ent mothers may lesson romantic daughters, saying, "See
that you be not like these 'foolish virgins;' give not _your_ heart
away in requital of fancied love; or, madder still, in worship of
ideal goodness--give it for nothing but the safe barter of a speedy
settlement, a comfortable income, a husband, and a ring."

Olive Rothesay, be not ashamed, nor afraid. Hide the arrow close in thy
soul--lay over it thy folded hands and look upwards. Far purer art thou
than many a young creature, married without love, living on in decent
dignity as the mother of her husband's children, the convenient mistress
of his household, and so sinking down into the grave, a pattern of all
matronly virtue. Envy her not! A thousand times holier and happier than
such a destiny is that silent lot of thine.

With meekness, yet with courage, Olive Rothesay prepared to live her
appointed life. At first it seemed very bitter, as must needs be. Youth,
while it is still youth, cannot at once and altogether be content to
resign love. It will yearn for that tie which Heaven ordained to make
its nature's completeness; it will shrink before the long dull vista
of a solitary, aimless existence. Sometimes, wildly as she struggled
against such thoughts, there would come to Olive's fancy dreams of what
her life might have been. The holiness of lovers' love, of wedded love,
of mother-love, would at times flit before her imagination; and her
heart, still warm, still young, trembled to picture the lonely old age,
the hearth blank and silent, the utter isolation from all those natural
ties whose place not even the dearest bonds of adopted affection can.
ever entirely fill. But, whenever these murmurings arose, Olive checked
them; often with a feeling of intolerable shame.

She devoted herself more than ever to her Art, trying to make it as once
before the chief interest and enjoyment of her life. It would become the
same again, she hoped. Often and often in the world's history had been
noted that of brave men who rose from the wreck of love, and found
happiness in fame. But Olive had yet to learn that, with women, it is
rarely so.

She felt more than ever the mournful change which had come over
her, when it happened that great success was won by one of her later
pictures--a picture unconsciously created from the inspiration of that
sweet love-dream. When the news came--tidings which a year ago would
have thrilled her with pleasure--Olive only smiled faintly, an