of what had befallen. She clung
helplessly to those sustaining arms--"Take care of me, Olive!--I do not
deserve it, but take care of me!"

"I will, until death!" was Olive's inward vow.

And so, travelling fast, but in solemn silence, they came to B----.
Alas! it was already too late! By Angus Rothesay's bed they stood--the
widow and the fatherless!

CHAPTER XVIII.

The tomb had scarcely closed over Captain Rothesay, when it was
discovered that his affairs were in a state of irretrievable confusion.
For months he must have lived with ruin staring him in the face.

His sudden death was then no mystery. The newspaper had startled him
with tidings--partly false, as afterwards appeared--of a heavy disaster
by sea, and the failure of his latest speculation at home. There seemed
lifted against him at once the hand of Heaven and of man. His proud
nature could not withstand the shock; shame smote him, and he died.

"Tell me only one thing!" cried Olive to Mr..Wyld, with whom, after
the funeral, she was holding conference--she only--for her mother was
incapable of acting, and this girl of sixteen was the sole ruler of
the household now. "Tell me only that my father died unblemished in
honour--that there are none to share misfortune with us, and to curse
the memory of the ruined merchant."

"I know of none," answered Mr. Wyld. "True, there are still remaining
many private debts, but they may be easily paid." And he cast a meaning
glance round the luxuriously furnished room.

"I understand. It shall be done," said Olive. Misery had made her very
wise--very quick to comprehend. Without shrinking she talked over every
matter connected with that saddest thing--a deceased bankrupt's sale.

The lawyer was a hard man, and Olive's prejudice against him was not
unfounded. Still the most stony heart has often a little softness buried
deep at its core. Mr. Wyld looked with curiosity, even with kindness, on
the young creature who sat opposite to him, in the dim lamp-light of the
silent room, once Captain Rothesay's study. Her cheek, ever delicate,
was now of a dull white; her pale gold hair fell neglected over her
black dress; her hand supported her care-marked brow, as she pored over
dusty papers, pausing at times to speak, in a quiet, sensible, subdued
manner, of things fit only for old heads and worn hearts. Mr. Wyld
thought of his own merry daughters, whom he had left at home, and felt a
vague thankfulness that they were