e of little Olive. She
lived the dream-life of early girlhood--dwelling in an atmosphere still
and pure as a grey spring morning ere the sun has risen. All she learnt
was from books; for though she had occasional teachers, she had never
been sent to school. Sometimes she regretted this, thinking how pleasant
it would be to have companions, or at least one friend, of her own age,
to whom she might talk on the various subjects of which she had of
late begun to dream. These never passed the still sanctuary of her
own thoughts; for some instinct told her that her mother would not
sympathise with her fancies. So she thought of them always by herself,
when she was strolling about the small but pleasant garden that sloped
down from the back of the house to the river; or when, extending her
peregrinations, she went to sit in the summer-house of the garden
adjoining, which belonged to a large mansion close by, long uninhabited.
It was quite a punishment to Olive when a family came to live there, and
she lost the use of the beautiful deserted garden.

Still, it was something new to have neighbours. She felt quite a
curiosity respecting them, which was not diminished when, looking out
one day from the staircase window (a favourite seat, from which every
night she watched the sun set), Olive caught sight of the new occupants
of her former haunts.

They were two little boys of about nine or ten, playing noisily
enough--as boys will. Olive did not notice them much, except the
youngest, who appeared much the quieter and gentler of the two; but her
gaze rested a long time on a girl, who seemed to be their elder sister.
She was walking by herself up and down an alley, with a shawl thrown
over her head, and her thick, black hair blown about by the March winds.
Olive thought she looked very picturesque--in fact, just like some
of her own fantastic designs of "Norna on the Fitful head," "Medora
watching for Conrad," etc. etc. And when the young stranger drew nearer,
her admiration was still further excited, by perceiving under the
shawl a face that needed but a little romantic imagination to make it
positively beautiful. Olive thought so, and accordingly sat the whole
evening drawing it from memory, and putting it into various characters,
from Scott, Byron, Moore, and Coleridge.

For several days after, she took a deep interest in watching the family
party, and chiefly this young girl--partly because she was so pretty,
and partly becaus