f I go, you shall go with me, my wife!
Poor or not, what care I, so you are mine?"

He spoke hurriedly, like the proud Harold of old--ay, the pride mingled
with a stronger passion still. But Olive smiled both down.

"Harold," she said, parting his hair with her cool soft hands, "do not
be angry with me! You know I love you dearly. Sometimes I think I must
have loved you before you loved me, long. Yet I am not ashamed of this."

"Ah!" he muttered, "how often ignorantly I must have made you suffer,
how often, blindly straggling with my own pride, have I tortured you.
But still--still I loved you. Forgive me, dear!"

"Nay, there is nothing to forgive. The joy has blotted out all the
pain."

"It shall do so when you are once mine. That must be soon, Olive--soon."

She answered firmly, though a little blushing the while: "It should
be to-morrow; if for your good. But it would not be. You must not be
troubled with worldly cares. To see you so would break my heart. No--you
must be free to work, and gain fame and success. My love shall never
fetter you down to anxious poverty. I regard your glory even dearer than
yourself, you see!"

Gradually she led him to consent to her entreaty that they should both
work together for their dearest ones; and that in the home which she
with her slender means could win, there should ever be a resting-place
for Mrs. Gwynne and for little Ailie.

Then they put aside all anxious talk, and sat in the twilight, with
clasped hands, speaking softly and brokenly; or else never speaking at
all; only feeling that they were together--they two, who were all in
all to each other, while the whole world of life went whirling outside,
never touching that sweet centre of complete repose. At last, Olive's
full heart ran over.

"Oh, Harold!" she cried, "this happiness is almost more than I can bear.
To think that you should love me thus--me poor little Olive! Sometimes I
feel--as I once bitterly felt--how unworthy I am of you."

"Darling! why?"

"Because I have no beauty; and, besides--I cannot speak it, but you
know--you know!"

She hid her face burning with blushes. The words and act revealed how
deeply in her heart lay the sting which had at times tortured her her
whole life through--shame for that personal imperfection with which
Nature had marked her from her birth, and which, forgotten in an hour
by those who learned to love her, still seemed to herself a perpetual
humiliation. The pang came