ved did Mrs. Harold Gwynne
mention your name. And you loved her so! Well! 'twas like her--like
her!" muttered Harold's mother; "but peace be with the dead!"

She walked up, and laid her hand on Olive's shoulder.

"My dear, I am an old woman; excuse my speaking plainly. You know
nothing of me and of my son, save what is harsh and painful. Forget all
this, and remember only that I loved your father when he was quite a
child, and that I am prepared to love his daughter, if she so choose.
You must not think I am taking a hasty fancy--we Scottish folk rarely do
that. But I have learnt much about you lately--more than you guess--and
have recognised in you the 'little Olive' of whom Angus Rothesay told me
so much only a few days before his death."

"Did you see my dear father then?--did he talk of me?" cried Olive,
eagerly, as, forgetting all the painful remembrances attached to
the Gwynne family, she began to look at Harold's mother almost with
affection.

But Mrs. Gwynne, who had unfolded herself in a way most unusual, now
was relapsing into reserve. "We will talk of this another time, my dear.
Now, I should much desire to see Mrs. Rothesay."

Olive went to fetch her. How she contrived to explain all that had
transpired, she never clearly knew herself. However, she succeeded, and
shortly re-appeared, with her mother leaning on her arm.

And, beholding the pale, worn, but still graceful woman, who, with
her sightless eyes cast down, clung to her sole stay--her devoted
child--Mrs. Gwynne seemed deeply moved. There was even a sort of
deprecatory hesitation in her manner, but it soon passed.--She clasped
the widow's hands, and spoke to her in a voice so sweet, so winning,
that all pain vanished from Mrs. Rothesay's mind.

In a little while she was sitting calmly by Mrs. Gwynne's side,
listening to her talking. It went into the blind woman's heart. Soft
the voice was, and kind; and above all, there were in it the remembered,
long unheard accents of the northern tongue. She felt again like
young Sybilla Hyde, creeping along in the moonlight by the side of her
stalwart Highland lover, listening to his whispers, and thinking that
there was in the wide world no one like her own Angus Rothesay--so
beautiful and so brave!

When Mrs. Gwynne quitted the Dell, she left on the hearts of both mother
and daughter a pleasure which they sought not to repress. They were
quite glad that the next day was Sunday, when they would go to Har