hed by the
monotonous song of her purring favourite, and thinking that there was
at least one living creature who loved her, and whom she could make
perfectly happy.

She sat at the open window, seeing only the high, green privet hedge
that enclosed the front garden, the little wicket-gate, and the blue sky
beyond. How still everything was! By degrees the footsteps of a few late
church-goers vanished along the road; the bells ceased--first the quick,
sharp clang of the new church, and then the musical peal that rang out
from the grey Norman tower. There never were such bells as those
of Oldchurch! But they melted away in silence; and then the dreamy
quietness of the hour stole over Olive's sense.

She thought of many things--things which might have been sad, but for
the slumberous peace that took away all pain. It was just the hour
when she once used to sit on the floor, leaning against Elspie's knees,
generally reading aloud in the Book which alone the nurse permitted on
Sundays. Now and then--once in particular she remembered--old Elspie
fell asleep; and then Olive turned to her favourite study, the Book
of Revelations. Childlike she terrified herself over the mysterious
prophecies of the latter days, until at last she forgot the gloom and
horror, in reading of the "beautiful city, New Jerusalem."

She seemed to see it--its twelve gates, angel-guarded, its crystal
river, its many-fruited tree--the Tree of Life. Her young but glowing
fancy created out of these marvels a visible material paradise. She knew
not that Heaven is only the continual presence of the Eternal. Yet she
was happy, and in her dreams she never pictured the land beyond the
grave but there came back to her, as though the nearest foreshadowing of
it, the visions of that Sunday afternoon.

She sat a long time thinking of them, and of herself--how much older she
felt since then, and how many troubles she had passed through. Troubles!
Poor child!--how little knew she those of the world! But even her own
small burthen seemed lightened now. She leaned her head against the
window, listening to the bees humming in the garden--bees, daring Sunday
workers, and even they seemed to toil with a kind of Sabbatic solemnity.
And then, turning her face upwards, Olive watched many a fair white
butterfly, that, having flitted awhile among the flowers, spread its
wings and rose far into the air, like a pure soul weary of earth, and
floating heavenward. How she wished