remembering poor
Charles. The sense of wrong, as well as of misery, had entered her world
at once; her idols were crumbling into dust. Life grew painful, and a
morbid bitterness was settling on her mind.

She read the account that Sara had somewhat boastfully written, of her
prospects, her pretty home, and of her lover's devotion to her. "This
clever man--this noble man (as people call him, and most of all his
mother)--I could wind him round my little finger. What think you, Olive?
Is not that something to be married for? You ask if I am happy. Yes,
certainly, happier than you can imagine."

"That is true, indeed," murmured Olive; and there came upon her a bitter
sense of the inequalities of life. It seemed that Heaven to some gave
all things; to others, nothing! But she hushed the complainings, for
they seemed impious. Upon her was the influence of the faith she had
been taught by Elspie, which though in the old Scotswoman it became
all the mystic horrors of Calvinism, yet in Olive's gentler and higher
nature, had worked out blessing instead of harm. For it was a faith
that taught the peace of resting child-like beneath the shadow of that
Omnipotent Will, which holds every tangled thread of fate within one
mighty Hand, which rules all things, and rules them continually for
good.

While thinking thus, Olive was sitting in her "bower." It was a
garden-seat, placed under the thorn-tree, and shut out from sight of the
house by an espalier of apple-trees. Not very romantic, certainly, but
a most pleasant spot, with the sound of the "shallow river" gliding by,
and of many a bird that "sang madrigals" in the meadows opposite.
And Olive herself, as she sat with her hands crossed on her knee, her
bending head and pensive eyes out-gazing, added no little to the scene.
Many a beauty might have coveted the meek yet heavenly look which threw
sweetness over the pale features of the deformed girl.

Olive, sitting with her eyes cast down, was some time before she became
conscious that she was watched--long and earnestly, but by an innocent
watcher--her "little knight" as he had dubbed himself, Lyle Derwent. His
face looked out from the ivy-leaves at the top of the wall. Soon he had
leaped down, and was kneeling at her feet, just like a young lover in a
romance. Smiling, she told him so; for in truth she made a great pet
of the child, whose delicate beauty pleased her artist-eye, while his
gentleness won her affection.

"Well, an