once her eyes wandered wistfully
to the deserted "Sabrina," which, half sketched, lay within the leaves
of her "Comus." Mrs. Rothesay observed this, and said, kindly--

"Let me look at what you are doing, love. Ah!--very pretty! What is
Sabrina? Tell me all about her." And she listened, with a pleased,
maternal smile, while her gratified little daughter dilated on the
beloved "Comus," and read a passage or two in illustration. "Very
pretty, my love," again repeated Mrs. Rothesay, stroking Olive's hair.
"Ah! you are a clever child. But now come and tell me what sort of
winter dresses you think we should have."

If any observer could have seen a shade of disappointment on Olive's
face, he would also have seen it instantly suppressed. The young girl
closed "Comus" with the drawing inside, and came to sit down again,
looking up into the eyes of her "beautiful mamma." And even the
commonplace question of dress soon became interesting to her, for her
artistic predilection followed her even there, and no lover ever gloried
in his mistress's charms, no painter ever delighted to deck his model,
more than Olive loved to adorn and to admire the still exquisite beauty
of her mother. It stood to her in the place of all attractions
in herself--in fact, she rarely thought about herself at all. The
consciousness of her personal defect had worn off through habit, and
her almost total seclusion from strangers prevented its being painfully
forced on her mind.

"I wish we could leave off this mourning," said Mrs. Rothesay. "It is
quite time, seeing Sir Andrew Rothesay has been dead six months. And,
living or dying, he did not show kindness enough to make one remember
him longer."

"Yet he was kind to papa, when a child; and so was Auntie Flora," softly
said Olive, to whose enthusiastic memory there ever clung Elspie's tales
about the Perthshire relatives--bachelor brother and maiden sister,
living together in their lonely, gloomy home. But she rarely talked
about them; and now, seeing her mamma looked troubled, as she always did
at any reference to Scotland and the old times, the little maiden ceased
at once. Mrs. Rothesay was soon again safely and contentedly plunged
into the mysteries of winter costume.

"Your dresses must be handsomer and more womanly now, Olive; for I
intend to take you out with me now and then. You are quite old enough;
and I am tired of visiting alone. I intended to speak to your papa about
it to-night; but he