had sat talking for some minutes, when Harold
was seen crossing the lawn. His mother called him, and he came to the
window with the quick response of one who in all his life had never
heard that summons unheeded. It was a slight thing, but Olive noticed
it, and the loving daughter felt more kindly towards the duteous son.

"Harold, Miss Rothesay is here."

He glanced in at the open window with a surprised half-confused air,
which was not remarkable, considering the awkwardness of this second
meeting, after their first rencontre. Remembering it, Olive heard his
steps down the long hall with some trepidation. But entering, he walked
up to her with graceful ease, took her hand, and expressed his pleasure
in meeting her. He did not make the slightest allusion either to their
former correspondence, or to their late conversation in the churchyard.

Olive's sudden colour paled beneath his unconcerned air; her
faintly-quickened pulses sank into quietness; it seemed childish to
have been so nervously sensitive in meeting Harold Gwynne. She felt
thoroughly ashamed of herself, and was afraid lest her shyness might
have conveyed to him and to his mother the impression, which she would
not for worlds have given,--that she bore any painful or uncharitable
remembrance of the past.

Soon the conversation glided naturally into ease and pleasantness. Mrs.
Gwynne had the gift of talking well--a rare quality among women,
whose conversation mostly consists of disjointed chatter, long-winded
repetitions, or a commonplace remark, and--silence. But Alison Gwynne
had none of these feminine peculiarities. To listen to her was like
reading a pleasant book. Her terse, well-chosen sentences had all the
grace of easy chat, and yet were so unaffected that not until you paused
to think them over, did you discover that you might have "put them all
down in a book;" and made an excellent book too.

Her son had not this gift; or, if he had, he left it unemployed. It was
a great moment that could draw more than ordinary words from the lips
of Harold Gwynne; and such moments seemed to have been rare indeed
with him. Generally he appeared--as he did now to Olive Rothesay--the
dignified, but rather silent master of the household--in whose most
winning grace there was reserve, and whose very courtesy implied
command.

He showed this when, after an hour's pleasant visit, Miss Rothesay moved
to depart. Harold requested her to remain a few minutes longer.