he truth or no, he was a frequent and always welcome guest at
the Dell. Only he made the proviso, that in all amusements which he and
Christal shared, Miss Rothesay should be in some way united. So, morning
after morning, the sofa whereupon the invalid gracefully reclined was
brought into the painting-room, and there, while Olive worked, she
listened, sometimes almost in envy, to the gay young voices that mingled
in song, or contended in the light battle of wits. How much older,
graver, and sadder, she seemed than they!

Harold Gwynne did not come. This circumstance troubled Olive. Not that
he was in the habit of paying long morning visits, like young Derwent;
but still when he was at Harbury, it usually chanced that every few
days they met somewhere. So habitual had this intercourse become, that a
week's complete cessation of it seemed a positive pain.

Ever, when Olive rose in the morning, the sun-gilded spire of Harbury
Church brought the thought, "I wonder will he come to-day!" And at
night, when he did not come, she could not conceal from herself, that
looking back on the past day, over all its duties and pleasures, there
rose a pale mist. She seemed to have only half lived. Alas, alas!

Olive knew, though she hardly would acknowledge it to herself, that
for many months this interest in Harold Gwynne had been the one great
interest of her existence. At first it came in the form of a duty, and
as such she had entered upon it. She was one of those women who seem
born ever to devote themselves to some one. When her mother died, it had
comforted Olive to think there was still a human being who stretched
out to her entreating hands, saying, "I need thee! I need thee!" Nay,
it even seemed as if the voice of the saint departed called upon her to
perform this sacred task. Thereto tended her thoughts and prayers.
And thus there came upon her the fate which has come upon many another
woman,--while thus devoting herself she learned to love. But so gradual
had been the change that she knew it not.

"Why am I restless?" she thought. "One is too exacting in friendship;
one should give all and ask nothing back. Still, it is not quite kind
of him to stay away thus. But a man is not like a woman. He must have
so many conflicting and engrossing interests, whilst I"---- Here her
thought broke and dissolved like a rock-riven wave. She dared not yet
confess that she had no interest in the world save what was linked with
him.

"If