er conversations with Michael,--and
his belief that the life of the heart and that of the brain--one so warm
and rich--the other so solitary and cold--can rarely exist together.
Towards the latter her whole destiny seemed now turning.

"It may be true; perchance all is well Let me think so. If on earth I
must ever feel this void, may it be filled at last in the after-life
with God!"

She pondered thus, but the meditations oppressed her. She was rather
glad to have them broken by the appearance of a little girl, who entered
from a wicket-gate at the other end of the churchyard, and walked, very
slowly and quietly, to a grave-stone near where Miss Rothesay stood.

Olive approached, but the child, a thoughtful-looking little creature of
about eight years old, did not see her until she came quite close.

"Do not let me disturb you, my dear," said she gently, as the little
girl seemed shy and frightened, and about to run away. But Miss
Rothesay, who loved all children, began to talk to her, and very soon
succeeded in conquering the timidity of the pretty little maiden. For
she was a pretty creature. Olive especially admired her eyes, which were
large and dark, the sort of eyes she had always loved for the sake of
Sara Derwent. Looking into them now, she seemed carried back once more
to the days of her early youth, and of that long-vanished dream.

"Are you fond of coming here, my child?"

"Yes; whenever I can steal quietly away, out of sight of papa and
grandmamma. They do not forbid me; else, you know, I ought not to do it;
but they say it is not good for me to stay thinking here, and send me to
go and play."

"And why had you rather come and sit here than play?"

"Because there is a secret, and I want to try and find it out. I dare
not tell you, for you might tell papa and grandmamma, and they would be
angry."

"But your mamma--you could surely tell mamma; I always tell everything
to mine."

"Do you? and have you got a mamma? Then, perhaps you could help me in
finding out all about mine. You must know," added the child, lifting up
her eager face with an air of mystery, "when I was very little, I lived
away from here--I never saw my mamma, and my nurse always told me that
she had 'gone away.' A little while since, when I came home--my home is
there," and she pointed to what seemed the vicarage-house, glimmering
whitely through the trees--"they told me mamma was here, under this
stone, but they would tell me noth