wn
ideal--the man she could have worshiped--she grew quite happy in her own
certain lot. She saw her companions wedded to men who from herself would
never have won a single thought. So she put aside for ever the half-sad
dream of her youth, and married herself unto her Art.

She indulged in some of her sage reflections on men and women, courtship
and wedlock, in general, when she sat at her mother's feet talking of
Harold Gwynne and of his wife. "It could not have been a happy marriage,
mamma,--if Mr. Gwynne be really the man that Miss Vanbrugh and her
brother describe." And all day there recurred to Olive's fancy the
words, "_A wife who loved her husband_." She, at least, knew too
well that Sara Derwent, when she married, could not have loved hers.
Wonderings as to what was Sara's present fate, occupied her mind for a
long, long time. She had full opportunity for thought, as her mother,
oppressed by the sultry August evening, had fallen asleep with her hand
on her daughter's neck, and Olive could not stir for fear of waking her.

Slowly she watched the twilight darken into a deeper shadow--that of
a gathering thunderstorm. The trees beyond the garden began to sway
restlessly about, and then, with a sudden flash, and distant thunder
growl, down came the rain in torrents. Mrs. Rothesay started and woke;
like most timid women, she had a great dread of thunder, and it took
all Olive's powers of soothing to quiet her nervous alarms. These
were increased by another sound that broke through the pouring rain--a
violent ringing of the garden-bell, which, in Mrs. Rothesay's excited
state, seemed a warning of all sorts of horrors.

"The house is on fire--the bolt has struck it Oh Olive, Olive, save me!"
she cried.

"Hush, darling! You are quite safe with me." And Olive rose up, folding
her arms closely round her mother, who hid her head in her daughter's
bosom. They stood--Mrs. Rothesay trembling and cowering--Olive with her
pale brow lifted fearlessly, as though she would face all terror, all
danger, for her mother's sake. Thus they showed, in the faint glimmer
of the lightning, a beautiful picture of filial love--to the eyes of
a stranger, who that moment opened the door. She was a woman, whom the
storm had apparently driven in for shelter.

"Is this Miss Vanbrugh's house--is there any one here?" she asked; her
accent being slightly foreign.

Olive invited her to enter.

"Thank you; forgive my intrusion, but I am fright