrack and tempest, falls asleep amid the murmur of "quiet waters," in a pleasant land.

She awoke in the morning, as if waking in another world. The clear cold air, thrilled with sunshine, filled her room. It was the "best room," furnished with a curious mingling of the ancient and the modern. The pretty chintz couch laughed at the oaken, high-backed chair, stiff with a century of worm-eaten state. On either side the fireplace hung two ancient engravings, of Mary Stuart and "bonnie Prince Charlie," both garnished with verses, at once remarkable for devoted loyalty and eccentric rhythm. Between the two was Sir William Ross's sweet, maidenly portrait of our own Victoria. Opposite, on a shadowed wall, with one sunbeam kissing the face, was a large well-painted likeness, which Olive at once recognised. It was Mrs. Flora Rothesay, at eighteen. No wonder, Olive thought, that she was called "the Flower of Perth." But strange it was, that the fair flower had been planted in no good man's bosom; that this lovely and winning creature had lived, bloomed, withered—"an old maid." Olive, looking into the sweet eyes that followed her everywhere—as those of some portraits do—tried to read therein the foreshadowing of a life-history of eighty years. It made her dreamy and sad, so she arose and looked out upon the sunny slopes of the Braid Hills until her cheerfulness returned. Then she descended to the breakfast-table.

It was too early for the old lady to appear, but there were waiting three or four young damsels—invited, they said, to welcome Miss Rothesay, and show her the beauties of Edinburgh. They talked continually of "dear Auntie Mora," and were most anxious to "call cousins" with Olive herself, who, though she could not at all make out the relationship, was quite ready to take it upon faith. She tried very hard properly to distinguish between the three Miss M'Gillivrays, daughters of Sir Andrew Rothesay's half-sister's son, and Miss Flora Anstruther, the old lady's third cousin and name-child, and especially little twelve-years-old Maggie Oliphant, whose grandfather was Mrs. Flora's nephew on the mother's side, and first cousin ta Alison Balfour.

All these conflicting relationships wrapped Olive in an inexplicable net; but it was woven of such friendly arms that she had no wish to get free. Her heart opened to the loving welcome; and when she took her first walk on Scottish ground, it was with a sensation more akin to happiness than she had felt for many a long month.

"And so you have never before seen your aunt," said one of the M'Gillivrays;—for her life, Olive could not tell whether it was Miss Jane, Miss Janet, or Miss Marion, though she had tried for half-an-hour to learn the difference. "You like her of course—our dear old Auntie Flora?"

"Aunt to which of you?" said Olive, smiling.

"Oh, she is everybody's Auntie Flora; no one ever calls her anything else," observed little Maggie Oliphant, who, during all their walk clung tenaciously to Miss Rothesay's hand, as most children were prone to do.

"I think," said the quiet Miss Anstruther, lifting up her brown eyes, "that in all our lives put together, we will never do half the good that Aunt Flora has done in hers. Papa says, every one of her friends ought to be thankful that she has lived an old maid!"

"Yes, indeed, for who else would have had patience with her cross old brother Sir Andrew, until he died?" said Janet M'Gillivray.

"And who," added her sister, "would have come and been a mother to us when we lost our own, living with us, and taking care of us for seven long years?"

"I am sure," cried blithe Maggie, "my brothers and I used often to say, that if Auntie Flora had been young, and any disagreeable husband had come to steal her from us, we would have hooted him away down the street, and pelted him with stones."

Olive laughed; and afterwards said, thoughtfully, "She has then lived a happy life—has this good Aunt Flora!"

"Not always happy," answered the eldest and gravest of the M'Gillivrays. "My mother once heard that she had some great trouble in her youth. But she has outlived it, and conquered it in time. People say such things are possible: I cannot tell," added the girl, with a faint sigh.

There was no more said of Mrs. Flora, but oftentimes during the day, when some passing memory stung poor Olive, causing her to turn wearily from the mirth of her young companions, there came before her in gentle reproof the likeness of the aged woman who had lived down her one great woe—lived, not only to feel but to impart cheerfulness.

A few hours after, Olive saw her aunt sitting smiling amidst a little party which she had gathered together, playing with the children, sympathising with those of elder growth, and looked up to by old and young with an affection passing that of mere kindred. And then there came a balm of hope to the wounded spirit that had felt life's burden too heavy to be borne.

"How happy you are, and how much everyone loves you!" said Olive, when Mrs. Flora and herself were left alone, and their hearts inclined each to each with a vague sympathy.

"Yours must have been a noble woman's life."

"I have tried to make it so, as far as I could, my dear bairn; and the little good I have done has come back upon me fourfold. It is always so."

"And you have been content—nay happy!"

"Ay, I have! God quenched the fire on my own hearth, that I might learn to make that of others bright My dear, one's life never need be empty of love, even though, after seeing all near kindred drop away, one lingers to be an old maid of eighty years."



CHAPTER XXXVIII.

"No letters to-day from Harbury!" observed Mrs. Mora, as, some weeks after Olive's arrival, they were taking their usual morning airing along the Queen's Drive. "My dear, are you not wearying for news from home?"

"Aunt Flora's house has grown quite home-like to me," said Olive, affectionately. It was true. She had sunk down, nestling into its peace like a tired broken-winged dove. As she sat beside the old lady, and drank in the delicious breezes that swept across from the Lothians, she was quite another creature from the pale drooping Olive Rothesay who had crept wearily up Harbury Hill. Still, the mention of the place even now took a little of the faint roses from her cheek.

"I am glad you are happy, my dear niece," answered Mrs. Flora; "yet others should not forget you."

"They do not. Christal writes now and then from Brighton, and Lyle Derwent indulges me with a long letter every week," said Olive, trying to smile. She did not mention Harold. She had hardly expected him to write; yet his silence grieved her. It felt like a mist of cold estrangement rising up between them. Yet—as sometimes she tried to think—perhaps it was best so!

"Alison Gwynne was aye the worst of all correspondents," pursued the old lady, "but Harold might write to you: I think he did so once or twice when he was living with me here, this summer."

"Yes;" said Olive, "we have always been good friends."

"I know that. It was not little that we talked about you. He told me all that happened long ago between your father and himself. Ah, that was a strange, strange thing!"

"We have never once spoken of it—neither I nor Mr. Gwynne."

"Harold could not. He was sair grieved, and bitterly he repented having 'robbed' you. But he was no the same man then that he is now. Ah, that gay young wife of his—fair and fause, fair and fause! It's ill for a man that loves such a woman. I would like well to see my dear Harold wed to some leal-hearted lassie. But I fear me it will never be."

Thus the old lady's talk gently wandered on. Olive listened in silence, her eyes vacantly turned towards the wide open country that sweeps down from Duddingston Loch. The yellow harvest-clad valley smiled; but beneath the same bright sky the loch lay quiet, dark, and still. The sunshine passed over it, and entered it not. Olive wistfully regarded the scene, which seemed a symbol of her own fate. She did not murmur at it, for day by day her peace was returning. She tried to respond with cheerfulness to the new affections that greeted her on every side; to fill each day with those duties, that by the alchemy of a pious nature are so often transmuted into pleasures. She was already beginning to learn the blessed and heaven-sent truth, that no life ought to be wrecked for the love of one human being, and that no sinless sorrow is altogether incurable.

The rest of the drive was rather dull, for Mrs. Flora, usually the most talkative, cheerful old lady in the world, seemed disposed to be silent and thoughtful. Not sad—sadness rarely comes to old age. All strong feelings, whether of joy or pain, belong to youth alone.

"Ye will ride with Marion M'Gillivray the day?" said Mrs. Flora, after a somewhat protracted silence. "You bairns will not want an auld wifie like me."

Olive disclaimed this, affirming, and with her whole heart, that she was never so happy as when with her good Aunt Flora.

"'Tis pleasant to hear ye say the like of that. But it must be even so—for this night I would fain bide alone at home."

The carriage stopped in Abercromby Place.

"I will see ye again the morn," the old lady observed, as her niece descended. And then, after looking up pleasantly to the window, that was filled with a whole host of juvenile M'Gillivrays vehemently nodding and smiling, Aunt Flora pulled down her veil and drove away.

"I thought you would be given up to us for to-day," said Marion, as she and Olive, now grown almost into friends, strolled out arm-in-arm along the shady walks of Morning-side.

"Indeed! Did Aunt Flora say"——

"She said nothing—she never does. But for years I have noticed this 20th of September; because, when she lived with us, on this day, after teaching us in the morning, she used to go to her own room, or take a long, lonely walk,—come back very pale and quiet, and we never saw her again that night. It was the only day in the year that she seemed wishful to keep away from us. Afterwards, when I grew a woman, I found out why this was."

"Did she tell you?"

"No; Aunt Flora never talks about herself. But from her maid and foster-sister, an old woman who died a while ago, I heard a little of the story, and guessed the rest—one easily can," added quiet Marion.

"I think I guess, too. But let me hear, that is, if I may hear?"

"Oh yes. 'Tis many, many years ago. Aunt Flora was quite a girl then, and lived with Sir Andrew, her elder brother. She had 'braw wooers' in plenty, according to Isbel Graeme (you should have seen old Isbel, cousin Olive). However, she cared for nobody; and some said it was for the sake of a far-away cousin of her own, one of the 'gay Gordons.' But he was anything but 'gay'—delicate in health, plain to look at, and poor besides. While he lived he never said to her a word of love; but after he died,—and that was not until both were past their youth,—there came to Aunt Flora a letter and a ring. She wears it on her wedding finger to this day."

"And this 20th of September must have been the day he died," said Olive.

"I believe so. But she never says a word, and never did."

The two walked on silently. Olive was thinking of the long woe-wasted youth—the knowledge of love requited came too late—and then of her who after this great blow could gird up her strength and endure for nearly fifty years. Ay, so as to find in life not merely peace, but sweetness. Olive's own path looked less gloomy to the view. From the depths of her forlorn heart uprose a feeble-winged hope; it came and fluttered about her pale lips, bringing to them

The smile of one, God-satisfied; and earth-undone.

Marion turned round and saw it. "Cousin Olive, how very mild, and calm, and beautiful you look! Before you came, Aunt Flora told us she had heard you were 'like a dove.' I can understand that now. I think, if I were a man, I should fall in love with you."

"With me; surely you forget! Oh no, Marion, not with me; that would be impossible!"

Marion coloured a little, but then earnestly continued, "I don't mean any one who was young and thoughtless, but some grave, wise man, who saw your soul in your face, and learned, slowly and quietly, to love you for your goodness. Ay, in spite of—of"——(here the frank, plain-speaking Marion again hesitated a little, but continued boldly) "any little imperfection which may make you fancy yourself different to other people. If that is your sole reason for saying, as you did the other day, that"——

"Nay, Marion, you have talked quite enough of me."

"But you will forgive me! I could hate myself if I have pained you, seeing how much I love you, how much every one learns to love you."

"Is it so? Then I am very happy!" And the smile sat long upon her face.

"Can you guess whither I am taking you?" said Marion, as they paused before a large and handsome gateway. "Here is the Roman Catholic convent—beautiful St. Margaret's, the sweetest spot at Morningside. Shall we enter?"

Olive assented. Of late she had often thought of those old tales of forlorn women, who, sick of life, had hidden themselves from the world in solitudes like this. Sometimes she had almost wished she could do the same. A feeling deeper than curiosity attracted her to the convent of St. Margaret's.

It was indeed a sweet place; one that a weary heart might well long after. The whole atmosphere was filled with a soft calm—a silence like death, and yet a freshness as of new-born life. When the heavy door closed, it seemed to shut out the world; and without any sense of regret or loss, you passed, like a passing soul, into another existence.

They entered the little convent-parlour. There, on the plain, ungamished walls, hung the two favourite pictures of Catholic worship; one, thorn-crowned, ensanguined, but still Divine; the other, the Mother lifted above all mothers in blessedness and suffering. Olive gazed long upon both. They seemed meet for the place. Looking at them, one felt as if all trivial earthly sorrows must crumble into dust before these two grand images of sublime woe.

"I think," said Miss Rothesay, "if I were a nun, and had known ever so great misery, I should grow calm by looking at these pictures."

"The nuns don't pass their time in that way I assure you," answered Marion M'Gillivray. "They spend it in making such things as these." And she pointed to a case of babyish ornaments, pin-cushions, and artificial flowers.

"How very strange," said Olive, "to think that the interests and duties of a woman's life should sink down into such trifles as these. I wonder if the nuns are happy?"

"Stay and judge, for here comes one, my chief friend here, Sister Ignatia." And Sister Ignatia—who was, despite her quaint dress, the most bright-eyed, cheerful-looking little Scotchwoman imaginable—stole in, kissed Marion on both cheeks, smiled a pleasant welcome on the stranger, and began talking in a manner so simple and hearty, that Olive's previous notions of a "nun" were cast to the winds. But, after a while, there seemed to her something painfully solemn in looking upon the sister's, where not one outward line marked the inward current which had run on for forty years—how, who could tell? All was silence now.

They went all over the convent. There was a still pureness pervading every room. Now and then a black-stoled figure crossed their way, and vanished like a ghost. Sister Ignatia chattered merrily about their work, their beautiful flowers, and their pupils of the convent school. Happy, very happy, she said they all were at St. Margaret's; but it seemed to Olive like the aimless, thoughtless happiness of a child. Still, when there came across her mind the remembrance of herself—a woman, all alone, struggling with the world, and with her own heart; looking forward to a life's toil for bread and for fame, with which she must try to quench one undying thirst—when she thus thought, she almost longed for such an existence as this quiet monotony, without pleasure and without pain.

"You must come and see our chapel, our beautiful chapel," said Sister Ignatia. "We have got pictures of our St. Margaret and all her children." And when they reached the spot—a gilded, decorated, flower-garden temple, she pointed out with great interest the various memorials of the sainted Scottish Queen.

Olive thought, though she did not then say, that noble Margaret, the mother of her people, the softener of her half-savage lord, the teacher and guide of her children, was more near the ideal of womanhood than the simple, kind-hearted, but childish worshippers, who spent their lives in the harmless baby-play of decking her shrine with flowers.

"Yet these are excellent women," said Marion M'Gillivray, when, on their departure, Olive expressed her thoughts aloud. "You cannot imagine the good they do in their restricted way. But still, if one must lead a solitary life I would rather be Aunt Flora!"

"Yes, a thousand, thousand times! There is something far higher in a woman who goes about the world, keeping her heart consecrated to Heaven, and to some human memories; not shrinking from her appointed work, but doing it meekly and diligently, hour by hour through, life's long day; waiting until at eve God lifts the burden off, saying, 'Faithful handmaid, sleep!'"

Olive spoke softly, but earnestly. Marion did not quite understand her. But she thought everything Miss Rothesay said must be true and good, and was always pleased to watch her the while, declaring that whenever she talked thus her face became "like an angels."

Miss Rothesay spent the evening very happily, though in the noisy household of the M'Gillivrays. She listened to the elder girls' music, and let the younger tribe of "wee toddling bairnies" climb on her knee and pull her curls. Finally, she began to think that some of these days there would be great pleasure in becoming an universal "Aunt Olive" to the rising generation.

She walked home, escorted valiantly by three stout boys, who guided her by a most circuitous route across Bruntsfield Links, that she might gain a moonlight view of the couchant lion of Arthur's Seat. They amused her the whole way home with tales of High-school warfare. On reaching the garden-gate she was half surprised to hear the unwonted cheerfulness of her own laugh. The sunshine she daily strove to cast around her was falling faintly back upon her own heart.

"Good-night, good-night, Allan, and Charlie, and James. We must have another merry walk soon," was her gay adieu as the boys departed, leaving her in the garden-walk, where Mrs. Flora's tall hollyhocks cast a heavy shadow up to the hall-door.

"You seem very happy, Miss Rothesay." The voice came from some one standing close by. The next instant her hand was taken in that of Harold Gwynne.

But the pressure was very cold. Olive's heart, which had leaped up within her, sank down heavily, so heavily, that her greeting was only the chilling words,

"I did not expect to see you here!"

"Possibly not; but I—I had business in Edinburgh. However, it will not, I think, detain me long." He said this sharply even bitterly.

Olive, startled by the suddenness of this meeting, could make no answer, but as they stood beneath the lamp she glanced at the face, whose every change she knew so well. She saw that something troubled him. Forgetful of all besides, her heart turned to him in sympathy and tenderness.

"There is nothing wrong, surely! Tell me, are you quite well, quite happy? You do not know how glad I am to see you, my dear friend."

And her hand alighted softly on his arm like a bird of peace. Harold pressed it and kept it there, as he often did; they were used to that kind of friendly familiarity.

"You are very good, Miss Rothesay. Yes, all is well at Harbury. Pray, be quite easy on that account But I thought, hearing how merry you were at the garden-gate, that amidst your pleasures here you scarcely remembered us at all."

His somewhat vexed tone went to Olive's heart. But she only answered,

"You were not quite right there. I never forget my friends."

"No, no! I ought to have known that. Forgive me; I speak rudely, unkindly; but I have so many things to embitter me just now. Let us go in, and you shall talk my ill-humour away, as you have done many a time."

There was a repentant accent in his voice as he drew Olive's arm in his. And she—she looked, and spoke, and smiled, as she had long learned to do. In the little quiet face, the soft, subdued manner, was no trace of any passion or emotion.

"Have you seen Aunt Flora?" said Olive, as they stood together in the parlour.

"No. When I came she had already retired. I have only been here an hour. I passed that time in walking about the garden. Jean told me you would come in soon."

"I would have come sooner had I known. How weary you must be after your journey! Come, take Aunt Flora's chair here, and rest."

He did indeed seem to need rest. As he leaned back with closed eyes on the cushions she had placed, Olive stood and looked at him a moment. She thought, "Oh, that I were dead, and become an invisible spirit, that I might comfort and help him. But I shall never do it. Never in this world!"

She pressed back two burning tears, and then began to move about the room, arranging little household matters for his comfort. She had never done so before, and now the duties seemed sweet and homelike, like those of a sister, or—a wife. Once she thought thus—but she dared not think again. And Harold was watching her, too; following her—as she deemed—with the listless gaze of weariness. But soon he turned his face from her, and whatever was written thereon Olive read no more.

He was to stay that night, for Mrs. Flora's house was always his home in Edinburgh. But he seemed disinclined to talk. One or two questions Olive put about himself and his plans, but they seemed to increase his restlessness.

"I cannot tell; perhaps I shall go; perhaps not at all. We will talk the matter over to-morrow—that is, if you are still kind enough to listen."

She smiled. "Little doubt of that, I think."

"Thank you! And now I will say good-night," observed Harold, rising.

Ere he went, however, he looked down curiously into Olive's face.

"You seem quite strong and well now, Miss Rothesay. You have been happy here?"

"Happy—oh, yes! quite happy."

"I thought it would be so—I was right! Though still—But I am glad, very glad to hear it. Good-night."

He shook her hand—an easy, careless shake; not the close, lingering clasp—how different they were! Then he went quickly up-stairs to his chamber.

But hour after hour sped; the darkness changed to dawn, the dawn to light, and still Olive lay sleepless. Her heart, stirred from its serenity, again swayed miserably to and fro. Vainly she argued with herself on her folly in giving way to these emotions; counting over, even in pitiful scorn, the years that she had past her youth.

"Three more, and I shall be a woman of thirty. Yet here I lie, drowning my pillow with tears, like a love-sick girl. Oh that this trouble had visited me long ago, that I might have risen up from it like the young grass after rain! But now it falls on me like an autumn storm—it tears me, it crushes me; I shall never, never rise."

When it was broad daylight, she roused herself, bathed her brow in water, shut out the sunbeams from her hot, aching eyes, and then lay down again and slept.

Sleeping, she dreamed that she was walking with Harold Gwynne, hand-in-hand, as if they were little children. Suddenly he took her in his arms, clasping her close as a lover his betrothed; and in so doing pressed a bright steel into her heart. Yet it was such sweet death, that, waking, she would fain have wished it true.

But she lifted her head, saw the sunlight dancing on the floor, and knew that the morning was come—that she must rise once more to renew her life's bitter strife.



CHAPTER XXXIX.

Olive dressed herself carefully in her delicate-coloured morning-gown. She was one of those women who take pains to appear freshest and fairest in the early hours of the day; to greet the sun as the flowers greet him—rich "in the dew of youth." Despite her weary vigil, the balmy morning brought colour to her cheek and a faint sweetness to her heart. It was a new and pleasant thing to wake beneath the same roof as Harold Gwynne; to know that his face would meet her when she descended—that she would walk and talk with him the whole day long.

Never did any woman think less of herself than Olive Rothesay. Yet as she stood twisting up her beautiful hair, she felt glad that it was beautiful. Once she thought of what Marion had told her about some one saying she was "like a dove." Who said it? Not Harold—that was impossible. Arranging her dress, she looked a moment, with half-mournful curiosity, at the pale, small face reflected in the mirror.

"Ah, no! There is no beauty in me. Even did he care for me, I could give him nothing but my poor heart. I can give him that still. It can do him no harm to love him—the very act of loving is blessedness to me."

So thinking, she left her chamber.

It was long before the old lady's time for rising. There was no one in the breakfast-room, but she saw Harold walking on the garden terrace. Very soon he came in with some heliotrope in his hand. He did not give it to Olive, but laid it by her plate, observing, half-carelessly,

"You were always fond of heliotropes, Miss Rothesay."

"Thank you for remembering my likings;" and Olive put the flowers in her bosom. She fancied he looked pleased; and suddenly she remembered the meaning given to the flower, "I love you!" At the thought, she began to tremble all over, though contemning her own folly the while. Even had the words been true, she and Harold were both too old for such sentimentalities.

They breakfasted alone. Harold still looked pale and weary, nor did he deny the fact that he had scarcely slept. He told her all the Harbury news, but spoke little of himself or of his plans. "They were yet uncertain," he said, "but a few more days would decide all." And then he remained silent until, a little time after, they were standing together at the window. From thence it was a pleasant view. Close beneath, a little fountain rose in slender diamond threads, and fell again with a soft trickling, like a Naiad's sigh. Bees were humming over the richest of autumn flower-gardens, which sloped down, terrace after terrace, until its boundary was hid in the little valley below. Beyond—looking in the clear September air so close that you could almost see the purple of the heather—lay the Braid Hills, a horizon-line soft as that which enclosed the Happy Valley of Prince Rasselas.

Harold stood and gazed.

"How beautiful and calm this is! It looks like a quiet nest—a home for a man's tired heart and brain. Tell me, friend, do you think one could ever find such in this world?"

"A home!" she repeated, somewhat confusedly, for his voice had startled her.—"You have often said that man needed none; that his life was in himself—the life of intellect and of power. It is only we women who have a longing after rest and home."

Harold made no immediate reply; but after a while he said,

"I want to have a quiet talk with you, Miss Rothesay. And I long to see once more my favourite haunt, the Hermitage of Braid. 'Tis a sweet place, and we can walk and converse there at our leisure. You will come?"

She rarely said him nay in anything, and he somehow unconsciously used a tone of command, like an elder brother;—but there was such sweetness in being ruled by him! Olive obeyed at once; and soon, for the thousandth time, she and Harold were walking out together arm-in-arm.

If ever there was a "lover's walk," it is that which winds along the burn-side in the Hermitage of Braid. On either side

The braes ascend like lofty wa's,

shutting out all but the small blue rift of sky above. Even the sun seems slow to peep in, as if his brightness were not needed by those who walk in the light of their own hearts. And the little birds warble and the little burnie runs, as if neither knew there was a weary world outside, where many a heart, pure as either, grows dumb amidst its singing, and freezes slowly as it flows.

Olive walked along by Harold's side in a happy dream. He looked so cheerful, so "good"—a word she had often used, and he had smiled at—meaning those times when, beneath her influence, the bitterness melted from him. Such times there were—else she could never have learned to love him as she did. Then, as now, his eyes were wont to lighten, and his lips to smile, and there came an almost angelic beauty over his face.

"I think," he said, "that my spirit is changing within me. I feel as if I had never known life until now. In vain I say unto myself that this must be a mere fantasy of mine; I, who am marked with the 'frost of eild,' who will soon be—let me see—seven-and-thirty years old. What think you of that age?"

His eyes, bent on her, spoke more than mere curiosity; but Olive, unaware, looked up and smiled.

"Why, I am getting elderly myself; but I heed it not. One need mind nothing if one's heart does not grow old."

"Does yours?"

"I hope not. I would like to lead a life like Aunt Flora's—a quiet stream that goes on singing to the end."

"Look me in the face, Olive Rothesay," said Harold, abruptly. "Nay—pardon me, but I speak like one athirst, who would fain know if any other human thirst is ever satisfied. Tell me, do you look back on your life with content, and forward with hope? Are you happy?"

Olive's eyes sank on the ground.

"Do not question me so." she said trembling. "In life there is nothing perfect; but I have peace, great peace. And for you there might be not only peace, but happiness."

Again there fell between them one of those pauses which rarely come save between two friends or lovers, who know thoroughly—in words or in silence—each other's hearts. Then Harold, guiding the conversation as he always did, changed it suddenly.

"I am thinking of the last time I walked here—when I came to Edinburgh this summer. There was with me one whom I regarded highly, and we talked—as gravely as you and I do now, though on a far different theme."

"What was it?"

"One suited to the season and the place, and my friend's ardent youth. He was in love, poor fellow, and he asked me about his wooing. Perhaps you may think he chose an adviser ill fitted to the task?"

Harold spoke carelessly—and waiting Olive's reply, he pulled a handful of red-brown leaves from a tree that overhung the path, and began playing with them.

"You do not answer, Miss Rothesay. Come, there is scarcely a subject that we have not discussed at some time or other, save this. Let us, just for amusement, take my friend's melancholy case as a text, and argue concerning what young people call 'love.'"

"As you will."

"A cold acquiescence. You think, perhaps, the matter is either above or beneath me—that I can have no interest therein?" And his eyes, bright, piercing, commanding, seemed to force an answer.

It came, very quietly and coldly.

"I have heard you say that love was the brief madness of a man's life; if fulfilled, a burden—if unfulfilled or deceived, a curse."

"I said so, did I? Well, you give my opinions—what think you of me? Answer truly—like a friend."

She did so. She never could look in Harold's eyes and tell him what was not true.

"I think you are one of those men in whom strong intellect prevents the need of love. Youthful passion you may have felt; but true, deep, earnest love you never did know, and, as I believe, never will! Nay, forgive me if I err; I only take you on your own showing."

"Thank you, thank you! You speak honestly and frankly—that is something for a woman," muttered Harold; and then there was a long, awkward pause. How one poor heart ached the while!

At last, fearing that her silence annoyed him, Olive took courage to say, "You were going to talk to me about your plans. Do so now; that is, if you are not angry with me," she added, with a little deprecatory soothing.

It seemed to touch him. "Angry! How could you think so? I am never angry with you. But what do you desire to hear about? Whither I am going, and when? Do you, then, wish—I mean, advise me to go?"

"Yes, if it is for your good. If leaving Harbury would give you rest on that one subject of which we never speak."

"But of which I, at least, think night and day, and never without a prayer—(I can pray now)—for the good angel who brought light into my darkness," said Harold, solemnly. "That comfort is with me, whatever else may—But you wanted to hear about my going abroad?"

"Yes, tell me all. You know I like to hear."

"Well, then, I have only to decide, and I might depart immediately; to America, I think. I should engage in science and literature. Mine would be a safe, sure course; but, at the beginning, I might have a hard struggle. I do not like to take any one to share it."

"Not your mother, who loves you so?"

"No, because her love would be sorely tried. We should be strangers in a strange land; perhaps poverty would be added to our endurance; I should have to labour unceasingly, and my temper might fail. These are hard things for a woman to bear."

"You do not know what a woman's affection is!" said Olive earnestly. "How could she be desolate when she had you with her! Little would she care for being poor! And if, when sorely tried, you were bitter at times, the more need for her to soothe you. We can bear all things for those we love."

"Is it so?" Harold said, thoughtfully, his countenance changing, and his voice becoming soft as he looked upon her. "Do you think that any woman—I mean my mother, of course—would love me with this love?"

And once more Olive taught herself to answer calmly, "I do think so."

Again there was a silence. Harold broke it by saying, "You would smile to know how childishly my last walk here haunts me; I really must go and see that love-stricken friend of mine. But you, I suppose, take no interest in his wooing?"

"O yes! I like to hear of young people's happiness."

"But he was not quite happy. He did not know whether the woman he loved loved him. He had never asked her the question."

"Why not?"

"There were several reasons. First, because he was a proud man, and, like many others, had been deceived once. He would not again let a girl mock his peace. And he was right. Do you not think so?"

"Yes, if she were one who would act so cruelly. But no true woman ever mocked at true love. Rarely, knowingly, would she give cause for it to be cast before her in vain. If your friend be worthy, how knows he but that she may love him all the while?"

"Well, well, let that pass. He has other reasons." He paused and looked towards her, but Olive's face was drooped out of sight. He continued,—"Reasons such as men only feel. You know not what an awful thing it is to cast one's pride, one's hope—perhaps the weal or woe of one's whole life—upon a woman's light 'Yes' or 'No.' I speak," he added, abruptly, "as my friend, the youth in love, would speak."

"Yes, I know—I understand. Tell me more. That is, if I may hear."

"Oh, certainly. His other reasons were,—that he was poor; that, if betrothed, it might be years before they could marry; or, perhaps, as his health was feeble, he might die, and never call her wife at all. Therefore, though he loved her as dearly as ever man loved woman, he held it right, and good, and just, to keep silence."

"Did he imagine, even in his lightest thought, that she loved him?"

"He could not tell. Sometimes it almost seemed so."

"Then he was wrong—cruelly wrong! He thought of his own pride, not of her. Little he knew the long, silent agony she must bear—the doubt of being loved causing shame for loving. Little he saw of the daily struggle: the poor heart frozen sometimes into dull endurance, and then wakened into miserable throbbing life by the shining of some hope, which passes and leaves it darker and colder than before. Poor thing! Poor thing!"

And utterly forgetting herself, forgetting all but the compassion learnt from sorrow, Olive spoke with strong agitation.

Harold watched her intently. "Your words are sympathising and kind. Say on! What should he, this lover, do?"

"Let him tell her that he loves her—let him save her from the misery that wears away youth, and strength, and hope."

"What! and bind her by a promise which it may take years to fulfil?"

"If he has won her heart, she is already bound. It is mockery to talk as the world talks, of the sense of honour that leaves a woman 'free.' She is not free. She is as much bound as if she were married to him. Tell him so! Bid him take her to his heart, that, come what will, she may feel she has a place there. Let him not insult her by the doubt that she dreads poverty or long delay. If she loves him truly, she will wait years, a whole lifetime, until he claim her. If he labour, she will strengthen him; if he suffer, she will comfort him; in the world's fierce battle, her faithfulness will be to him rest, and help, and balm."

"But," said Harold, his voice hoarse and trembling, "what if they should live on thus for years, and never marry? What if he should die?"

"Die!"

"Yes. If so, far better that he should never have spoken—that his secret should go down with him to the grave."

"What, you mean that he should die, and she never know that he loved her! O Heaven! what misery could equal that!"

As Olive spoke, the tears sprang into her eyes, and, utterly subdued, she stood still and let them flow.

Harold, too, seemed strangely moved, but only for a moment. Then he said, very softly and quietly, "Miss Rothesay, you speak like one who feels every word. These are things we learn in but one school. Tell me—as a friend, who night and day prays for your happiness—are you not speaking from your own heart? You love, or you have loved?"

For a moment Olive's senses seemed to reel. But his eyes were upon her—those truthful, truth-searching eyes.

"Must I look in his face and tell him a lie?" was her half-frenzied thought. "I cannot, I cannot! And the whole truth he will never, never know."

Dropping her head, she answered, in one word—"Yes!"

"And, with a woman like you, to love once is to love for evermore?"

Again Olive bent her head, and that was all. There was a sound as of crushed leaves, and those with which Harold had been playing fell scattered on the ground. He gave no other sign of emotion or sympathy.

For many minutes they walked on slowly, the little laughing brook beside them seeming to rise like a thunder-voice upon the dead silence. Olive listened to every ripple, that fell as it were like the boom of an engulphing wave. Nothing else she heard, or felt, or thought, until Harold spoke.

His tone was soft and very kind, and he took her hand the while. "I thank you for this confidence. You must forgive me if I did wrong in asking it. Henceforth I shall ask no more. If your life be happy, as I pray God it may, you will have no need of me. If not, hold me ever to your service as a true friend and brother."

She stooped, she leaned her brow upon the two clasped hands—her own and his—and wept as if her heart were breaking.

But very soon all this ceased, and she felt a calmness like death. Upon it broke Harold's cold, clear voice—as cold and clear as ever.

"Once more, let me tell you all I owe you—friendship, counsel, patience,—for I have tried your patience much. I pray you pardon me! From you I have learned to have faith in Heaven, peace towards man, reverence for women. Your friendship has blessed me—may God bless you."

His words ceased, somewhat tremulously; and she felt, for the first time, Harold's lips touch her hand.

Quietly and mutely they walked home; quietly and mutely, nay, even coldly, they parted. The time had come and passed; and between their two hearts now rose the silence of an existence.



CHAPTER XL.

Olive and Harold parted at Mrs. Flora's gate. He had business in town, he said, but would return to dinner. So he walked quickly away, and Olive went in and crept upstairs. There, she bolted her door, groped her way to the bed, and lay down. Life and strength, hope and love, seemed to have ebbed from her at once. She felt no power or desire to weep. Once or twice, she caught herself murmuring, half aloud,

"It is all over—quite over. There can be no doubt now."

And then she knew, by this utter death of hope, that it must have lived once—a feeble, half-unconscious life, but life it was. Despite her reason, and the settled conviction to which she had tutored herself, she must have had some faint thought that Harold loved her. Now, this dream gone, she might perhaps rise, as a soul rises from the death of the body, into a new existence. But of that she could not yet think. She only lay, motionless as a corpse, with hands folded, and eyes firmly closed. Sometimes, with a strange wandering of fancy, she seemed to see herself thus, looking down, as a spirit might do upon its own olden self, with a vague compassion. Once she even muttered, in a sort of childish way,

"Poor little Olive! Poor, crushed, broken thing!"

Thus she lay for many hours, sometimes passing into what was either a swoon or a sleep. At last she roused herself, and saw by the shadows that it was quite late in the day. There is great mournfulness in waking thus of one's own accord, and alone; hearing the various noises of the busy mid-day household, and feeling as if all would go on just the same without thought of us, even if we had died in that weary sleep.

Olive wished she had!—that is, had Heaven willed it. She could so easily have crept out of the bitter world, and no one would have missed her. Still, if it must be, she would try once more to lift her burden, and pursue her way.

There was a little comfort for her the minute she went downstairs. Entering the drawing-room, she met Mrs. Flora's brightest smile.

"My dear lassie, welcome! Have you been sleeping after your weary walk this morning?"

"This morning!" echoed poor Olive. She had half forgotten what had happened then, there had come such a death-like cloud between.

"Ye were both away at the Hermitage, Harold said. Ah! poor Harold!"

Olive stood waiting to hear some horrible tidings. All misfortunes seemed to come so naturally now; she felt as though she would scarcely have wondered had they told her Harold was dead.

"My dear Harold is gone away."

"Gone away," repeated Olive, slowly, as her cold hands fell heavily on her lap. She gave no other sign.

"Ah," continued the unconscious old lady, "something has gone ill with the lad. He came in here, troubled like, and said he must just depart at once."

"He was here, then?"

"Only for a wee while. I would have sent for ye, my dearie, but Jean said you were sleeping, and Harold said we had best not waken you, for you had seemed wearied. He could not wait longer, so he bade me bid you farewell, Lassie—lassie, stay!" But Olive had already crept out of the room.

He was gone then. That last clasp of his hand was indeed the last. O miserable parting! Not as between two who love, and loving can murmur the farewell, heart to heart, until its sweetness lingers there long after its sound has ceased; but a parting that has no voice—no hope—wherein one soul follows the other in a wild despair, crying, "Give me back my life that is gone after thee;" and from the void silence there comes no answer, until the whole earth grows blank and dark like an universal grave.

For many days after that day, Olive scarcely lifted her head. There came to her some friendly physical ailment, cold or fever, so that she had an excuse to comply with Mrs. Flora's affectionate orders, and take refuge in the quietness of a sick-chamber. There, such showers of love poured down upon her, that she rose refreshed and calmed. After a few weeks, her spirit came to her again like a little child's, and she was once more the quiet Olive Rothesay, rich in all social affections, and even content, save for the one never ceasing pain.

After a season of rest, she began earnestly to consider her future, especially with respect to her Art. She longed to go back to it, and drink again at its wells of peace. For dearly, dearly she loved it still. Half-smiling, she began to call her pictures her children, and to think of the time when they, a goodly race, would live, and tell no tale of their creator's woe. This Art-life—all the life she had, and all she would leave behind—must not be sacrificed by any miserable contest with an utterly hopeless human love. Therefore she determined to quit Harbury, and at once, before she began to paint her next picture. Her first plan had been to go and live in London, but this was overruled by Mrs. Flora Rothesay.

"Bide here with me, my dear niece. Come and dwell among your ain folk, your father's kin."

And so it was at last fixed to be. But first Olive must go back to Farnwood, to wind up the affairs of her little household, and to arrange about Christal. She had lately thought a good deal of this young girl; chiefly, perhaps, because she was now so eagerly clinging to every interest that could occupy her future life. She remembered, with a little compunction, how her heart had sprung to Christal on her first coming, and how that sympathy had slowly died away, possibly from its being so lightly reciprocated. Though nominally one of the household at the Dell, Miss Manners had gradually seceded from it; so that by degrees the interest with which Olive had once regarded her melted down into the mere liking of duty. Whether this should be continued, became now a matter of question. Olive felt almost indifferent on the subject, but determined that Christal herself should decide. She never would give up the girl, not even to go and live in the dear quiet household of Aunt Flora. Having thus far made up her mind, Miss Rothesay fixed the day for her return to Farnwood—a return looked forward to with a mixture of fear and yearning. But the trial must be borne. It could not be for long.

Ever since his departure Olive had never heard the sound of Harold's name. Mrs. Flora did not talk of him at all. This, her niece thought, sprang from the natural forgetfulness of old age, which, even when least selfish, seems unconsciously to narrow its interest to the small circle of its own daily life. But perhaps the old lady was more quick-sighted than Olive dreamed; for such a true and tried heart could hardly be quite frozen, even with the apathy of eighty years.

A few days before Olive's journey Mrs. Flora called her into her own room.

"I have something to say to ye, lassie. Ye'll listen to the auld wife?"

"Aunt Flora!" said Olive, in affectionate reproach, and, sitting down at her feet, she took the withered hand, and laid it on her neck.

"My sweet wee lassie—my bonnie, bonnie birdie!" said the tender-hearted old lady, who often treated her grand-niece as if she were a child. "If I had known sooner that poor Angus had left a daughter! My dearie, come back soon."

"In a month, Auntie Flora."

"A month seems long. At eighty years one should not boast of the morrow. That is why I will tell ye now what rests on my mind."

"Well, dear aunt, let me hear it."

"'Tis anent the worldly gear that I will leave behind me. I have been aye careful of the good things Heaven lent me."

—She paused; but Olive, not quite knowing what to say, said nothing at all Mrs. Flora continued:

"God has given me great length of days—I have seen the young grow auld, and the auld perish. Some I would fain have chosen to come after me, have gone away before me; some have enough, and need no more. Of all my kith and kin there is none to whom the bit siller can do good, but my niece Olive, and Harold Gwynne. Does that grieve ye, lassie? Nay, his right is no like yours. But he comes of blood that was sib to ours. Alison Balfour was a Gordon by the mother's side."

As Mrs. Flora uttered the name, Olive felt a movement in the left hand that lay on her neck; the aged fingers were fluttering to and fro over the diamond ring. She looked up, but there was perfect serenity on the face. And, turning back, she prayed that the like peace might come to her in time.

"Before ye came," continued Mrs. Flora, "I thought to make Harold my heir, and that he should take the name of Gordon—for dearly I loved that name in auld lang syne. Ah, lassie! even in this world God can wipe away all tears from our eyes, so that we may look clearly forth unto the eternal land."

"Amen, amen!" murmured Olive Rothesay—ay, though while she uttered the prayer, her own tears blindingly rose. But her aunt's soft cold hand glided silently on her drooped head, pressing its throbbings into peace.

"I am wae to think," continued the old lady, "that ye are the last of the Rothesay line. The name must end, even should Olive marry."

"I shall never marry, Aunt Flora! I shall live as you have done—God make my life equally worthy!"

"Is it so? I thought it was different. Then, Olive, my child! may God comfort thee with his peace."

Mrs. Flora kissed her on the forehead, and asked no more. Shortly afterwards, she again began to speak about her will. She wished to be just, she said, and to leave her property where it would be most required. Her heart inclined chiefly to her niece, as being a woman, struggling alone through the world; whereas Harold, firmly settled in his curacy, would not need additional fortune.

"Oh, but he does need it; you little know how sorely!" cried Olive.

"Eh, my dear? He, a minister!"

Olive drew back, afraid lest she had betrayed too much of the-secret so painfully shared between her and Harold Gwynne. She trembled and blushed beneath the old lady's keen eyes. At last she said, beseechingly,

"Aunt Flora, do not question me—I cannot, ought not, to tell you any more than this—that there may come a time when this money might save him from great misery."

"Misery aye follows sin," said Mrs. Flora, almost sternly, "Am I deceived in him, my dear Harold—poor Alison's son?"

"No, no, no! He is noble, just, and true. There is no one like him in the whole world," cried Olive; and then stopped, covered with blushes. But soon the weakness passed. "Listen to me, Aunt Flora, for this once. Harold Gwynne,"—she faltered not over the name,—"Harold Gwynne is, and will be always, my dear friend and brother. I know more of his affairs than any one else; and I know, too, that he may be in great poverty one day. For me, I have only myself to work for, and work I must, since it is the comfort of my life. As to this fortune, I need it not—how should I? I entreat you, leave all to him."

Mrs. Flora wrapped her arms round her niece without speaking—nor did she again refer to the subject.

But the night before Olive left Edinburgh, she bade her farewell with a solemn blessing—the more solemn, as it was given in words taken out of the Holy Book which she had just closed—words never used lightly by the aged Presbyterian.

"The Lord bless thee and keep thee! The Lord cause His face to shine upon thee! The Lord give thee thy heart's desire, and fulfil all thy mind."

Olive rose with an indescribable sense of hope and peace. As she left the room she looked once more at her aunt.

Mrs. Flora sat in her crimson chair, her hands laid on her knee, her face grave, but serene, and half-lifted, like one who hearkens to some unseen call A secret consciousness struck Olive that in this world she should never more hear the voice, or see the face, of one who had been truly a saint on earth.

It was indeed so.



CHAPTER XLI.

Coming home!—coming home! In different ears how differently sound the words! They who in all their wanderings have still the little, well-filled, love-expectant nest whereto they may wing their way, should think sometimes of the many there are to whom the whole wide world is all alike; whose sole rest must be in themselves; who never can truly say, "I am going home," until they say it with eyes turned longingly towards a Home unseen.

Something of this mournfulness felt Olive Rothesay. It was dreary enough to reach her journey's end alone, and have to wait some hours at the small railway station; and then, tired and worn, to be driven for miles across the country through the gloomiest of all gloomy November days. Still, the dreariness passed, when she saw, shining from afar, the light from the windows of Farnwood Dell. As the chaise stopped, out came running old Hannah, the maid, with little Ailie too; while awaiting her in the parlour, were Christal and Mrs. Gwynne. No one else! Olive saw that in one moment, and blamed herself for having wished—what she had no right to hope—what had best not be.

Mrs. Gwynne embraced her warmly—Christal with dignified grace. The young lady looked gay and pleased, and there was a subdued light in her black eyes which almost softened them into sweetness. The quick restless manner in which she had indulged at times since she came to Farnwood seemed melting into a becoming womanliness, Altogether, Christal was improved.

"Well, now, I suppose you will be wanting to hear the news of all your friends," said Miss Manners, with smiles bubbling round her pretty mouth. "We are not all quite the same as you left us. To begin with—let me see—Mr. Harold Gwynne"——

"Of that, Miss Christal, I will beg you not to speak. It is a painful subject to me," observed Mrs. Gwynne, with a vexed air. "You need not look at me so earnestly, dear, kind Olive! All is well with me and with my son; but he has done what I think is not exactly good for him, and it somewhat troubles me. However, we will talk of this another time."

"More news do you want, Olive?" (Christal now sometimes called her so.) "Well, then, Dame Fortune is in the giving mood. She has given your favourite Mr. Lyle Derwent a fortune of L1000 a year, and a little estate to match!"

"I am so glad! for his sake, good dear Lyle!"

"Dear Lyle!" repeated Christal, turning round with a sparkle either of pleasure or anger in her glittering eyes; but it was quenched before it reached those of Olive. "Well, winning is one thing, deserving is another!" she continued, merrily. "I could have picked out a dozen worthy, excellent young men, who would have better merited the blessing of a rich uncle, ay, and made a better use of his money too."

"Lyle would thank you if he knew."

"That he ought, and that he does, and that he shall do, every day of his life!" cried Christal, lifting up her tall figure with a sudden haughtiness, not the less real because she laughed the while; then with one light bound she vanished from the room.

Olive, left alone with Mrs. Gwynne, would fain have taken her hands, and said as she had oft done before. "Friend, tell me all that troubles you—all that concerns you and him." But now a faint fear repelled her. However, Harold's mother, understanding her looks, observed,

"You are anxious, my dear. Never was there such a faithful friend to me and to my son! I wish you had been here a week ago, and then you might have helped me to persuade him not to go away."

"He is gone, then, to America?"

"America!—who mentioned America?" said Mrs. Gwynne, sharply. "Has he told you more than he told me?"

Olive, sorely repentant, tried to soothe the natural jealousy she had aroused. "You know well Mr. Gwynne would be sure to tell his plans to his mother; only I have heard him talk of liking America—of wishing to go thither."

"He has not gone then. He has started with his friend Lord Arundale, to travel all through Europe. It is a pity, I think, for one of his cloth, and it shows a wandering and restless mind. I know not what has come over my dear Harold."

"Was it a sudden journey?—is it long since he went?" said Olive, shading her eyes from the fire-light.

"Only yesterday. I told him you were coming to-day; and he desired me to say how grieved he was that he thus missed you, but it was unavoidable. He had kept Lord Arundale waiting already, and it would not be courteous to delay another day. You will not mind?"

"Oh no! oh no!" The hand was pressed down closer over the eyes.

Mrs. Gwynne pursued. "Though I have all confidence in my son, yet I own this sudden scheme has troubled me. His health is better;—why could he not stay at Harbury?"

Olive, wishing to discover if she knew anything of her son's sad secret, observed, "It is a monotonous life that Mr. Gwynne leads here—one hardly suited for him."

"Ah, I know," said the mother, sighing. "His heart is little in his calling. I feared so, long ago. But it is not that which drives him abroad; for I told him if he still wished to resign his duties to his curate, we would give up the Parsonage, and he should take pupils. There is a charming little house in the neighbouring village that would suit us. But no; he seemed to shrink from this plan too. He said he must go entirely away from Harbury."

"And for how long?"

"I cannot tell—he did not say. I should think, not above a year—his mother may not have many more years to spend with him;" and there was a little trembling of Mrs. Gwynne's mouth; but she continued with dignity: "Do not imagine, Olive, that I mean to blame my son. He has done what he thought right. Against my wish, or my happiness, he would not have done it at all. So I did not let him see any little pain it might have given me. 'Twas best not. Now we will let the subject rest."

But, though they spoke no more, Olive speculated vainly on what had induced Harold to take this precipitate journey. She thought she had known him so thoroughly—better than any one else could. But in him lay mysteries beyond her ken. She could only still rest on that which had comforted her in all she suffered;—an entire faith in him and in his goodness.

Mrs. Gwynne sat an hour or two, and then rose to return to the Parsonage. "We must be home before it is dark, little Ailie and I. We have no one to take care of us now."

Some pain was visible as she said this. When she took her grandchild by the hand, and walked down the garden, it seemed to Olive that the old lady's step was less firm than usual. Her heart sprang to Harold's mother.

"Let me walk with you a little way, Mrs. Gwynne. I am thoroughly rested now; and as for coming back alone, I shall not mind it."

"What a little trembling arm it is for me to lean on!" said Mrs. Gwynne, smiling, when, after some faint resistance, she had taken Olive for a companion. "'Tis nothing like my Harold's, and yet I am glad to have it. I am afraid I shall often have to look to it now Harold is away. Are you willing, Olive?"

"Quite, quite willing;—nay, very glad!"

Olive went nearly all the way to Harbury. She was almost happy, walking between Harold's mother and Harold's child. But when she parted from them she felt alone, bitterly alone. Then first she began to realise the truth, that the dream of so many months was now altogether ended! It had been something, even after her sorrow began, to feel that Harold was near! that, although days might pass without her seeing him, still he was there—within a few miles. Any time, sitting wearily in her painting room, she might hear his knock at the door; or in any walk, however lonely and sad, there was at least the possibility of his crossing her path, and, despite her will, causing her heart to bound with joy. Now, all these things could not be again. She went homeward along the dear old Harbury road, knowing that no possible chance could make his image appear to brighten its loneliness; that where they had so often walked, taking sweet counsel together as familiar friends, she must learn to walk alone. Perhaps, neither there nor elsewhere, would she ever walk with Harold more.

In her first suffering, in her brave resolve to quit Harbury, she had not thought how she should feel when all was indeed over. She had not pictured the utter blankness of a world wherein Harold was not. The snare broken and her soul escaped, she knew not how it would beat its broken wings in the dun air, meeting nothing but the black, silent waste, ready once more to flutter helplessly down into the alluring death.

Olive walked along with feet heavy and slow. In her eyes were no tears—she had wept them all away long since. She did not look up much; but still she saw, as one sees in a dream, all that was around her—the white, glittering grass, the spectral hedges, the trees laden with a light snow, silent, motionless, stretching their bare arms up to the dull sky. No, not the sky, that seemed far, far off; between it and earth interposed a mist, so thick and cold that it blinded sight and stifled breath. She could not look up at God's dear heaven—she almost felt that through the gloom the pitying Heaven could not look at her. But after a while the mist changed a little, and then Olive drew her breath, and her thoughts began to form themselves as she went along.

"I am now alone, quite alone. I must shut my life up in myself—look to no one's help, yearn for no one's love. What I receive I will take thankfully; but I have no claim upon any one in this wide world. Many pleasant friendships I have, many tender ties, but none close enough to fill the void in my heart—none to love as I could love—as I did love for many years. Oh, mother, why did you go away? Why did I love again—lose again? Always loving only to lose."

Many times she said to herself, "I am alone—quite alone in the world;" and at last the words seemed to strike the echo of some old remembrance. But it was one so very dim, that for a long time Olive could not give it any distinct form. At last she recollected the letter which, ten years ago, she had put away in a secret drawer of her father's desk. Strange to say, she had never thought of it since. Perhaps this was because, at the time, she had instinctively shuddered at the suggestions it gave, and so determined to banish them. And then the quick, changing scenes of life had prevented her ever recurring to the subject Now, when all had come true, when on that desert land which, still distant, had seemed so fearful to the girl's eyes, the woman's feet already stood, she turned with an eager desire to the words which her father had written—"To his daughter Olive when she was quite alone in the world."

Reaching home, and hearing Christal warbling some Italian song, Olive went at once to her own apartment, half parlour, half studio. There was a fire lit, and candles. She fastened the door, that she might not be interrupted, and sat down before her desk.

She found some difficulty in opening the secret drawer, for the spring was rusty from long disuse, and her own fingers trembled much. When at last she held the letter in her hand, its yellow paper and faded ink struck her painfully. It seemed like suddenly coming face to face with the dead.

A solemn, anxious feeling stole over her. Ere breaking the seal, she lingered long; she tried to call up all she remembered of her father—his face—his voice—his manners. Very dim everything was! She had been such a mere child until he died, and the ten following years were so full of action, passion, and endurance, that they made the old time look pale and distant. She could hardly remember how she used to feel then, least of all how she used to feel towards her father. She had loved him, she knew, and her mother had loved him, ay, long after love became only memory. He had loved them, too, in his quiet way. Olive thought, with tender remembrance, of his kiss, on that early morning when, for the last time, he had left his home. And for her mother! Often, during Mrs. Rothesay's declining days, had she delighted to talk of the time when she was a young, happy wife, and of the dear love that Angus bore her. Something, too, she hinted of her own faults, which had once taken away that love, and something in Olive's own childish memory told her that this was true. But she repelled the thought, remembering that her father and mother were now together before God.