aptain Rothesay.

Olive could endure no more. She fled away, shut herself up in her own
room, and fell on her knees! but no words came, save the bitter cry, "O
God, have pity on us!" And there was no time, not even to pray, except
within her heart.

She pressed her hands on her brow, and once more thought what she had
to do. At that moment, through the quietness of the house, she heard the
clock striking four. Never had time's passing seemed so awful. The day
was fleeting on whose every moment perhaps hung a life.

Something she must do, or her senses would have failed. She thought of
little things that might be needed when they reached her father; went
into Mrs. Rothesay's room, and put up some clothes and necessaries, in
case they stayed more than one day at B----; a large, warm shawl,
too, for her mother might have to sit up all night. In these trifling
arrangements what a horrible reality there was? And yet she scarcely
felt it--she was half-stunned still.

It was past four--and Mrs. Rothesay had not come. Every minute seemed an
eternity. Olive walked to the window and looked out. There was the same
cheerful sunshine--the bees humming, and the butterflies flitting about,
in the sweet stillness of the Sabbath afternoon, as she had watched them
an hour ago. One little hour, to have brought into her world such utter
misery!

She thought of it all, dwelling vividly on every accompaniment of
woe--even as she remembered to have done when she first learned that
Elspie would die. She pictured her mother's coming home; and almost
fancied she could see her now, walking across the fields. But no; it was
some one in a white dress, strolling by the hedgerow's side; and Mrs.
Rothesay that day wore blue--her favourite pale blue muslin in which she
looked so lovely. She had gone out, laughing at her daughter for saying
this. What if Olive should never see her in that pretty dress again!

All these fancies, and more, clung to the girl's mind with a horrible
pertinacity. And then, through the silence, she heard the Oldchurch
bells awaking again, in the dull minute-peal which told that
service-time was ended, and the afternoon funerals were taking place.
Olive, shuddering, closed her ears against the sound, and then, gazing
out once more, she saw her mother stand at the gate. Mrs. Rothesay
looked up at the window and smiled.

Olive had never thought of that worst pang of all--how she should break
the news to her mother--her ti