 23 Seven summers more the grand old mulberry tree at Woodford Cottage has borne leaf, flower, and fruit. The old dog that used to lie snarling under its branches lies there still, but snarls no more. Between him and the upper air are two feet of earth, together with an elegant canine tombstone, on which Ms. Rothsay, by the entreaty of the disconsolate Meliora, has modelled in clay a very good likeness of the departed. Snap is the only individual who has passed away at Woodford Cottage. In all things else there has been an increase, not a decrease. The peaches and nectarines cover two walls instead of one, and the clematis has mounted in white virgin beauty even to the roof. All together the garden is changed for the better. Trim it is not and never would be, thanks to Olive, who, a true lover of the picturesque, hated trim gardens. But its luxuriance is that of flowers, not weeds, and luxuriant it is, so that every day you might pull for a friend that pleasantest of all pleasant gifts a nose-gay, yea, and afterwards find that, like charity, the more you gave the richer was your store. Enter from the garden into the drawing-room, and you will perceive a change, too. Its dreariness has been softened by many a graceful adjunct of comfort and luxury. Half of it, by means of a crimson screen, is transformed into a painting-room. Olive would have it so, for several reasons, the chief of which was, that whether the young painteress was working or not, Mrs. Rothsay might never be out of the sound of her daughter's voice. For alas, this same sweet, love-toned voice was all the mother now knew of Olive. Gradually there had come over Mrs. Rothsay the misfortune which she feared. She was now blind. Relating this, it may seem though we were about to picture a scene of grief and desolation, but not so. A misfortune that steals on year by year, slowly, inevitably, often comes with so light a footstep that we scarcely hear it. In this manner had come Mrs. Rothsay's blindness. Her sight faded so gradually, that its deprivation caused no despondency, and the more helpless she grew, the closer she was clasped by those supporting arms of filial love which softened all pain, supplied all need, and were to her instead of strength, youth, eyesight. Only one bitterness did she know that she could not see Olive's pictures. Not that she understood art at all, but everything that Olive did must be beautiful. She missed not else, not even her daughter's face, for she saw it continually in her heart. Perhaps in the gray shadow of a form, which she said her eyes could still trace in the dim haze, she pictured the likeness of an Olive ten times fairer than the real one, an Olive whose cheek never grew pale with toil, whose brow was never crossed by that cloud of heart-weariness which all who labour in an intellectual pursuit must know at times. If so, the mother was saved from many of the pangs which visit those who see their beloved ones staggering under a burden which they themselves have no power either to bear or to take away. And so, in spite of this affliction, the mother and daughter were happy, even quite cheerful sometimes, for cheerfulness, originally foreign to Olive's nature, had sprung up there. One of those heart-flowers which love, passing by, sows according as they are needed, until they bloom as though indigenous to the soil. To hear Miss Rothsay laugh, as she was laughing just now, you would have thought she was the merriest creature in the world, and had been so all her life. Moreover, from this blive laugh, as well as from her happy face, you might have taken her for a young maiden of nineteen, instead of a woman of six and twenty which she really was. But with some, after youth's first sufferings are passed, lifestyle seems to run backward. My child, how very merry you are, you and Miss Vanbra, said Mrs. Rothsay from her corner. Well, Mama, and how can we help it? Talking of my charity and the lady who bought it. Would you believe, darling, she told Miss Vanbra that she did so because the background was like a view in their park, and the two little children resembled the two young masters' flood-year, fortunate likeness for me. I, said Miss Meliora, only my brother would say you were very wrong to sell your picture to such stupid people who know nothing about art. Perhaps I was, but, she added whisperingly, you know I have not sold my academy picture yet, and Mama must go into the country this autumn. Mrs. Flood-year is a very nice, chatty woman, observed the mother, and she talked of her beautiful country seat at Farnwood Hall. I think it would do me good to go there, Olive. Well, you know she asked you, dear Mama. Yes, but only for courtesy. She would scarcely be troubled with a guest so helpless as I, said Mrs. Rothsay, half sighing. In a moment Olive was by her side, talking away, at first softly, and then luring her on to smiles with a merry tale, how Mr. Flood-year, when the picture came home, wanted to have the three elder Flood-years painted in a row behind charity, that thus the allegorical picture might make a complete family group. He also sensed to know if I couldn't paint his horse Beauty, and one or two greyhounds also in the same picture, what a comical idea of art this country squire must have. My dear everyone is not so clever as you, said the mother. I like Mrs. Flood-year very much, because whenever she came to Woodford Cottage about the picture, she used to talk to me so kindly. And she has asked after you in all her letters since she went home, so she must be a good creature, and I too will like her very much indeed, because she likes my sweet Mama. The determination was soon called into exercise. For the next half-hour, to the surprise of all parties, Mrs. Flood-year appeared. She assigned no reason for her visit, except that being again in town, she had chosen to drive down to Woodford Cottage. She talked for half an hour in her mild, limpid way, and then, when the arrival of one of Olive's models broke the quiet leisure of the painting-room, she rose. Nay, Miss Rothsay, do not quit your easel. Miss Van Bra will accompany me through the garden, and besides I wish to speak to her about her clematis. We cannot make them grow in S. Shire. The hall is perhaps too cold and bleak. Ah! how I love a clear bracing air, said Mrs. Rothsay, with the restlessness peculiar to all Invalids, and she had been a greater Invalid than usual this summer. Then you must come down, as I said. You and Miss Rothsay, to S. Shire, are part of the country is very beautiful. I should be most happy to see you at Farnwood. She urged the invitation with an easy grace, even cordiality, which charmed Mrs. Rothsay, to whom it brought back the faint reflex of her olden life, the life at Maraville Hall. I should like to go, Olive, she said, appealingly. I feel dull and want to change. You shall have a change, darling, was the soothing but evasive answer, for Olive had a tincture of the old Rothsay pride, and had formed a somewhat disagreeable idea of the position the struggling artist and her blind mother would fill as charity guests at Farnwood Hall. So, after a little conversation with Mrs. Fludger, she contrived that the first plan should melt into one more feasible. There was a pretty cottage, the squire's lady said, on the Farnwood estate. Miss Fludger's daily governess had lived there, it was all fitted up. What if Miss Rothsay would bring her mother there for the summer months? It would be pleasant for all parties. And so, very quickly, the thing was decided. Decided as suddenly and unexpectedly as things are, when it seems as though not human will, but destiny held the balance. Mrs. Fludger seemed really pleased and interested. She talked to Miss Meliora less about her climatis than about her two inmates, a subject equally grateful to the painter's sister. There is something quite charming about Miss Rothsay, the air and manner of one who is always moved in good society. Do you know who she was? I should apologize for the question, but that a friend of mine looking at her picture was struck by the name and desired me to inquire. Meliora explained that she believed Olive's family was Scottish, and that her father was a Captain Angus Rothsay. Captain Angus Rothsay, I think that was the name mentioned by my friend. Shall I call Olive? Perhaps she knows your friend, observed Meliora. Oh no, Mrs., that is, the lady I allude to said they were entire strangers, and it was needless to mention her name. Do not trouble Miss Rothsay with my idle inquiry. Many thanks for the climatis, and good morning, my dear Miss Van Bra. She ascended her carriage with the easy smiling grace of one born to fortune, marrying fortune, and dwelling hand in hand with fortune all her life. Miss Meliora gazed in intense admiration after her departing wheels, and forthwith retired, to plan out of the few words she had let fall a glorious future for her dear Miss Rothsay. There was certainly some unknown wealthy relative who would probably appear next week, and carry off Olive and her mother to affluence, in a carriage as grand as Mrs. Fludger's. She would have rushed at once to communicate the news to her friends. Had it not been that she was stopped in the garden walk, by the apparition of her brother escorting two gentlemen from his studio, a rare courtesy with him. Meliora accounted for it when, from behind a sheltering espalier, she heard him address one of them as my lord. But when she told this to Olive, the young painteress was of a different opinion. She had heard the name of Lord Arundale, and recognized it as that of a nobleman, on whom his love of art and science shed more honor than his title. That was why Mr. Van Vra showed him respect, she knew. Certainly, certainly, said Meliora, a little ashamed. But to think that such a clever man and a nobleman should be so ordinary an appearance, why he was not half so remarkable looking as the gentleman who accompanied him. What was he like? said Olive, smiling. You would have admired him greatly. His was just the sort of head you painted for your Aristides the Just, your favorite style of beauty. Dark, cold, proud, with such piercing eagle eyes, they went right through me. Olive laughed merrily. Do you hear, Mama, how she runs on? What a bewitching young hero. A hero, perhaps, but not exactly young, and as for bewitching, that he certainly might be, but it was in the fashion of a wizard or a magician. I never felt so nervous at the sight of any one in the whole course of my life. Here there was a knock at the drawing-room door. Come in, said Olive, and Mr. Van Vra entered. For a moment he stood on the threshold without speaking, but there was a radiance in his face, a triumphant dignity in his whole carriage, which struck Olive and his sister with surprise. Brother, dear Michael, you are pleased with something. You have had good news. He passed Meliora by and walked up to Miss Rothsay. My pupil rejoice with me. I have found at length appreciation. My life's aim has won success. I have sold my Alcestus. Miss Van Vra rushed towards her brother. Olive Rothsay, full of delight, would have clasped her master's hand, but there was something in his look that repelled them both. His was the triumph of a man who exalted only in and for his art, neither asking nor heeding any human sympathies. Such a look might have been on the face of the great Florentine, when he beheld the multitude gaze half in rapture, half in awe on his work in the Sistine Chapel. Then, folding his coarse garments round him, walked through the streets of Rome to his hermit dwelling, and sat himself down under the shadow of his desolate renown. Michael Van Vra continued, Yes, I have sold my grand picture, the dream, the joy of a lifetime. Sold it too to a man who is worthy to possess it. I shall see it in Lord Erendale's noble gallery. I shall know that it, at least, will remain where, after my death, it will keep from oblivion the name of Michael Van Vra. Glorious indeed is this my triumph. Yet less mine than the triumph of high art. Do you not rejoice, my pupil? I do indeed, my dear and noble master. And brother, brother, you will be very rich. The price you asked for the Alcestus was a thousand pounds, said Meliora. He smiled bitterly. You women always think of money. But for your sake only, dear Michael, cried his sister, and her tearful eyes spoke the truth. Poor little soul, she could but go as far as her gifts went, and they extended no farther than to the thought of what comforts would this sum procure for Michael. A richer velvet gown and cap like one of the old Italian painters. Perhaps a journey to refresh his wearied eyes among lovely scenes of nature. She explained this, looking not angry but just a little hurt. A journey, yes, I will take a journey. One which I have longed for these thirty years. I will go to Rome. Once again I will lie on the floor of the Sistine and look up worshiping me to Michael the Angel. He always called him so. And how long shall you stay, brother? Today, until my heart grows pulseless and my brain dull, why should I ever come back to this cold England? No, let me grow old, die, and be buried under the shadow of the eternal city. He will never come back again. Never! said Miss Van Bra, looking at Olive with a vague bewilderment. He will leave this pretty cottage and me and everything. There was a dead silence, during which poor Meliora sat plating her white apron in fold after fold, as was her habit when in deep and perplexed thought. Then she went up to her brother. Michael, if you will take me, I should like to go, too. What? cried Mrs. Rothsay. You, my dear Miss Van Bra, who are so thoroughly English, who always said you hated moving from place to place, and would live and die at Woodford Cottage. Hush! Hush, we'll not talk about that lest he should hear! said Meliora, glancing half-frightened at her brother. But he stood absorbed by the window, looking out apparently on the sky, though his eyes saw nothing—nothing. Michael, do you quite understand? May I go with you to Rome? Very well, very well, sister! he answered, in the tone of a man who is indifferent to the subject, except that consent gives less trouble than refusal. Then he turned towards Olive, and asked her to go with him to his painting-room. He wanted to consult with her as to the sort of frame that would suit the Alcestus. Indeed, his pupil had now grown associated with all his pursuits, and had penetrated further into the depths of his inward life than anyone else had been ever suffered to do. Olive gradually became to him his cherished pupil, the child of his soul, to whom he would feign transmit the mantle of his fame. He had but one regret, sometimes earnestly and comically expressed, that she was a woman—only a woman. They went and stood before the picture, he and Olive. Meliora stealing after her brother's footsteps, noiseless but constant as his shadow. And this ever-following faithful love clung so closely to its object that, shadow-like, what all others beheld, by him was never seen. Michael Van Bra cast on his picture a look such as no living face ever had won, or ever would win, from his cold eyes. It was the gaze of a parent on his child, a lover on his mistress, an idolater on his self-created God. Then he took his palette, and began to paint, lingeringly and lovingly, on slight portions of background or drapery, less as though he thought this needed than as if loath to give the last, the very last, touch to a work so precious. He talked all the while, seemingly to hide the emotion which he would not show. Lord Arundale is an honour to his rank, a noble man indeed. One does not often meet such, Miss Rothsay. It was a pleasure to receive him in my studio. It did me good to talk with him and with his friend. Here Olive looked at Meliora and smiled. Was his friend then as agreeable as himself? Not so brilliant in conversation, but far the higher nature of the two or I have read the human countenance in vain. He said frankly that he was no artist, and no connoisseur like Lord Arundale, but I saw from his eye that if he did not understand, he felt my picture. How so, said Olive, with growing interest? He looked at Alcestus, the Alcestus I have painted, sitting on her golden throne, waiting for death to call her from her kingdom and her lord, waiting solemnly yet without fear. See, said Lord Arundale to his friend, how love makes this feeble woman stronger than a hero. See how fearlessly a noble wife can die. A wife who loves her husband, was the answer, given so bitterly that I turned to look at him. Oh, that I could have painted his head at that instant. It would have made a Heraclitus, a Timon. And do you know his name? Will he come here again? No, for he was leaving London to-day. I wish it had not been so, for I would have asked him to sit to me. That grand iron rigid head of his, with the close curling hair, would be a treasure indeed. But who is he, brother? inquired Meliora. A man of science, well known in the world, too, Lord Arundale said. He told me his name, but I forgot it. However, you may find a card somewhere about. Meliora ran to the mantelpiece, and brought one to her brother. Is this it? He nodded. She ran for the light, and read aloud. THE REVEREND HERALD GWIN. END OF CHAPTER XXXIV THE SUBJECT OF HERALD GWIN served Olive and her mother for a full half-hours conversation during that idle twilight season which they always devoted to pleasant talk. It was a curious coincidence which thus revived in their memories a name now almost forgotten. Before the debt once paid, Mr. Gwin and all things connected with him had passed into complete oblivion, save that Olive carefully kept his letters. These she had the curiosity to take from their hiding-place and examine once more, partly for her mother's amusement, partly for her own, for it was a whim of hers to judge of character by handwriting, and she really had been quite interested in the character which both Miss Van Bra and her brother had drawn. How strange that he should have been so near us and we not know the fact! He seems quite to haunt us, to be our evil genius, our daemon. Hush, my dear, it is wrong to talk so. Remember too that he is Sarah's husband. Olive did remember it. Justingly though she spoke, there was in her a remembrance, as mournful as a thing so long-ended could be, of that early friendship whose falseness had been her loving heart's first blight. She had never formed another. There was a unity in her nature which made it impossible to build the shrine of a second affection on the ruins of the first. She found it so even in life's ordinary ties. What would it have been with her had she ever known the great mystery of love? She never had known it. She had lived all these years with a heart as virgin as mountain snows. When the one sweet dream which comes to most in early maidenhood, the dream of loving and being loved, was crushed, her heart drew back within itself, and after a time of suffering almost as deep as if for the loss of a real object instead of a mere ideal, she prepared herself for her destiny. She went out into society, and there saw men as they are in society, feeble, fluttering coxcomes, hard, groveling men of business, some few men of pleasure or of vice, and floating around all the race of ordinary mankind, neither good nor bad. Out of these classes, the first she merely laughed at, the second she turned from with distaste, the third she abhorred and despised, the fourth she looked upon with a calm indifference. Some good and clever men she had met occasionally, towards whom she had felt herself drawn with a friendly inclination, but they had always been drifted from her by the ever-shifting currents of society. And these, the exceptions, were chiefly old, or at least elderly persons, men of long-acknowledged talent, wise and respected heads of families. The new generation, the young men out of whose community her female acquaintances were continually choosing lovers and husbands, were much disliked by all of Rothsay. Gradually, when she saw how mean was the general standard of perfection, how ineffably beneath her own ideal, the man she could have worshipped, she grew quite happy in her own certain lot. She saw her companions wedded to men who from herself would never have won a single thought, so she put aside for ever the half-sad dream of her youth, and married herself unto her art. She indulged in some of her sage reflections on men and women, courtship and wedlock in general, when she sat at her mother's feet, talking of Harold Gwynn and of his wife. It could not have been a happy marriage, Mama, if Mr. Gwynn be really the man that Ms. Vanbra and her brother describe. And all day they recurred to Olive's fancy the words, a wife who loved her husband. She, at least, knew too well that Sarah Derwent, when she married, could not have loved hers. Wondering as to what was Sarah's present fate occupied her mind for a long, long time, she had full opportunity for thought, as her mother, oppressed by the sultry August evening, had fallen asleep with her hands on her daughter's neck, and Olive could not stir for fear of waking her. Slowly she watched the twilight darken into a deeper shadow, that of a gathering thunderstorm. The trees beyond the garden began to sway restlessly about, and then, with a sudden flash and distant thunder growl, down came the rain in torrents. Mrs. Rothsay started and woke, like most timid women she had a great dread of thunder, and it took all Olive's powers of soothing to quiet her nervous alarms. These were increased by another sound that broke through the pouring rain, a violent ringing of the garden bell, which, in Mrs. Rothsay's excited state, seemed a warning of all sorts of horrors. The house is on fire, the bolt has struck it! Oh, Olive, Olive, save me! she cried. Hush, darling, you are quite safe with me. And Olive rose up, folding her arms closely round her mother, who hid her head in her daughter's bosom. They stood, Mrs. Rothsay trembling and cowering. Olive, with her pale brow lifted fearlessly, as though she would face all terror, all danger, for her mother's sake. Thus they showed, in the faint glimmer of the lightning, a beautiful picture of filial love, to the eyes of a stranger who that moment opened the door. She was a woman whom the storm had apparently driven in for shelter. Is this Miss Vanborough's house? Is there anyone here? she asked, her accent being slightly foreign. Olive invited her to enter. Thank you, forgive my intrusion, but I am frightened, half-drowned. The thunder is awful. Will you take me in till Miss Vanborough returns? A light was quickly procured, and Olive came to divest the stranger of her dripping garments. Thank you, no. I can assist myself. I always do. And she tried to unfasten her shawl, a rich, heavy fabric and of gaudy colors, when her trembling fingers failed. She knitted her brows and muttered some sharp exclamation in French. You had better let me help you, said Olive gently, as with a firm hand she took hold of the shivering woman, or girl, for she did not look above seventeen, drew her to a seat, and there disrobed her of her drenched shawl. Not until then did Miss Rothsay pause to consider further about this incognita, arrived in such a singular manner. But when, recovered from her alarm, the young stranger subsided into the very unromantic occupation of drying her wet frock by the kitchen fire, Olive regarded her with no small curiosity. She stood, a picture less of girlish grace than of such grace as French fashion dictates. Her tall, well-rounded form struggled through a painful compression into slimness. Her whole attire had that peculiar tournure, which we islanders term Frenchified. Nay, there was something in the very tie of her neck ribbon, which showed it never could have been done by English fingers. She appeared all over, a young lady from abroad. We have noticed her dress first, because that was most noticeable. She herself was a fine, tall, well-modeled girl, who would have been graceful had fashion allowed her. She had one beauty, a column-like neck and well-set head, which she carried very loftily. Her features were somewhat large, not pretty and yet not plain. She had a good mouth and chin. Her eyes were very dark and silk-infringed, but her hair was fair. This peculiarity caught Olive's eye at once, so much so that she almost fancied she had seen the face before she could not tell where. She puzzled about the matter, until the young guest, who seemed to make herself quite at home, had dried her garments and voluntarily proposed that they should return to the drawing-room. They did so, the stranger leading the way, and much to Olive's surprise, seeming to thread with perfect ease the queer labyrinths of the house. By this time the storm was over, and they found Mrs. Rothsay sitting quietly waiting for tea. The young lady again apologized in her easy, foreign manner, and asked if she might stay with them until Miss VanBra's return. Of course her hostess assented, and she talked for above an hour, chiefly of Paris which she said she had just left, of French customs, music and literature. In the midst of this Miss VanBra's voice was heard in the hall. The girl started, as one does at the sound of some old tune, heard in youth and forgotten for years. Her gaiety ceased. She put her hand before her eyes, but when the door opened she was her old self again. No child, frayed with a sprite, could have looked more alarmed than Miss Meliora at the sudden vision of this elegant young damsel who advanced towards her. The little old maid was quite overpowered with her stylish bend, her salute French fashion cheek-to-cheek, and her anxious inquiries after Miss VanBra's health. I am quite well, thank you, madam. A friend of Mrs. Rothsay's, I suppose, was poor Meliora's bewildered reply. No, indeed, I have not till now had the pleasure of hearing Mrs. Rothsay's name. My visit was to yourself, said the stranger, evidently enjoying the incognito she had kept, for her black eyes sparkled with fun. I am happy to see you, madam, again stammered the troubled Meliora. I thought you would be, I came to surprise you. My dear Miss VanBra, have you really forgotten me? Then allow me to reintroduce myself. My name is Crystal Manners. Miss Meliora looked as if she could have sunk into the earth. Year after year, from the sum left in the bank, she had paid the school-bill of her self-assumed charge, but that was all. Afterthoughts, and a few prudish hints given by good-natured friends, had made her feel both ashamed and frightened at having taken such a doubtful protégé. Whenever she chanced to think of crystals growing up and coming back a woman, she drove the subject from her mind in absolute alarm. Now the very thing she dreaded had come upon her. Here was the desolate child returned, a stylish young woman, with no home in the world but that of her sole friend and protectress. Poor Miss VanBra was quite overwhelmed. She sank on a chair. Dear me, I am so frightened. That is, so startled. Oh, Miss Rothsay, what shall I do? And she looked appealingly to Olive. But between her and Miss Rothsay glided the young stranger. The bright color paled from Crystal's face. Her smile passed into a frown. Then you are not glad to see me. You, the sole friend I have in the world, whom I have traveled a thousand miles to meet, traveled alone and unprotected. You are not glad to see me. I will turn and go back again. I will leave the house. I will—I—her rapid speech ended in a burst of tears. Poor Meliora felt like a guilty thing. Miss Manners! Crystal, my poor child! I didn't mean that. Don't cry. Don't cry. I am very glad to see you. So are we all? Are we not, Olive? Olive was almost as much puzzled as herself. She had a passing recollection of the death of Mrs. Manners and of the childs being sent to school, but since then she had heard no more of her. She could hardly believe that the elegant creature before her was the little ragged imp of a child whom she had once seen staring idly down the river. However she asked no questions but helped to soothe the girl and to restore, as far as possible, peace and composure to the household. They all spent the evening together without any reference to the past. Only once, Crystal, in relating how, as soon as ever her term of education expired, she had almost compelled her governess to let her come to England and to Miss Van Bra, said in her proud way, It was not to ask a maintenance, for you know my parents left me independent, but I wanted to see you because I believed that, besides taking charge of my fortune, you had been kind to me when a child. How or in what way I cannot clearly remember, for I think, she added, laughing, that I must have been a very stupid little girl. All seemed so dim to me until I went to school. Can you enlighten me, Miss Van Bra? Another time, another time, my dear, said the painter's sister, growing very much confused. Well, I thank you all the same, and you shall not find me ungrateful, said the young lady, kissing Miss Meliora's hand and speaking in a tone of real feeling which would have moved any woman. It quite overpowered Miss Van Bra, the softest heart of little woman in the world. She embraced her protégé, declaring that she would never part with her. But, she added, with a sudden thought, a thought of intense alarm, what will Michael say? Do not think of that to-night, interposed olive. Miss Manners is tired. Let us get her to bed quickly, and we will see what morning brings. The advice was followed, and Crystal disappeared. Not, however, without lavishing on Mrs. and Miss Rothsay a thousand gracious thanks and apologies, with an air and deportment that did infinite honour to the polite instruction of her penchant. Mrs. Rothsay, confused with all that had happened, did not ask many questions, but only said as she retired. I don't quite like her, olive. I don't like the tone of her voice, and yet there was something that struck me in the touch of her hand, which is so different in different people. Hers is a very pretty hands, mama. It is quite classic in shape, like poor papaz, which I remember so well. There never was such a beautiful hand as your papaz. He said it descended in the Rothsay family. You have it, you know, my child, observed Mrs. Rothsay. She sighed but softly. For, after all these years, the widow and the fatherless had learned to speak of their loss without pain, though with tender remembrance. Thinking of him and of her mother, olive thought likewise how much happier was her own lot than that of the orphan girl, who, by her own confession, had never known what it was to remember the love of the dead or to rejoice in the love of the living. And her heart was moved with the pity, nay even tenderness for crystal manners. When she had assisted her mother to bed, as she always did, olive, in passing downstairs, moved by some feeling of interest, listened at the door of the young stranger. She was apparently walking up and down her room with a quick hurried step. Olive knocked. Are you quite comfortable? Do you want anything? Who's there? Oh, come in, Miss Rothsay. Olive entered and found to her surprise that the candle was extinguished. I thought I heard you moving about, Miss Manners. So I was. I felt restless and could not sleep. I am very tired with my journey, I suppose, and the room is strange to me. Come here, give me your hand. You are not afraid, my dear child, said Olive, remembering that she was indeed little more than a child, though she looked so womanly. You are not frightening yourself in this gloomy old house, nor thinking of ghosts and goblins. No, no, I was thinking, if I must tell the truth, said the girl, with something very like a suppressed sob. I was thinking of you and your mother, as I saw you standing when I first came in. No one ever classed me so or ever will. Not that I have anyone to blame. My father and mother died. They could not help dying. But if they had just brought me into the world and left me, as I have heard some parents have done, then I should cry out, Wicked parents! If I grow up heartless, because I have no one to love me, and vile because I have none to guide me, my sin be upon your head. She said these words with vehement passion. But Olive answered calmly, Hush, Crystal! Let me call you, Crystal, for I am much older than you. Lie down and rest. Be loving, and you will never want for love. Be humble, and you will never want for guiding. You have good friends here, who will care for you very much, I doubt not. Be content, my poor tired child. She spoke very softly, for the darkness quite obliterated the vision of that stylish damsel who had exhibited her heirs and graces in the drawing-room. As she sat by Crystal's bedside, Olive only felt the presence of a desolate orphan. She said in her heart, Please God, I will do her all the good that lies in my feeble power. Who knows but that in some way or other I may comfort and help this child? So she stooped down and kissed Crystal on the forehead, a tenderness that the girl passionately returned. Then Olive went and lay down by her blind mother's side, with a quiet and a happy heart. END OF CHAPTER XXIV In a week's time Crystal Manners was fairly domiciled at Woodford Cottage, in what capacity it would be hard to say, certainly not as Miss Vanbra's protege, for she assumed toward the little old maid a most benignant air of superiority. Mr. Vanbra she privately christened the old ogre and kept as much out of his way as possible. This was not difficult, for the artist was too much wrapped up in himself to meddle with any domestic affairs. He seemed to be under some mystification that the lively French girl was a guest of Miss Rothsay's, and his sister ventured not to break this delusion. Crystal's surname created no suspicions, the very name of his former model, Celia Manners, had long since passed from his memory. So the young visitor made herself quite at home, amused the whole household with her vivacity, clinging especially to the Rothsay portion of the establishment. She served Olive as general assistant in her studio, model included, or at least as lay figure, for she was too strictly fashionable to be graceful in form, and not quite beautiful enough in face to attract an artist's notice. But she did very well, and she amused Mrs. Rothsay all the while with her gay French songs, so that Olive was glad to have her near. The day after Crystal's arrival, Miss Vanbra had summoned her chief state counselor, Olive Rothsay, to talk over the matter. Then and there, Meliora unfolded all she knew and all she guessed of the girl's history. How much of this was to be communicated to Crystal she wished Olive to decide, and Olive, remembering what had passed between them on the first night of her coming, advised that, unless Crystal herself imperatively demanded to know, there should be maintained on the subject a kindly silence. Her parents are dead, of that she is persuaded, Olive urged. Whoever they were they have carefully provided for her, if they erred or suffered, let neither their sin nor their sorrow go down to their child. It shall be so, said the good Meliora, and since Crystal asked no further questions, and indeed her lively nature seemed unable to receive any impressions save of the present, the subject was not again referred to. But the time came when the little household must be broken up. Mr. Vanbra announced that in one fortnight he must leave Woodford Cottage on his journey to Rome. He never thought of such mundane matters as letting the house, or disposing of the furniture. He left all those things to his active little sister, who was busy from morning till night, I often again from night till morning. When Michael commanded anything it must be done if within human possibility, and there never was anyone to do it but Meliora. She did it always, how he never asked or thought. He was so accustomed to her ministrations that he no more noticed them than he did the daylight. Had the light suddenly gone, then, Michael Vanbra would have known what it once had been. ere the prescribed time had quite expired, Ms. Vanbra announced that all was arranged for their leaving Woodford Cottage. Her brother had nothing to do but to pack up his easels and his pictures, and this duty was quite absorbing enough to one who had no existence beyond his painting room. There was one insuperable difficulty which perplexed Meliora, what was to be done with crystal manners. She troubled herself about the matter night and day. At last she hinted something of it to the girl herself. And Miss Manners at once decided the question by saying, I will not go to Rome. She was of a strange disposition as they had already found out. With all her volatile gaiety, when she chose to say I will, she was as firm as a rock. No persuasions, no commands could move her. In this case none were tried. Her fortunes seemed to arrange themselves. For Mrs. Fludger, coming in one day to make the final arrangements for the Rothsay's arrival at Farnwood, took a vehement liking to the young French lady, as Miss Manners was generally considered, and requested that Mrs. Rothsay would bring her down to Farnwood. Olive demurred a little, lest the intrusion of a constant inmate might burden her mother. But the plan was at last decided upon, crystals owned in treaties having no small influence in turning the scale. Thus, all things settled, there came the final parting of the two little families who for so many years had lived together in peace and harmony. The Rothsay's were to leave one day, the Vanbras the next. Olive and Meliora were both very busy, too busy to have time for regrets. They did not meet until evening, when Olive saw Miss Vanbra quietly and sorrowfully watering her flowers, with a sort of mechanical interest. The interest of a mother, whom meekly goes on arranging all things for the comfort and adornment of the child from whom she is about to separate. It made Olive sad, she went into the garden and joined Meliora. Let me help you, dear Miss Vanbra. Why should you tire yourself thus, after all the fatigues of the day? Meliora looked up. Ah, true, true, I shall never do this any more, I know. But the poor flowers must not suffer. I'll take care of them while I can. Those dahlias that I have watched all the year, want watering every night and will do for a month to come. A month? Oh, Miss Rothsay, I am very foolish, I know. But it almost breaks my heart to say good-bye to my poor little garden. Her voice faltered, and at last her tears began to fall, not bitterly, but in a quiet, gentle way, like the dropping of evening rain. However, she soon recovered herself, and began to talk of her brother and of Rome. She was quite sure that there his genius would find due recognition, and that he would rival the old masters in honour and prosperity. She was content to go with him, she said. Perhaps the warm climate would suit her better than England, now that she was growing not exactly old, for she was much younger than Michael, and he had half a lifetime of fame before him, but still older than she had been. The language would be a trouble, but then she was already beginning to learn it, and she had always been used to accommodate herself to everything. She was quite certain that this plan of Michael's would turn out for the good of both. And as for the poor old cottage, when you return to London you will come and see it sometimes, and write me word how it looks. You can send a bit of the Clematis in a letter too, and who knows, but if you get a very rich lady, you may take the whole cottage yourself some day, and live here again. Perhaps, if you will come back from Rome and visit me here, said Olive, smiling, for she was glad to encourage any cheerful hope. No. No, I shall never leave Michael. I shall never leave Michael. She said these words over to herself many times, and then took up her watering-pot and went on with her task. Her affectionate companion followed her for some time, but Miss Van Bra did not seem disposed to talk, so Olive returned to the house. She felt in that unquiet, dreary state of mind which precedes a great change, when all preparations are complete and there is nothing left to be done but to ponder on the coming parting. She could not rest anywhere or compose herself to anything, but wandered about the house, thinking of that last day at Old Church, and vaguely speculating when or what the next change would be. She passed into the drawing-room where Crystal was amusing Mrs. Rothsay with her foreign ditties, and then she went to Mr. Van Bra's studio to have a last talk about art with her old master. He was busily engaged in packing up his cast in remaining pictures. He just acknowledged his pupil's presence and received her assistance, as he always did with perfect indifference. For, from mere carelessness, Van Bra had reduced the woman kind about him to the condition of perfect slaves. There, that will do. Now bring me the great treasure of all, the bust of Michael, the angel. She climbed on a chair and lifted it down, carefully and reverentially, so as greatly to please the artist. Thank you, my pupil. You are very useful. I cannot tell what I should do without you. You will have to do without me very soon, was Olive's gentle and somewhat sorrowful answer. This is my last evening in this dear old studio. My last talk with you, my good and kind master. He looked surprised and annoyed. Nonsense, child! If I am going to Rome, you are going to. I thought Meliora would arrange all that. Olive shook her head. No, Mr. Van Bra. Indeed, it is impossible. What? Not go with me to Rome? You, my pupil, unto whom I meant to unfold all the glorious secrets of my art. Olive Roth say, are you dreaming? He cried angrily. She only answered him softly, that all her plans were settled, and that much as she should delight in seeing Rome, she could not think of leaving her mother. Your mother? What right have we artists to think of any ties of kindred, or to allow them for one moment to weigh in the balance with our noble calling? I say ours, for I tell you now what I never told you before, that though you are a woman, you have a man's soul. I am proud of you. I designed to make for you a glorious future. Even in this scheme I mingled you, how we should go together to the city of art, dwell together, work together, master and pupil, what great things we should execute. We should be like the brother's caracci, like Titian with his scholar and adopted son. Would that you had not been a woman, that I could have made you my son in art and given you my name, and then died, bequeathing to you the mantle of my glory. His rapid and excited language softened into something very like emotion. He threw himself into his painting chair and waited for Olive's answer. It came brokenly, almost with tears. My dear, my noble master, to whom I owe so much, what can I say to you? That you will go with me, that when my failing age needs your young hand, it shall be ready, and that so the master's waning powers may be forgotten in the scholar's rising fame. Olive answered nothing but, my mother, my mother, she would not quit England. I could not part from her. Fool! said Van Brough, roughly. Does a child never leave a mother? It is a thing that happens every day. Girls do it always when they marry. He stopped suddenly and pondered. Then he said hastily, Child, go away! You have made me angry. I would be alone. I will call you when I want you. She disappeared, and for an hour she heard him walking up and down his studio with heavy strides. Soon after there was a pause. Olive heard him call her name and quickly answered the summons. His anger had vanished. He stood calmly, leaning his arm on the mantle-piece, the lamplight falling on the long unbroken lines of his velvet gown, and casting a softened shadow over his rugged features. There was majesty, even grace in his attitude, and his aspect bore a certain dignified serenity that well became him. He motioned his young pupil to sit down, and then said to her, Miss Rothsay, I wish to talk to you as a sensible and noble woman. There are such I know and such I believe you to be. I also speak as to one like myself, a true follower of our divine art, who to that one great aim would bend all life's purposes as I have done. He paused a moment, and seeing that no answer came continued, all these years you have been my pupil, and have become necessary to me and to my art. To part with you is impossible. It would disorganize all my plans and hopes. There is but one way to prevent this. You are a woman. I cannot take you for my son, but I can take you for my wife. Utterly astounded, Olive heard, Your wife? I, your wife, was all she murmured. Yes, I ask you, not for my own sake, but for that of our noble art. I am a man long past my youth, perhaps even a stern, rude man. I cannot give you love, but I can give you glory. Living I can make of you such an artist as no woman ever was before. Dying I can bequeath to you the immortality of my fame. Answer me. Is this nothing? I cannot answer. I am bewildered. Then listen. You are not one of those foolish girls who would make sport of my gray hairs. I will be very tender over you, for you have been good to me. I will learn how to treat you with the mildness that women need. You shall be like a child to my old age. You will marry me then, Olive Rothsay. He walked up to her and took her hand, gravely, though not without gentleness, but she shrank away. I cannot. I cannot. It is impossible. He looked at her one moment, neither in angry reproach nor in wounded tenderness, but with a stern cold pride. I have been mistaken. Pardon me. Then he quitted her, walked back to his position near the hearth, and resumed his former attitude. There was silence. Afterwards Michael Van Bra felt his sleeve touched, and saw beside him the small, delicate figure of his pupil. Mr. Van Bra, my dear master and friend, look at me, and listen to what I have to say. He moved his head ascendingly, without turning round. I have lived, Olive continued, for six and twenty years and no one has ever spoken to me of marriage. I did not dream that anyone ever would. But since you have thus spoken, I can only answer as I have answered. And you are in the same mind still. I am, not because of your age or of my youth, but because you have, as you say, no love to give me, nor have I love to bring to you. Therefore for me to marry you would be a sin. As you will, as you will. I thought you a kindred genius. I find you a mere woman. Just on at the old fool with his gray hairs. Go and wed some young gay. Look at me, said Olive, with a mournful meaning in her tone. Am I likely to marry? I have spoken ill, said Van Bra, in a touched and humbled voice. Nature has been hard to us both. We ought to deal gently with one another. Forgive me, Olive. He offered her his hand. She took it and pressed it to her heart. Oh, that I could be still your pupil, your daughter, my dear, dear master. I will never forget you while I live. Be it so. He moved away and sat down, leaning his head upon his hand. Who knows what thoughts might have passed through his mind. Regretful, almost remorseful thoughts of that bliss which he had lost or scorned. Life's crowning sweetness, woman's love. Olive went up to him. I must go now. You will bid me good-bye. Will you not, gently, kindly? You will not think the worse of me for what has passed this night. And she knelt down beside him, pressing her lips to his hand. He stooped and kissed her forehead. It was the first and last kiss that, since boyhood, Michael Van Bra ever gave to woman. Then he stood up, the great artist only. In his eye was no softness but the pride of genius. Genius, the mighty, the daring, the eternally alone. Go, my pupil, and remember my parting words. Fame is sweeter than all pleasure, stronger than all pain. We give unto art our life, and she gives us immortality. As Olive went out, she saw him still standing, stern, motionless, with folded arms and majestic eyes, like a solitary rock whereon no flowers grow, but on whose summit Heaven's light continually shines. Well, darling, how do you feel in our new home? said Olive to her mother, when, after a long and weary journey, the night came down upon them at Farnwood, the dark, gusty autumn night, made wildly musical by the neighborhood of dense woods. I feel quite content, my child. I am always content everywhere with you, and I like the wind. It helps me to imagine the sort of country we are in. A forest country, hilly and bleak. We drove through miles of forest land, over roads carpeted with fallen leaves. The woods will look glorious this autumn time. That will be very pleasant, my child, said Mrs. Rothsay, who was so accustomed to see with Olive's eyes, and to delight in the vivid pictures painted by Olive's eloquent tongue, that she never spoke like a person who was blind. Even the outward world was to her no blank of desolation. Wherever they went, every beautiful place or thing or person that Olive saw, she treasured in memory. I must tell Mama of this, or I must bring Mama here and paint the view for her. And so she did, in words so rich and clear, that the blind mother often said she enjoyed such scenes infinitely more than when the whole wide earth lay open to her unregardful eyes. I wonder, said Olive, what part of S. Shire we are in. We really might have been fairy-guided hither. We seem only aware that our journey began in London and ended at Farnwood. I don't know anything about the neighborhood. Never mind the neighborhood, dear, since we are settled, you say, in such a pretty house. Tell me, is it like Woodford Cottage? Not at all. It is quite modern and comfortable. And they have made it all ready for us, just as if we were come to a friend's house on a visit. How kind of Mrs. Fledger. Nay, I'm sure Mrs. Fledger never knew how to arrange a house in her life. She had no hand in the matter, trust me, observed the sharply observant crystal. Well, then, it is certainly the same guiding fairy who has done this for us, too. And I am very thankful to have such a quiet, pleasant coming home. I too feel it like coming home, said Mrs. Rothsay, in a soft, weary voice. Olive, love, I am glad the journey is over. It has been almost too much for me. We will not go back to London yet awhile. We will stay here a long time. As long as ever you like, darling, and now shall I show you the house? Showing the house implied a long description of it, in Olive's blithest language, as they passed from room to room. It was a pretty, commodious dwelling, perhaps the prettiest portion of which was the chamber, which Mrs. Rothsay appropriated as her mother's and her own. It is a charming sleeping room, with its white draperies and its old oak furniture, and the quaint pier glass stuck round with peacock's feathers, country fashion. And there, Mama, are some prints, a raising of Lazarus, though not quite so grand as my beloved Sebastian del Piambo. And here are views from my own beautiful Scotland, a Highland Lough and Edinburgh Castle, and oh, Mama, there is grand old Sterling, the place where I was born. Our good fairy might have known the important fact, for lo, she has adorned the mantelpiece with two great bunches of heather, in honour of me, I suppose. How pleasant! Yes, but I am weary, love. I wish I were in bed, and at rest. This was soon accomplished, and Olive sat down by her mother's side, as she often did, waiting until Mrs. Rothsay fell asleep. She sat, looking about her mechanically, as one does when taking possession of a strange room. Curiously her eye marked every quaint angle in the furniture. Which would in time become so familiar. Then she thought, as one of dreamy mood is apt to do under such circumstances, of how many times she should lay her head down on the pillow in this same room, and when and how would be the last time, for to all things on earth must come a last time. But, waking herself out of such pondering, she turned to look at her mother. The delicate, placid face lay in the stillness of deep sleep, a stillness that sometimes startles one from its resemblance to another and more solemn repose. While she looked, a pain entered the daughter's heart. To chase it thence, she stooped and softly kissed the face which to her was, and ever had been, the most beautiful in the world. And then, following the train of her former musings, came the thought that one day, it might be far distant, but still in all human probability it must come. She would kiss her mother's brow for it the last time. A moment's shiver, a faint prayer and the thought passed. But long afterwards she remembered it, and marveled that it should have first come to her then and there. The morning that rose at Farnwood Dell, so the little house was called, was one of the brightest that ever shone from September skies. Olive felt cheerful as the day, and as for Crystal, she was perpetually running in and out, making the wonderful discoveries of a young damsel who had never in all her life seen the real country. She longed for a ramble, and would not let Olive rest until the exploit was determined on. It was to be a long walk, the appointed goal being a beacon that could be seen for miles, a church on the top of a hill. Olive quite longed to go thither, because it had been the first sight at Farnwood on which her eyes had rested. Looking out from her chamber window at the early morning, she had seen it gleaming goldenly in the sunrise. All was so new, so lovely. It had made her feel quite happy, just as though with that first sunrise at Farnwood had dawned a new era in her life. Many times during the day she looked at the hill church. She would have asked about it had there been anyone to ask, so she determined that her first walk should be thither. The graceful spire rose before them, guiding them all the way, which did not seem long to Olive, who reveled in the beauties unfolded along their lonely walk, a winding road bounding the forest, on whose verge the hill stood. But Crystal's Parisian feet soon grew wearied, and when they came to the ascent of the hill she fairly sat down by the roadside. I will go into this cottage and rest until you come back, Miss Rothsay, and you need not hurry, for I shall not be able to walk home for an hour, said the wilful young lady, as she quickly vanished, and left her companion to proceed to the church alone. Slowly Olive wound up the hill, and through a green lane that led to the churchyard. There seemed a pretty little village close by, but she was too tired to proceed further. She entered the churchyard, intending to sit down and rest on one of the gravestones, but at the wicket gate she paused to look around at the wide expanse of country that lay beneath the afternoon sunshine, a peaceful earth smiling back the smile of heaven. The old gray church, with its circle of gigantic trees, shut out all signs of human habitation, and there was no sound, not even the singing of birds, to break the perfect quiet that brooded around. Olive had scarcely ever seen so sweet a spot. Its sweetness passed into her soul, moving her even to tears. From the hilltop she looked on the wide verdant plain, then up into the sky, and wished for Dove's wings to sail out into the blue. Never had she so deeply felt how beautiful was earth and how happy it might be made. And was Olive not happy? She thought of all those whose forms had moved through her life's picture. Very beautiful to her heart they were, beautiful and dearly loved. But now it seemed as though there was one great want, one glorious image that should have arisen above them all, melting them into a grand, harmonious whole. Half conscious of this want, Olive thought, I wonder how it would have been with me had I ever penetrated that great mystery which crowns all life, had I ever known love. The thought brought back many of her conversations with Michael, and his belief that the life of the heart and that of the brain, one so warm and rich, the other so solitary and cold, can rarely exist together. Towards the latter her whole destiny seemed now turning. It may be true, perchance all is well, let me think so. If on earth I must ever feel this void, may it be filled at last in the afterlife with God. She pondered thus, but the meditations oppressed her. She was rather glad to have them broken by the appearance of a little girl, who entered from a wicket gate at the other end of the churchyard, and walked very slowly and quietly to a gravestone near where Miss Rothsay stood. Olive approached, but the child, a thoughtful looking little creature of about eight years old, did not see her until she came quite close. Do not let me disturb you, my dear, said she gently, as the little girl seemed shy and frightened and about to run away. But Miss Rothsay, who loved all children, began to talk to her, and very soon succeeded in conquering the timidity of the pretty little maiden. For she was a pretty creature. Olive especially admired her eyes, which were large and dark, the sort of eyes she had always loved for the sake of Sarah Derwent. Looking into them now, she seemed carried back once more to the days of her early youth and of that long-vanished dream. Are you fond of coming here, my child? Yes, whenever I can steal quietly away, out of sight of papa and grand-mama, they do not forbid me, else you know I ought not to do it, but they say it is not good for me to stay thinking here and send me to go and play. And why had you rather come and sit here than play? Because there is a secret, and I want to try and find it out, I dare not tell you, for you might tell papa and grand-mama, and they would be angry. But your mama, you surely could tell mama, I always tell everything to mine. Do you, and have you got a mama? Then perhaps you could help me in finding out all about mine. You must know, added the child, lifting up her eager face with an air of mystery. When I was very little I lived away from here. I never saw my mama, and my nurse always told me that she had gone away. A little while since when I came here, my home is there, and she pointed to what seemed the vicarage house, glimmering whitely through the trees. They told me mama was here under this stone, but they would tell me nothing more. Now what does it all mean? Olive perceived by these words that the child was playing upon her mother's grave. Only it seemed strange that she should have been left so entirely ignorant with regard to the great mysteries of death and immortality. Miss Rothsay was puzzled what to answer. My child, if your mama be here it is her body only. And Olive paused, startled at the difficulty she found in explaining in the simplest terms the doctrine of the soul's immortality. At last she continued, When you go to sleep, do you not often dream of walking in beautiful places and seeing beautiful things, and the dreams are so happy that you would not mind whether you slept on your soft bed or on the hard ground? Well, so it is with your mama. Her body has been laid down to sleep, but her mind, her spirit, is flying far away in beautiful dreams. She never feels at all that she is lying in her grave under the ground. But how long will her body lie there, and will it ever wake? Yes, it will surely wake, though how soon we know not, and be taken up to heaven and to God? The child looked earnestly in Olive's face. What is heaven? And what is God? Miss Rothsay's amazement was not unmingled with horror. Her own religious faith had dawned so imperceptibly, at once an instinct and a lesson, that there seemed something awful in this question of an utterly untaught mind. My poor child, she said, do you not know who is God? Has no one told you? No one. Then I will. Pardon me, madam, said a man's voice behind, calm, cold, but not unmusical, but it seems to me that a father is the best teacher of his child's faith. Papa! It is papa! With a look of shyness almost amounting to fear, the child slid from the tombstone and ran away. Olive stood face to face with the father. He was a gentleman, a true gentleman. At the first glance anyone would have given him that honorable and rarely earned name. His age might be about thirty-five, but his face was cast in the firm, rigid mold over which years pass and leave no trace. He might have looked as old as now at twenty, at fifty he would probably look little older. Handsome he was, as Olive discerned at a glance, but there was something in him that controlled her much more than mere beauty would have done. It was a grave dignity of presence which indicated that mental sway which some men are born to hold, first over themselves and then over their kind. Wherever he came he seemed to say, I rule, I am master here. Olive Roth say, innocent as she was of any harm to this gentleman or to his child, felt as cowed and humbled as if she had done wrong. She wished she could have fled like the little girl, fled out of reach of his searching glance. He waited for her to speak first, but she was silent. Her color rose to her very temples. She knew not whether she ought to apologize or to summon her woman's dignity and meet the stranger with a demeanor like his own. She was relieved when the sound of his voice broke the pause. I fear I startled you, madam, but I was not at first aware who was talking to my little girl. Afterwards the few words of yours which I overheard induced me to pause. What words? About sleep and dreams and immortality. Your way of putting the case was graceful, poetical. Whether a child would apprehend it or not is another question. Olive was surprised at the half-sarcastic, half-earnest way in which he said this. She longed to ask what motive he could have had in bringing the child up in such total ignorance of the first principles of Christianity. The stranger seemed to divine her question and answer it. No doubt you think it's strange that my little daughter is so ill-informed in some theological points and still more that I should have stopped you when you were kind enough to instruct her thereon. But, being a father, to say nothing of a clergyman, Olive looked at him in some surprise and found that her interlocutor bore, in dress at least, a clerical appearance. I choose to judge for myself in some things, and I deem it very inexpedient that the feeble mind of a child should be led to dwell on subjects which are beyond the grasp of the profoundest philosopher. But not beyond the reverent faith of a Christian, Olive ventured to say. He looked at her with his piercing eyes and said eagerly, You think so, you feel so. Then recovering his old manner. Certainly, of course, that is the great beauty of a woman's religion. She pauses not to reason, she is always ready to believe. Therefore you women are a great deal happier than the philosophers. It was doubtful from his tone whether he meant this in compliment or in sarcasm, but Olive replied as her own true and pious spirit prompted. It seems to me that while the intellect comprehends, the heart or rather the soul is the only fountain of belief. Without that, could a man dive into the infinite until he became as an angel in power and wisdom, could he by searching find out God, still he could not believe? Do you believe in God? I love him. She said no more, but her countenance spoke the rest, and her companions saw it. He stood as silently gazing as a man who in the desert comes face to face with an angel. Olive, recollecting herself, blushed deeply. I ought to apologize for speaking so freely of these things to a stranger and a clergyman, in this place too. Can there be a fitter place, or one that so sanctifies and at the same time justifies this conversation, was the answer, as the speaker glanced round the quiet domain of the dead. Then Olive remembered where they stood, that she was talking to the husband over his lost wife's tomb. The thought touched her with sympathy for this man, whose words, though so earnest, were yet so piercing. He seemed as though it were his habit to tear away every flimsy veil, in order to behold the shining image of truth. They were silent for a moment, and then he resumed, with a smile, the first that had yet lightened his face, and which now cast on it an inexpressible sweetness. Let me thank you for talking so kindly to my little daughter. I trust I have sufficiently explained why I interrupted your lessons. Still it seems strange, said Olive, and strong interest conquering her diffidence, she asked how he, a clergyman, had possibly contrived to keep the child in such utter ignorance. She has not lived much with me, he answered. My little Ily has been brought up in complete solitude. It was best for a child whose birth was soon followed by her mother's death. Olive trembled lest she had opened a wound, but his words and manner had the grave composure of one who speaks of any ordinary event. Whatever grief he had felt, it evidently was healed. An awkward pause, during which Miss Rothsay tried to think in what way she could best end the conversation. It was broken at last by little Ily, who crept timidly across the churchyard to her father. Please, papa, grand mama wants to see you before she goes out. She is going to John Dent's and to Farnwood and— Hush, little chatterbox! This lady cannot be interested in our family revelations. Bid her good afternoon and come. He tried to speak playfully, but it was a rigid playfulness. Though a father, it was evident he did not understand children. Bowing to Olive with a stately acknowledgment, he walked on alone towards the little wicked gate. She noticed that his eye never turned back, either to his dead wife's grave or to his living child. Ily, while his shadow was upon her, had been very quiet. When he walked away, she sprang up, gave Olive one of those rough, sudden, childish embraces which are so sweet, and then bounded away after her father. Miss Rothsay watched them both disappear, and then was seized with an eager impulse to know who were this strange father and daughter. She remembered the tombstone, the inscription of which she had not yet seen, for it was half hidden by an overhanging cornice and by the tall grass that grew close by. Olive had to kneel down in order to decipher it. She did so, and read, Sarah, wife of the Reverend Harold Gwynne, died, aged twenty-one. Then the turf she knelt on covered Sarah. The kiss, yet warm on her lips, was given by Sarah's child. Olive bowed her face in the grass, trembling violently. Far, far through long divided years, her heart fled back to its olden tenderness. She saw again the thorn-tree and the garden-walk, the beautiful girlish face with its frank and constant smile. She sat down and wept over Sarah's grave. Then she thought of little Ily. Oh, would that she had known this sooner, that she might have closer classed the motherless child and have seen poor Sarah's likeness shining from her daughter's eyes. With a yearning impulse Olive rose up to follow the little girl, but she remembered the father. How strange, how passing strange, that he with whom she had been talking, towards whom she had felt such an awe and yet a vague attraction, should have been Sarah's husband, and the man whose influence had curiously threaded her own life for many years. She felt glad that the mystery was now solved, that she had at last seen Harold Gwynne. CHAPTER XXVII. Miss Rothsay was very silent during the walk home. She accounted for it to crystal by telling the simple truth, that in the churchyard she had found the grave of an early and dear friend. Her young companion looked serious, condoled in set fashion, and then became absorbed in the hateful labyrinths of the muddy road. Certainly Miss Manners was never born for a simple rustic. Olive could not help remarking this. No, I was born for what I am, answered the girl proudly. My parents were aristocrats, so am I. Don't lecture me. Wrong or right I always felt thus and always shall. If I have neither friends nor relatives I have at least my family and my name. She talked thus, as she did sometimes, until they came to the garden gate of Farnwood Dell. There stood an elegant carriage. Crystals eyes brightened at the site, and she trod with a more patrician air. The maid, a parting bequest of Miss Melioras, and who had long and faithfully served at Woodford Cottage, came anxiously to communicate that there were two ladies waiting. One of them she did not know, the other was Mrs. Fludger. The latter would have disturbed Mrs. Rothsay, Hannah added, but the other lady said no, they would wait. We're at Olive's heart inclined towards the other lady. She went in and found, with Mrs. Fludger, an ancient dame of large and goodly presence. Aged though she seemed, her tall figure was not bent, and dignity is to the old what grace is to the young. She stood a little aside and did not speak, but Olive, laboring under the weight of Mrs. Fludger's gracious inquiries, felt that the old lady's eyes were carefully reading her face. At last Mrs. Fludger made a motion of introduction. No, I thank you, said the stranger, in the unmistakable northern tongue, which, falling from poor Elspy's lips, had made the music of Olive's childhood, and to which her heart yearned ever more. Miss Rothsay, will you, for your father's sake, let me shake hands with his child? I am Mrs. Gwyn. Thus it was that Olive received the first greeting of Harold's mother. It startled, overpowered her, she had been so much agitated that day. She was surprised into that rare weakness, a hearty, even childish burst of tears. Mrs. Gwyn came up to her, with a softness almost motherly. You are pained, Miss Rothsay, you remember the past. But I have now come to hope that everything may be forgotten, save that I was your father's old friend. For our Scottish friendship, like our pride, descends from generation to generation. Fortune has made us neighbours, let us then be friends. It is my earnest wish, and that of my son Harold. Your son, echoed Olive, and then, half bewildered by all these adventures, coincidences, and eclairsie small, she told how she had already met him, and how that meeting had shown to her her old companion's grave. That is strange, too. Never while she lived did Mrs. Harold Gwyn mention your name, and you loved her so. Well, it was like her. Like her, muttered Harold's mother. But peace be with the dead. She walked up and laid her hand on Olive's shoulder. My dear, I am an old woman. Excuse my speaking plainly. You know nothing of me and of my son, save what is harsh and painful. Forget all this, and remember only that I loved your father when he was quite a child, and that I am prepared to love his daughter if she so choose. You must not think I am taking a hasty fancy. We Scottish folk rarely do that. But I have learned much about you lately, more than you guess, and have recognized in you the little Olive of whom Angus Rothsay told me so much only a few days before his death. Did you see my dear father then? Did he talk of me? cried Olive eagerly, as, forgetting all the painful remembrances attached to the Gwyn family, she began to look at Harold's mother almost with affection. But Mrs. Gwyn, who had unfolded herself in a way most unusual, now was relapsing into reserve. We will talk of this another time, my dear. Now I should much desire to see Mrs. Rothsay. Olive went to fetch her. How she contrived to explain all that had transpired, she never clearly knew herself. However, she succeeded, and shortly reappeared with her mother leaning on her arm. And beholding the pale, worn, but still graceful woman, who, with her sightless eyes cast down, clung to her sole stay, her devoted child, Mrs. Gwyn seemed deeply moved. There was even a sort of deprecatory hesitation in her manner, but it soon passed. She clasped the widow's hands, and spoke to her in a voice so sweet, so winning, that all pain vanished from Mrs. Rothsay's mind. In a little while she was sitting calmly by Mrs. Gwyn's side, listening to her talking. It went into the blind woman's heart. Soft the voice was and kind, and above all there were in it the remembered, long unheard accents of the northern tongue. She felt again like young Sibylahide, creeping along in the moonlight by the side of her stalwart Highland lover, listening to his whispers, and thinking that there was in the wide world no one like her own Angus Rothsay, so beautiful and so brave. When Mrs. Gwyn quitted the dell, she left on the hearts of both mother and daughter a pleasure which they sought not to repress. They were quite glad that the next day was Sunday, when they would go to Harbury, and hear Harold Gwyn preach. Olive told her mother all that had passed in the churchyard, and they agreed that he must be a very peculiar, though a very clever man. As for Crystal, she had gone off with her friend, Mrs. Fledger, and did not interfere in the conversation at all. When Sunday morning came, Mrs. Rothsay's feeble strength was found unequal to a walk of two miles. Crystal, apparently not sorry for the excuse, volunteered to remain with her, and Olive went to church alone. She was loath to leave her mother, but then she did so long to hear Mr. Gwyn preach. She thought all the way what kind of minister he would make. Not at all like any other, she was quite sure. She entered the gray, still village church, and knelt down to pray in a retired corner pew. There was a great quietness over her, a repose like that of the morning before sunrise. She felt a meek happiness, a hopeful looking forth into life, and yet a touch would have awakened the fountain of tears. She saw Mrs. Gwyn walk up the aisle alone, with her firm, stately step, and then the service began. Olive glanced one instant at the officiating minister. It was the same stern face that she had seen by Sarah's grave, nay, perhaps even more stern. Nor did she like his reading, for there was in it the same iron coldness. He repeated the touching liturgy of the English church with the tone of a judge delivering sentence, an orator pronouncing his well-written formal harangue. Olive had to shut her ears before she herself could heartily pray. This pained her. There was something so noble in Mr. Gwyn's face, so musical in his voice, that any shortcoming gave her a sense of disappointment. She felt troubled to think that he was the clergyman of the parish, and she must necessarily hear him every Sunday. Harold Gwyn mounted his pulpit, and Olive listened intently. From what she had heard of him as a highly intellectual man, from the faint indications of character which she had herself noticed in their conversation, Miss Rothsay expected that he would have dived deeply into theological disquisition. She had too much penetration to look to him for the Christianity of a Saint John. It was evident that such was not his nature, but she thought he would surely employ his powerful mind in wrestling with those naughty points of theology which might furnish arguments for a modern Saint Paul. But Harold Gwyn did neither. His sermon was a plain moral discourse, an essay such as Locke or Bacon might have written, say that he took care to translate it into language suitable to his hearers, the generality of whom were of the laboring class. Olive liked him for this, believing she recognized therein the strong sense of duty, the wish to do good, which overpowered all desire of intellectual display. And when she had once succeeded in ignoring the fact that his sermon was of a character more suited to the professor's chair than the pulpit, she listened with deep interest to his teaching of a lofty but somewhat stern morality. Yet, despite his strong clear arguments and his evident earnestness, there was about him a repellent atmosphere which prevented her inclining towards the man, even while she was constrained to respect the intellect of the preacher. Nevertheless, when Mr. Gwyn ended his brief discourse with the usual prayer, that it might be grafted inwardly in his hearers' minds, it sounded very like a mockery, at least to Olive, who for the moment had almost forgotten that she was in a church. During the silent pause of the kneeling congregation, she raised her eyes and looked at the minister. He too knelt like the rest with covered face, but his hands were not folded in prayer, they were clenched like those of a man writhing under some strong and secret agony, and when he lifted his head his rigid features were more rigid than ever. The organ awoke, peeling forth Handel's hallelujah chorus, and still the pastor sat motionless in his pulpit, his stern face showing white in the sunshine. The heavenly music rolled round him its angelic waves, they never touched his soul. Beneath, his simple congregation passed out, exchanging with one another demure Sunday greetings and kindly Sunday smiles, he saw them not. He sat alone like one who has no sympathy either with heaven or earth. But there watched him from the hidden corner eyes he knew not of, the wondering half-pittying eyes of Olive Rothsay, and while she gazed there came into her heart, involuntarily, as if whispered by an unseen angel at her side, the words from the litany, words which he himself had coldly read an hour before. That it may please thee to lead into the way of truth, all such as have erred and are deceived. We beseech thee to hear us, O Lord. Scarcely conscious was she why she thus felt, or for whom she prayed, but years after, it seemed to her that there had been a solemn import in these words. Miss Rothsay was late in quitting the church. As she did so, she felt her arm lightly touched and saw beside her Mrs. Gwynne. My dear, I am glad to meet you. We scarcely expected to have seen you at church today. Alone, too. Then you must come with me to the parsonage to lunch. You say nay? What, are we still so far enemies that you refuse our bread and salt? Olive coloured with sensitive fear lest she might have given pain. Besides, she felt a strong attraction towards Mrs. Gwynne, a sense of looking up, such as she had never before experienced towards any woman. For, it is needless to say, Olive's affection for her mother was the passionate, protecting tenderness of a nurse for a beloved charge. Nay, even of a lover towards an idolised mistress. But there was nothing of reverential awe in it at all. Now Mrs. Gwynne carried with her dignity, influence, command. Olive, almost against her will, found herself passing down the green alley that led to the parsonage. As she walked along, her slight small figure pressed close to her companion, who had taken her under her arm. She felt almost like a child beside Harold's mother. At the door sat little Eiley, amusing herself with a great dog. She looked restless and wearied, as a child does, kept in the house under the restrictions of Sunday play. At the sight of her grandmother, the little girl seemed half pleased, half frightened, and tried to calm Rover's frolics within the bounds of sabatic propriety. This being impossible, Mrs. Gwynne's severe voice ordered both the offenders away in different directions. Then she apologised to Miss Rothsay. Perhaps, she continued, you are surprised that Eiley was not with me this morning, but such is her father's will. My son Harold is peculiar in his opinions, and has a great hatred of Kant, especially infantile Kant. And does Eiley never go to church? No, but I take care that she keeps Sunday properly and reverently at home. I remove her playthings and her baby books, and teach her a few of Dr. Watts' moral hymns. Olive sighed. She felt that this was not the way to teach the faith of him who smiled with benign tenderness on the little child, set in the midst. And it grieved her to think what a wide gulf there was between the untaught Eiley and that sincere but stern pity over which had gathered the formality of advancing years. Mrs. Gwynne and her guest had sat talking for some minutes when Harold was seen crossing the lawn. His mother called him, and he came to the window with the quick response of one who in all his life had never heard that summons unheeded. It was a slight thing, but Olive noticed it, and the loving daughter felt more kindly towards the dutious son. Harold, Miss Rothsay is here. He glanced in at the open window with a surprised half-confused air which was not remarkable considering the awkwardness of the second meeting after their first encounter. Remembering it, Olive heard his steps down the long hall with some trepidation. But entering, he walked up to her with graceful ease, took her hand, and expressed his pleasure in meeting her. He did not make the slightest illusion either to their former correspondence or to their late conversation in the churchyard. Olive's sudden color paled beneath his unconcerned air. Her faintly quickened pulses sank into quietness. It seemed childish to have been so nervously sensitive in meeting Harold Gwyn. She felt thoroughly ashamed of herself, and was afraid lest her shyness might have conveyed to him and to his mother the impression, which she would not for worlds have given, that she bore any painful or uncharitable remembrance of the past. Soon the conversation glided naturally into ease and pleasantness. Mrs. Gwyn had the gift of talking well, a rare quality among women whose conversation mostly consists of disjointed chatter, long-winded repetitions, or a commonplace remark, and silence. But Alice and Gwyn had none of these feminine peculiarities. To listen to her was like reading a pleasant book. Her terse, well-chosen sentences had all the grace of easy chat, and yet were so unaffected that not until you paused to think them over did you discover that you might have put them all down in a book, and made an excellent book, too. Her son had not this gift, or if he had he left it unemployed. It was a great moment that could draw more than ordinary words from the lips of Harold Gwyn, and such moments seemed to have been rare indeed with him. Generally he appeared, as he did now to Al-Abroth say, the dignified but rather silent master of the household, in whose most winning grace there was reserve, and whose very courtesy implied command. He showed this when, after an hour's pleasant visit, Ms. Rothsay moved to depart. Harold requested her to remain a few minutes longer. I have occasion to go to the hall before evening service, and I shall be happy to accompany you on the way, if you do not object to my escort. If Olive had been quite free, probably she would have answered that she did, for her independent habits made her greatly enjoy a long, quiet walk alone, especially through a beautiful country. She almost felt that the company of her redoubtable pastor would be a restraint. But in all that Harold Gwyn did or said there lurked an inexplicable sway to which everyone seemed to bend. Almost against her will she remained, and in a few minutes was walking beside him to the little wicket gate. Here they were interrupted by someone on clerical business. Mr. Gwyn desired her to proceed. He would overtake her ere she had descended the hill. Dither Olive went, half hoping that she might after all take her walk alone. But very soon she heard behind her footsteps, quick, firm, manly, less seeming to tread than to crush the ground. Such footsteps give one a feeling of being haunted, as they did to Olive. It was a relief when they came up with her, and she was once more joined by Harold Gwyn. You are exact in keeping your word, observed Ms. Rothsay, by way of saying something. Yes, always, when I say I will, it is generally done. The road is uneven and rough, will my arm age you, Ms. Rothsay? She accepted it, perhaps the more readily because it was offered less as a courtesy than a support, and one not unneeded, for Olive was rather tired with her morning's exertions and with the excitement of talking to strangers. As she walked there came across her mind the thought, what a new thing it was for her to have a strong, kindly arm to lean on. But it seemed rather pleasant than otherwise, and she felt gratefully towards Mr. Gwyn. They conversed on the ordinary topics, natural to such a recent acquaintance, the beauty of the country around, the peculiarities of forest scenery, etc., etc. Never once did Harold's conversation assimilate to that which had so struck Olive when they stood beside poor Sarah's grave. It seemed as though the former Harold Gwyn, the object of her girlhood's dislike, her father's enemy, her friend's husband, had vanished forever, and in his stead was a man whose strong individuality of character already interested her. He was unlike all other men she had ever known. This fact, together with the slight mystery that hung over him, attracted the lingering romance of Olive's nature, and made her observe his manner and his words with a vigilant curiosity, as if to seek some new revelation of humanity in his character or his history. Therefore, every little incident of conversation in that first walk was carefully put by in her hidden nooks of memory to amuse her mother with, and perhaps also to speculate there upon herself. They reached Farnwood Dell, and Olive's conscience began to accuse her of having left her mother for so many hours. Therefore her adieu and thanks to Mr. Gwyn were somewhat abrupt. Mechanically she invited him in, and to her surprise he entered. Mrs. Rothsay was sitting out of doors in her garden chair, a beautiful picture she made, leaning back with a mild sweetness, scarce a smile hovering on her lips. Her pale little hands were folded on her black dress, her soft braids of hair, already silver-gray, and her complexion, lovely as that of a young girl, showing delicately in contrast with her crimson garden-hood, the triumph of her daughter's skillful fingers. Olive crossed the grass with a quick and noiseless step, Harold's following. Mama, darling! A light bright as a sunburst shone over Mrs. Rothsay's face. My child! How long you have been away! Did Mrs. Gwyn! Hush, darling! in a whisper. I have been at the parsonage, and Mr. Gwyn has kindly brought me home. He is here now. Harold stood at a distance and bowed. Olive came to him, saying in a low tone, Take her hand. She cannot see you. She is blind. He started with surprise. I did not know. My mother told me nothing. And then, advancing to Mrs. Rothsay, he pressed her hand in both his, with such an air of reverent tenderness and gentle compassion that it made his face grow softened, beautiful, divine. Olive Rothsay, turning, beheld that look. It never afterwards faded from her memory. Mrs. Rothsay arose and said in her own sweet manner, I am happy to meet Mr. Gwyn, and to thank him for taking care of my child. They talked for a few minutes, and then Olive persuaded her mother to return to the house. You will come, Mr. Gwyn, said Mrs. Rothsay. He answered, hesitating that the afternoon would close soon, and he must go on to Farnwood Hall. Mrs. Rothsay rose from her chair with the touching, helpless movement of one who is blind. Permit me, said Harold Gwyn, as, stepping quickly forward, he drew her arm through his, arranging her shawl with a care like a woman's. And so he led her into the house, with a tenderness beautiful to see. Olive, as she followed silently after, felt her whole heart melted towards him. She never forgot Harold's first meeting with, and his kindness to, her mother. He went away, promising to pay another visit soon. I am quite charmed with Mr. Gwyn, said Mrs. Rothsay. Tell me, Olive, what he is like. Olive described him, though not enthusiastically at all. Nevertheless, her mother answered, smiling. He must indeed be a remarkable person. He is such a perfect gentleman, and his voice is so kind and pleasant. Like his mother, too, he has little of the sweet Scottish tongue. Truly, I did not think there had been in the world such a man as Harold Gwyn. Nor I, answered Olive, in a soft, quiet, happy voice. She hung over her mother with a deeper tenderness. She looked out into the lovely autumn sunset with a keener sense of beauty and of joy. The sun was setting, the year was waning, but on Olive Rothsay's life had risen a new season, and a new day. CHAPTER XXVIII Well, I never in my life knew such a change as Farnwood has made in Miss Manners, observed Old Hannah, the Woodford Cottage made. Who, though carefully kept in ignorance of any facts that could betray the secret of Crystal's history, yet seemed at times to bear a secret grudge against her as an interloper? There she comes, riding across the country like some wild thing, she who used to be so prim and precise. Poor young creature, she is like a bird just let out of a cage, said Mrs. Rothsay, kindly. It is often so with girls brought up as she has been. Olive, I am glad you never went to school. Olive's answer was stopped by the appearance of Crystal, followed by one of the young Fledger boys with whom she had become a first-rate favorite. Her fearless frankness, her exuberant spirits, tempered only by her anxiety to appear always the grand lady, made her a welcome guest at Farnwood Hall. Indeed she was rarely at home, save when appearing as now on a hasty visit, which quite disturbed Mrs. Rothsay's placidity, and almost drove Old Hannah crazy. He has not come yet, you see, Crystal said, with a mysterious nod to Charlie Fledger. I thought we should outright him, a parson never can manage a pony, but he will surely be here soon. Who will be here soon? asked Olive, considerably surprised. Are you speaking of Mr. Gwynne? Mr. Gwynne, no! Far better fun than that, isn't it, Charlie? Shall we tell the secret or not? Or else shall we tell half of it and let her puzzle it out till he comes? The boy nodded ascent. Well, then, there is coming to see you today a friend of Charlie's who only arrived at Farnwood last night, and since then has been talking of nothing else but his old idol, Miss Olive Rothsay, so I told him to meet me here, and lo! he comes. There was a hurried knock at the door, and immediately the little parlor was graced by the presence of an individual, whom Olive did not recognize in the least. He seemed about twenty, slight and tall, of a complexion red and white, his features pretty, though rather girlish. Olive bowed to him in undisguised surprise, but the moment he saw her his face became celestial rosy red, apparently from a habit he had, in common with other bashful youths, of blushing on all occasions. I see you do not remember me, Miss Rothsay. Of course I could not expect it, but I have not forgotten you. Olive, though still doubtful, instinctively offered him her hand. The tall youth took it eagerly, and as he looked down upon her, something in his expression reminded her of a face she had herself once looked down upon, her little knight of the garden at Old Church. In the impulse of the moment she called him again by his old name. Lyle! Lyle, derwent! Yes, it is indeed I, cried the young man. Oh, Miss Rothsay, you can't tell how glad I am to meet you again. I am glad too, and Olive regarded him with that half-mournful curiosity, with which we traced the lineaments of some long-forgotten face, belonging to that olden time, between which and now a whole lifetime seems to have intervened. Is that little Lyle derwent? cried Miss Rothsay, catching the name. How very strange! Come hither, my dear boy! Alas, I cannot see you! Let me put my hand on your head. But she could not reach it, he was grown so tall, she seemed startled to think how time had flown. He is quite a man now, Mama, said Olive. You know we have not seen him for many years. Lyle added, blushing deeper than before. The last time, I remember it well, was in the garden one Sunday in spring, nine years ago. Nine years ago? Is it then nine years since my Angus died? murmured the widow, and a grave silence spread itself over them all. In the midst of it, Crystal and Charlie, seeing this meeting was not likely to produce the fun they expected, took the opportunity of escaping. Then came the questions, which after so long a period one shrinks from asking, afraid of answer. Olive learned that old Mr. Derwent had ceased to scold, and poor Bob played his mischievous pranks no more. Both lay quiet in Old Church's churchyard. Worldly losses too had chanced until the sole survivor of the family found himself very poor. I should not even have gone to college, said Lyle, but for the kindness of my brother-in-law, Harold Gwynne. Olive started, Oh true, I forgot all about that. Then he has been a good brother to you, added she, with a feeling of pleasure and interest. He has indeed, when my father died I had not a relative in the world, save a rich old uncle who wanted to put me in his counting-house, but Harold stood between us and saved me from a calling I hated, and when my uncle turned me off he took me home. Yes, I am not ashamed to say that I owe everything in the world to my brother Harold. I feel this the more because he was not quite happy in his marriage. She did not suit him, my sister Sarah. Indeed, said Olive, and changed the conversation. After T., Lyle, who appeared rather a sentimental young gentleman, proposed a moonlight walk in the garden. Miss Crystal, after eyeing Olive and her cavalier with a mixture of amusement and vexation, as if she did not like to miss so excellent a chance of fun and flirtation, consoled herself with ball-playing and charlie-fledger. As their conversation grew more familiar, Olive was rather disappointed in Lyle. In his boyhood she had thought him quite a little genius, but the bud had given more promise than the flower was ever likely to fulfill. Now she saw in him one of those not uncommon characters, who, with sensitive feeling and some graceful talent, yet never rise to the standard of genius. Strength, daring, and above all originality were wanting in his mind. With all his dreamy sentiment, his lip-library of perpetually quoted poets, and his own numberless scribblings, of which he took care to inform Miss Rothsay, Lyle Derwent would probably remain to his life's end a mere poetical gentleman. Olive soon divined all this, and she began to weary a little of her companion and his vague sentimentalities, in linked sweetness long drawn out. Besides, thoughts much deeper had haunted her at times during the evening, thoughts of the marriage which had been not quite happy. This fact scarcely surprised her. The more she began to know of Mr. Gwynn, and she had seen a great deal of him considering the few weeks of their acquaintance, the more she marveled that he had ever chosen Sarah Derwent for his wife. Their union must have been like that of night and day, fierce fire and unstable water. Olive longed to fathom the mystery, and could not resist saying, You were talking of your sister a while ago. I stopped you for I saw it pained, Mama, but now I should so like to hear something about my poor Sarah. I can tell you little, for I was a boy when she died. But things I then little noticed I put together afterwards. It must have been quite a romance, I think. You know my sister had a former lover, Charles Getty's. Do you remember him? I do, well. And Olive sighed, perhaps over the remembrance of the dream born in that fairy time, her first girlish dream of ideal love. He was at sea when Sarah married. On his return the news almost drove him wild. I remember his coming in the garden, our old garden, you know, where he and Sarah used to walk. He seemed half mad, and I went to him, and comforted him as well I could, though little I understood his grief. Perhaps I should now, said Lyle, lifting his eyes with rather a dull, full sentimental air, which alas was all lost upon his companion. Poor Charles, she murmured, but tell me more. He persuaded me to take back all her letters, together with one from himself, and give them to my sister the next time I went to Harbury. I did so. Well, I remember that night. Harold came in and found his wife crying over the letters. In a fit of jealousy he took them and read them all through, together with that of Charles. He did not see me or know the part I had in the matter, but I shall never forget him. What did he do? asked Olive eagerly. Strange that her question and her thoughts were not of Sarah, but of Harold. Do nothing. But his words, I remember them distinctly. They were so freezing, so stern. He grasped her arm and said, Sarah, when you said you loved me you uttered a lie. When you took your marriage oath you vowed a lie. Every day since that you have smiled in my face you have looked a lie. Henceforth I will never trust you or any woman. And what followed, cried Olive, now so strongly interested that she never paused to think if she had any right to ask these questions. Soon after Sarah came home to us. She did not stay long, and then returned to Harbury. Harold was never unkind to her that I know, but somehow she pined away, the more so after she heard of Charles Getty's sudden death. Alas! He died too? Yes, by an accident his own recklessness caused, but he was weary of his life, poor fellow. Well, Sarah never quite recovered that shock. After little Eileen was born she lingered a few weeks, and then died. It was almost a relief to us all. What! Did you not love your sister? Of course I did, but then she was older than I, and had never cared for me much. Now, as to Harold I owe him everything. He has been to me less like a brother than a father. Not in affection, perhaps that is scarcely in his nature, but in kindness and in counsel. There is not in the world a better man than Harold Gwynne. Olive replied warmly, I am sure of it, and I like you the more for acknowledging it. Then in some confusion she added, pardon me, but I had quite gone back to the old times when you were my little pet. I really must learn to show more formality and respect to Mr. Derwent. Don't say Mr. Derwent. Pray call me Lyle as you used to do. That I will, with pleasure. Only, she continued, smiling, when I look up at you, I shall begin to feel quite an ancient dame since I am so much older than you. Not at all, Lyle answered, with an eagerness somewhat deeper than the managed pride of youths who have just crossed the Rubicon that divides them from their much scorned teens. I have advanced, and you seem to have stood still. There is scarcely any difference between us now. And Olive, somewhat amused, let her old favorite have his way. They spoke on trivial subjects until it was time to return to the house. Just as they were entering, Lyle said, Look, there is my brother-in-law standing at the gate. Oh, Miss Rothsay, be sure you never tell him of the things we have been talking about. It is not likely I shall ever have the opportunity. Mr. Gwyn seems a very reserved man. He is so, and of these matters he now never speaks at all. Hush, he is here! And with a feeling of unwanted nervousness, as if she feared he had been aware of how much she had thought and conversed about him, Olive met Harold Gwyn. I am afraid I am an intruder, Miss Rothsay, said the latter, with a half-suspicious glance at the tall, dark figure which stood near her in the moonlight. What! Did you not know me, Brother Harold? How funny! And he laughed. His laugh was something like Sarah's. It seemed to ring jarringly on Mr. Gwyn's ear. I was not aware, Miss Rothsay, that you knew my brother-in-law. Oh, Miss Rothsay and I were friends almost ten years ago. She was our neighbor at Old Church. Indeed. And Olive thought she discerned in his face, which she had already begun to read, some slight pain or annoyance. Perhaps it wounded him to know anyone who had known Sarah. Perhaps. But conjectures were vain. I am glad you are come, she said to Harold. Mama has been wishing for you all day. Lyle, will you go and tell her who is here? Nay, Mr. Gwyn. Surely you will come back with me to the house. He seemed half inclined to resist, but at last yielded. So he made one of the little circle, and assisted well at this, the first of many social evenings at Farnwood Dell. But at times Olive caught some of his terse, keen, and somewhat sarcastic sayings, and thought she could imagine the look and tone with which he had said the bitter words about never trusting woman more. He and Lyle went away together, and Crystal, who had at last succeeded in apparently involving the light-hearted young collegian within the meshes of her smiles, took consolation in a little quiet drollery with Charlie Fludger, but even this resource failed when Charlie spoke of returning home. I shall not go back with you to-night, said Crystal. I shall stay at the Dell. You may come and fetch me to-morrow, with the pony you lent me, and bring Mr. Derwent, too, to lead it. To see him so employed would be excellent fun. You seem to have taken a sudden passion for riding, Crystal, said Olive, with a smile when they were alone. Yes, it suits me. I like dashing along across the country. It is excitement, and I like, too, to have a horse obeying me. It is so delicious to rule. To think that Madame Blondat should consider riding unfeminine, and that I should have missed that pleasure for so many years. But I am my own mistress now. By the way, she added carelessly, I wanted to have a few words with you, Miss Rathsay. She had rarely called her Olive of late. Nay, my dears, interposed Mrs. Rathsay, do not begin to talk just yet, not until I am gone to bed, for I am very, very tired. And so, until Olive came downstairs again, Crystal sat in dignified solitude by the parlor fire. Well, said Miss Rathsay when she entered, what have you to say to me, my dear child? Crystal drew back a little at the familiar word and manner, as though she did not quite like it. But she only said, Oh, it is a mere trifle. I am obliged to mention it, because I understand Miss Van Bra left my money matters under your care until I came of age. Certainly, you know it was by your consent, Crystal. Oh, yes, because it will save me trouble. Well, all I wanted to say was that I wish to keep a horse. To keep a horse? Certainly, what harm can there be in that? I long to ride about at my own will, go to the meats in the forest, even to follow the hounds. I am my own mistress, and I choose to do it, said Crystal in rather a high tone. You cannot indeed, my dear, answered Olive mildly. Think of all the expenses it would entail, expenses far beyond your income. I myself am the best judge of that. Not quite, because, Crystal, you are still very young and have little knowledge of the world, besides to tell you the plain truth. Must I? Certainly, of all things I hate deceit and concealment. Here Crystal stopped, blushed a little, and, half turning aside, hid further in her bosom a little ornament which occasionally peeped out, a silver cross and beads. Then she said in a somewhat less angry tone, You are right, tell me all your mind. I think, then, that though your income is sufficient to give you independence, it cannot provide you with luxuries. Also, she continued, speaking very gently, It seems to me scarcely right that a young girl like you, without father or brother, should go riding and hunting in the way you purpose. That still is my own affair. No one has a right to control me. Olive was silent. Do you mean to say you have, because you are in some sort my guardian, are you to thwart me in this manner? I will not endure it. And there rose in her the same fierce spirit, which had startled Olive on the first night of the girl's arrival at Woodford Cottage, and which, something to her surprise, had lain dormant ever since, covered over with the light-hearted trifling which formed Crystal's outward character. What am I to do, thought Olive much troubled? How am I to wrestle with this girl? But I will do it, if only for Meliora's sake. Crystal, she said affectionately, we have never talked together seriously for a long time, not since the first night we met. I remember you were good to me, then, answered Crystal, a little subdued. Because I was grieved for you, I pitied you. Pitied! And the angry demon again rose. Olive saw she must not touch that cord again. My dear, she said, still more kindly. Indeed, I have neither the wish nor the right to rule you, I only advise. And to advise I am ready to listen. Don't mistake me, Miss Rothsay. I liked you. I do still very much indeed. But you don't quite understand or sympathize with me now. Why not, dear? Is it because I have little time to be with you, being so much occupied with my mother and with my profession? I, that is it, said Crystal loftily. My dear Miss Rothsay, I am much obliged to you for all your kindness, but we do not suit one another. I have found that out since I visited at Farnwood Hall. There is a difference between a mere artist working for a livelihood and an independent lady. Even Crystal, abrupt as her anger had made her, blushed for the rudeness of this speech. But false shame kept her from offering any atonement. Olive's slight figure expressed unwanted dignity. In her arose something of the old Rothsay pride, but still more of pride in her art. There is a difference, but to my way of thinking it is often on the side of the artist. Crystal made no answer, and Olive continued, resuming her usual manner. Come, we will not discuss this matter. All that need be decided now is, whether or not I shall draw the sum you will require to buy your horse. I will if you desire it, because as you say I have indeed no control over you. But my dear Crystal, I entreat you to pause and consider, at least till morning. Olive rose, for she was unequal to further conversation. Deeply it pained her that this girl, whom she wished so to love, should evidently turn from her, not in dislike, but in a sort of contemptuous indifference. Still she made one effort more. As she was retiring she went up, bade her good night, and kissed her as usual. Do not let this conversation make any division between us, Crystal. Oh, no! said Crystal, rather coldly. Only, she added, in the passionate yet mournful tone, which she had before used when at Woodford Cottage. Only you must not interfere with me, Olive. Remember I was not brought up like you. I had no one to control me, no one to teach me to control myself. It could not be helped, and it is too late now. It is never too late, cried Olive. But Crystal's emotion had passed, and she resumed her lofty manner. Excuse me, but I am a little too old to be lectured, and I have no doubt shall be able to guide my own conduct. For the future we will not have quite such serious conversations as this. Good night! Olive went away, heavy at heart. She had long been unaccustomed to wrestle with an angry spirit. Indeed she lived in an atmosphere so pure and full of love, that on it never gloomed one domestic storm. She almost wished that Crystal had not come with them to Farnwood. But then it seemed such an awful thing for this young and headstrong creature to be adrift on the wide world. She determined that, whether Crystal desired it or no, she would never lose sight of her, but try to guide her with so light a hand, that the girl might never even feel the sway. Next morning Miss Manners abruptly communicated her determination not to have the horse, and the matter was never again referred to. But it had placed a chasm between Olive and Crystal, which the one could not, the other would not pass. And as various other interests grew up in Miss Rothsay's life, her anxiety over this wayward girl a little ceased. Crystal stayed almost wholly at Farnwood Hall, and in humble, happy Farnwood Dell, Olive abode, devoted to her art and to her mother.