en vent to a sigh of relief, in that she was freed
from Mr. Wyld's presence, when the old lawyer again appeared.

"Miss Rothesay, I merely wished to say, if ever you find out--any
secret--or need any advice about that paper, or anything else, I'm the
man to give it, and with pleasure in this case. Good evening!"

Olive thanked him coldly, somewhat proudly, for what she thought a piece
of unnecessary impertinence. However, it quickly passed from her gentle
mind; and then, as the best way to soothe all her troubles, she quitted
the study, and sought her mother.

Of Mrs. Rothesay's affliction we have as yet said little. Many and
various are earth's griefs; but there must be an awful individuality
in the stroke which severs the closest human tie, that between two whom
marriage had made "one flesh." And though in this case coldness had
loosened the sacred tie, still no power could utterly divide it, while
life endured. Angus Rothesay's widow remembered that she had once been
the loved and loving bride of his youth. As such, she mourned him; nor
was her grief without that keenest sting, the memory of unatoned wrong.
From the dim shores of the past, arose ghosts that nothing could ever
lay, because death's river ran eternally between.

Sybilla Rothesay was one of those women whom no force of circumstances
can ever teach self-dependence or command. She had looked entirely to
her husband for guidance and control, and now for both she looked to her
child. From the moment of Captain Rothesay's death, Olive seemed to rule
in his stead--or rather, the parent and child seemed to change
places. Olive watched, guided, and guarded the passive, yielding,
sorrow-stricken woman, as with a mother's care; while Mrs. Rothesay
trusted implicitly in all things to her daughter's stronger mind, and
was never troubled by thinking or acting for herself in any one thing.

This may seem a new picture of the maternal and filial bond, but it
is frequently true. If we look around on those daughters who have best
fulfilled the holy duty, without which no life is or can be blest, are
they not women firm, steadfast--able to will and to act? Could not many
of them say, "I am a mother unto my mother. I, the strongest now, take
her in her feeble age, like a child, to my bosom--shield her, cherish
her, and am to her all in all."

And so, in heart, resolved Olive Rothesay. She had made that vow when
her mother lay insensible in her arms; she kept it faithf