orne sat in his great ebony chair.]

"This is indeed a surprise, Mrs. Luttrell."

"I hope you will not think it an intrusion," she returned, a little
breathlessly. "I wanted so much to see you and give you Aunt Madge's
message. Somehow I could not bear to think that we were so happy and
that you were sitting alone and feeling sad. Are you vexed with me for
coming?" she continued, in her winning way; "I can see you are not a
bit pleased to see me."

"My dear Mrs. Luttrell," he said, in his harsh, grating voice, "it is
one of my bad days, and nothing on earth would yield me pleasure. I
gave you warning, did I not? You are visiting a haunted man! The
Christmas ghosts have been holding high revel this evening; one of them
has been pointing and gibing at me for ever so long: 'You are reaping
what you have sown,' that was what it said. 'Why do you grumble at
your harvest--there is no ripening without sunshine? Young hearts must
be won by love and not severity; it is your own fault, your own
obstinacy, your own blindness'--that is what it has been saying over
and over again."

He shivered slightly as he said this, and held out his thin hands to
the blaze. He had not asked her to sit down, but Olivia drew a small
chair forward and seated herself.

"Do not listen to them any longer," she said, gently. "You are ill and
sad, and so everything looks black and hopeless--let me talk to you
instead; I want to tell you how we have spent our day."

Olivia had a charming voice. As she went on with her simple narrative
the muscles of Mr. Gaythorne's face insensibly relaxed; hesitation,
nervousness, a touch of self-consciousness even, would have repelled
him; but her gentleness and childlike directness seemed to soothe him
in spite of himself. And as she repeated Mrs. Broderick's message,
though he shrugged his shoulders and muttered "Pshaw," she could see
that he was gratified; and even his remark--"that Mrs. Broderick must
be a very emotional person"--did not daunt her.

"If Aunt Madge is emotional, I am too," she said, softly. "Do you know
what I said when I saw that picture of the old shepherd looking at the
rainbow? 'I love him for this,' and, dear Mr. Gaythorne, I meant it."

"Tut, nonsense!" but as Olivia took his hand and held it in her firm
grasp, there was a sudden moisture in the old man's eyes.

"No one has loved me since my two Olives left me," he muttered. "If
only one had been spared to me, only one;