t see to thread my needle. I really must be growing old."

"Nonsense, darling."--Olive often said "darling" quite in a protecting
way--"Why, you are not forty yet. Don't talk about growing old, my own
beautiful mamma--for you are beautiful; I heard Mr. Vanbrugh saying so
to his sister the other day; and of course he, an artist, must know,"
added Olive, with a sweet flattery, as she took her mother's hands, and
looked at her with admiration.

And truly it was not uncalled for. Over the delicate beauty of Sybilla
Rothesay had crept a spiritual charm, that increased with life's
decline--for her life _was_ declining--even so soon. Not that her health
was broken, or that she looked withered and aged; but still there was a
gradual change, as of the tree which from its richest green melts into
hues that, though still lovely, indicate the time, distant but certain,
of autumn days, and of leaves softly falling earthwards. So, doubtless,
her life's leaf would fall.

Mrs. Rothesay smiled; sweeter than any of the flatteries of her youth,
now fell her daughter's tender praise. "You are a silly little girl;
but never mind! Only I wish my eyes did not trouble me so much. Olive,
suppose I should come to be a blind old woman, for you to take care of?"

Olive snatched away the work, and closed the strained aching eyes with
two sweet kisses. It was a subject she could not bear to talk upon;
perhaps because it rested often on Mrs. Rothesay's mind: and she herself
had an instinctive apprehension that there was, after all, some truth in
these fears concerning her mother's sight. She began quickly to talk of
other matters.

"Hark, mamma, there is Mr. Vanbrugh walking in his painting-room
overhead. He always does so when he is dissatisfied about his picture;
and I am sure he need not be, for oh! how beautiful it is! Miss Meliora
took me in yesterday to see it, when he was out."

"She seems to make quite a pet of you, my child."

"Her kitten ran away last week, which accounts for it, mamma. But indeed
I ought not to laugh at her, for one must have something to love, and
she has nothing but her dumb pets."

"And her brother."

"Oh, yes. I wonder if anybody else ever loved him, or if he ever loved
anybody," said Olive, musingly. "But, mamma, if he is not handsome
himself he admires beauty in others. What do you think?--he is longing
to paint _somebody's_ face, and put it in this picture; and I promised
to ask. Oh, darling, do sit to him