"I have occasion to go to the Hall before evening service, and I
shall be happy to accompany you on the way, if you do not object to my
escort."

If Olive had been quite free, probably she would have answered that she
did; for her independent habits made her greatly enjoy a long quiet walk
alone, especially through a beautiful country. She almost felt that the
company of her redoubtable pastor would be a restraint. But in all that
Harold Gwynne did or said there lurked an inexplicable sway, to which
every one seemed to bend. Almost against her will, she remained; and in
a few minutes was walking beside him to the little wicket-gate.

Here they were interrupted by some one on clerical business. Mr. Gwynne
desired her to proceed; he would overtake her ere she had descended the
hill. Thither Olive went, half hoping that she might after all take her
walk alone. But very soon she heard behind her footsteps, quick, firm,
manly, less seeming to tread than to crush the ground. Such footsteps
give one a feeling of being haunted--as they did to Olive. It was a
relief when they came up with her, and she was once more joined by
Harold Gwynne.

"You are exact in keeping your word," observed Miss Rothesay, by way of
saying something.

"Yes, always; when I say _I will_, it is generally done. The road is
uneven and rough, will my arm aid you, Miss Rothesay?"

She accepted it, perhaps the more readily because it was offered less
as a courtesy than a support, and one not unneeded, for Olive was rather
tired with her morning's exertions, and with the excitement of
talking to strangers. As she walked, there came across her mind the
thought--what a new thing it was for her to have a strong kindly arm
to lean on! But it seemed rather pleasant than otherwise, and she felt
gratefully towards Mr. Gwynne.

They conversed on the ordinary topics, natural to such a recent
acquaintance--the beauty of the country around, the peculiarities
of forest scenery, etc. etc. Never once did Harold's conversation
assimilate to that which had so struck Olive when they stood beside poor
Sara's grave. It seemed as though the former Harold Gwynne--the object
of her girlhood's dislike, her father's enemy, her friend's husband--had
vanished for ever, and in his stead was a man whose strong individuality
of character already interested her. He was unlike all other men she had
ever known. This fact, together with the slight mystery that hung over
him, attract