rom an affianced
damsel of seventeen.

Charles Geddes went to sea again. Poor little Olive, in her warm
sympathies, suffered almost as much as the young man's own betrothed,
who, after looking doleful for a week, consoled herself by entering,
heart and soul, into the gaieties of the gayest Christmas that ever
was spent by the society of Oldchurch. Everywhere Miss Derwent was the
belle, and continually did her friend need to remind her of the promise
which Olive herself regarded as such a sacred, solemn thing.

The love-adventure in which she had borne a part had stirred strange
depths in the nature of the young girl. She was awakening slowly to the
great mystery of woman's life. And when, by degrees, Sara's amusements
somewhat alienated their continual intercourse, Olive was thrown
back upon her own thoughts more and more. She felt a vague sadness--a
something wanting in her heart, which not even her mother's love could
supply.

Mrs. Rothesay saw how dull and pensive she was at times, and with a
tender unselfishness contrived that, by Sara Derwent's intervention,
Olive should see a little more society; in a very quiet way, though; for
her own now delicate health and Captain Rothesay's will, prevented any
regular introduction of their daughter into the world. And sometimes
Mrs. Rothesay, pondering on Olive's future, felt-glad of this.

"Poor child! she is not made for the world, or the world for her. Better
that she should lead her own quiet life, where she will suffer no pain,
and be wounded by no neglect."

Yet, nevertheless, it was with a vague pleasure that Mrs. Rothesay
dressed Olive for her first ball--a birthday treat--coaxed by Sara
Derwent out of her formidable papa, and looked forward to by both girls
for many weeks.

No one would have believed that the young creature, on whom Mrs.
Rothesay gazed with a tenderness, not unmingled with admiration, had
been the poor infant from which she once turned with a sensation of
pain, almost amounting to disgust. But, learning to love, one learns
also to admire. Besides, Olive's defect was less apparent as she grew
up, and the extreme sweetness of her countenance almost atoned for her
bad figure. Yet, as the mother fastened her white dress, and arranged
the golden curls so as to fall in a shower on her neck and bosom, she
sighed heavily.

Olive did not notice it; she was too much occupied in tying up a rare
bouquet--a birthday gift for Sara.

"Well, are you quite