that she could do likewise; and
leaving earth behind--its flowers as well as weeds, its sunshine as its
storm--soar into another and a higher existence!

Not yet, Olive--not yet! None receive the guerdon, save those who have
won the goal!

A pause in the girl's reverie--caused by a light sound that broke the
perfect quietness around. She listened; it was the rumbling of carriage
wheels along the road--a rare circumstance; for the people of Oldchurch,
if not individually devout, lived in a devout atmosphere, which made
pleasure-drives on the day of rest not "respectable."

A momentary hope struck Olive that it might be her father returning
home. But he was a strict man; he never travelled on Sundays.
Nevertheless, Olive listened mechanically to the wheels: they dashed
rapidly on--came near--stopped. Yes, it must be her father.

She flew to the hall door to welcome him. There stood, not her father,
but a little hard-featured old man, Mr. Wyld, the family lawyer. Olive
drew back, sorely disappointed; for if in her gentle heart lingered
one positive aversion, it was felt towards this man--partly on his own
account, partly because his appearance seemed always the forewarning of
evil in the little household. He never came but at his departure Captain
Rothesay wore a frowning brow, and indulged in a hasty temper for days
and days. No marvel was there in Olive's dislike; yet she regretted
having shown it.

"Mr. Wyld, I thought it was my father. I am sorry that he is not at home
to receive you."

"Nay,--I did not come to see Captain Rothesay," answered the lawyer,
betraying some confusion and hesitation beneath his usual smooth manner.
"The fact is, my dear young lady, I bring a letter for your mother."

"From papa?" cried Olive, eagerly.

"No, not exactly; that is--. But can I see Mrs. Rothesay?"

"She is at church. She will be at home in half-an-hour, probably. Will
you wait?"

He shook his head.

"Nay, there is nothing wrong?"

"Don't alarm yourself, my dear."

Olive shrank from the touch of his hand, as he led her into the parlour.

"Your papa is at my house. But I think, Miss Rothesay, as your mother is
not at home, you had better read the letter yourself."

She took it. Slowly, silently, she read it through, twice; for the
words seemed to dazzle and blaze before her eyes. Then she looked up
helplessly. "I--I cannot understand."

"I thought the doctor wrote plainly enough, and broke the matter
cautious