rongly on her mind,
wherein was now a chaos of anxious thought. From the day when Mr.
Gwynne's letter came, she had positively writhed under the burden of
this heavy debt, which it would take years to discharge, unless a great
deduction were made from their slender income. And how could she propose
that--how bear to see her delicate and often-ailing mother deprived of
the small luxuries which had become necessary comforts? To their letter
no answer had come--the creditor was then a patient one; but this
thought the more stimulated Olive to defray the debt. Night and day it
weighed her down; plan after plan she formed, chiefly in secret, for
the mention of this painful circumstance was more than her mother could
bear. Among other schemes, the thought of entering on that last resource
of helpless womanhood, the dreary life of a daily governess; but her
desultory education, she well knew, unfitted her for the duty; and
no sooner did she venture to propose the plan, than Mrs. Rothesay's
lamentations and entreaties rendered it impracticable.

But Miss Vanbrugh's conversation now awakened a new scheme, by which in
time she might be able to redeem her father's memory, and to save her
mother from any sacrifice entailed by this debt. And so--though this
confession may somewhat lessen the romance of her character--it was from
no yearning after fame, no genius-led ambition, but from the mere desire
of earning money, that Olive Rothesay first conceived the thought of
becoming an artist.

Very faint it was at first--so faint that she did not even breathe it to
her mother. But it stimulated her to labour incessantly at her drawing;
silently to try and gain information from Miss Meliora; to haunt
the painter's studio, until she had become familiar with many of its
mysteries. She had crept into Vanbrugh's good graces, and he made her
useful in a thousand ways.

But labouring secretly and without encouragement, Olive found her
progress in drawing--she did not venture to call these humble efforts
_Art_--very slow indeed. One day, when Mrs. Rothesay was gone out,
Meliora came in to have a chat with her young favourite, and found poor
Olive sitting by herself, quietly crying. There was lying beside her
an unfinished sketch, which she hastily hid, before Miss Vanbrugh could
notice what had been her occupation.

"My dear, what is the matter with you--no serious trouble, I hope?"
cried the painter's little sister, who always melted into a