not as Olive Rothesay. Tenderness was
not in his nature; but in all his intercourse with her, he could not
help treating with a sort of reverence the dead merchant's forlorn
child.

When they had finished their conversation, he said, "There is one
matter--painful, too--upon which I ought to speak to you. I should have
done so before, but I did not know it myself until yesterday."

"Know what? Is there more trouble coming?" answered Olive, sighing
bitterly. "But tell me all."

"_All_, is very little. You know, my dear Miss Rothesay, that your
father was speechless from the moment of his seizure. But my wife, who
never quitted him--ah! I assure you she was a devoted nurse to him, was
Mrs. Wyld."

"I thank her deeply, as she knows."

"My wife has just told me, that a few minutes before his death your poor
father's consciousness returned; that he seemed struggling in vain to
speak; at last she placed a pencil in his hand, and he wrote--one word
only, in the act of writing which he died. Forgive me, my dear young
lady for thus agitating you, but"----

"The paper--give me the paper!"

Mr. Wyld pulled out his pocket-book, and produced a torn and blotted
scrap, whereon was written, in characters scarcely legible, the name
"Harold."

"Do you know any one who bears that name, Miss Rothesay?"

"No. Yes--one," added she, suddenly remembering that the name of Sara's
husband was Harold Gwynne. But between him and her father she knew of no
single tie. It must be a mere chance coincidence.

"What is to be done?" cried Olive. "Shall I tell my mother?"

"If I might advise, I would say decisively, No! Better leave the matter
in my hands. Harold!--'tis a boy's name," he added, meditatively. "If it
were a girl's now--I executed a little commission for Captain Rothesay
once."

"What did you say?" asked Olive, looking up at him with her innocent
eyes. He could not meet them; his own fell confused.

"What did I say, Miss Rothesay? Oh, nothing--nothing at all; only that
if I had a commission--to--to hunt out this secret."

"I thank you, Mr. Wyld; but a daughter would not willingly employ
any third person to 'hunt out' her father's secret. His papers will
doubtless inform me of everything; therefore we will speak no more on
this subject."

"As you will" He gathered up his blue bag and its voluminous contents,
and made his adieux.

But Olive had scarcely sat down again, and with her head leaning on her
father's desk, had giv