cause you have, as
you say, no love to give me, nor have I love to bring to you; therefore
for me to marry you would be a sin."

"As you will, as you will. I thought you a kindred genius--I find you
a mere _woman_. Jest on at the old fool with his grey hairs--go and wed
some young, gay"----

"Look at me?" said Olive, with a mournful meaning in her tone; "am I
likely to marry?"

"I have spoken ill," said Vanbrugh, in a touched and humbled voice.
"Nature has been hard to us both; we ought to deal gently with one
another. Forgive me, Olive."

He offered her his hand; she took it, and pressed it to her heart. "Oh
that I could be still your pupil--your daughter! My dear, dear master! I
will never forget you while I live."

"Be it so!" He moved away, and sat down, leaning his head upon his hand.
Who knows what thoughts might have passed through his mind--regretful,
almost remorseful thoughts of that bliss which he had lost or
scorned--life's crowning sweetness, woman's love.

Olive went up to him.

"I must go now. You will bid me good-bye--will you not, gently, kindly?
You will not think the worse of me for what has passed this night?" And
she knelt down beside him, pressing her lips to his hand.

He stooped and kissed her forehead. It was the first and last kiss that,
since boyhood, Michael Vanbrugh ever gave to woman.

Then he stood up--the great artist only. In his eye was no softness,
but the pride of genius--genius, the mighty, the daring, the eternally
alone.

"Go, my pupil! and remember my parting words. Fame is sweeter than all
pleasure, stronger than all pain. We give unto Art our life, and she
gives us immortality."

As Olive went out, she saw him still standing, stern, motionless, with
folded arms and majestic eyes; like a solitary rock whereon no flowers
grow, but on whose summit heaven's light continually shines.

CHAPTER XXVI.

"Well, darling, how do you feel in our new home?" said Olive to her
mother, when, after a long and weary journey, the night came down upon
them at Farnwood, the dark, gusty, autumn night, made wildly musical by
the neighbourhood of dense woods.

"I feel quite content, my child: I am always content everywhere with
you. And I like the wind; it helps me to imagine the sort of country we
are in."

"A forest country, hilly and bleak. We drove through miles of
forest-land, over roads carpeted with fallen leaves. The woods will look
glorious this autumn time."

"That