surprised. "Are you
speaking of Mr. Gwynne?"

"Mr. Gwynne, no! Far better fun than that, isn't it, Charley? Shall we
tell the secret or not? Or else shall we tell half of it, and let her
puzzle it out till he comes?" The boy nodded assent "Well, then, there
is coming to see you to-day a friend of Charley's, who only arrived at
Farnwood last night, and since then has been talking of nothing else but
his old idol, Miss Olive Rothesay. So I told him to meet me here, and,
lo! he comes."

There was a hurried knock at the door, and immediately the little
parlour was graced by the presence of an individual,--whom Olive did not
recognise in the least. He seemed about twenty, slight and tall, of a
complexion red and white; his features pretty, though rather girlish.

Olive bowed to him in undisguised surprise; but the moment he saw her
his face became "celestial rosy red," apparently from a habit he had, in
common with other bashful youths, of blushing on all occasions.

"I see you do not remember me, Miss Rothesay. Of course I could not
expect it. But I have not forgotten you."

Olive, though still doubtful, instinctively offered him her hand. The
tall youth took it eagerly, and as he looked down upon her, something in
his expression reminded her of a face she had herself once looked down
upon--her little knight of the garden at Oldchurch. In the impulse of
the moment she called him again by his old name--"Lyle! Lyle Derwent!"

"Yes, it is indeed I!" cried the young man. "Oh, Miss Rothesay, you
can't tell how glad I am to meet you again."

"I am glad, too." And Olive regarded him with that half-mournful
curiosity with which we trace the lineaments of some long-forgotten
face, belonging to that olden time, between which and now a whole
lifetime seems to have intervened.

"Is that little Lyle Derwent?" cried Mrs. Rothesay, catching the name.
"How very strange! Come hither, my dear boy! Alas, I cannot see you. Let
me put my hand on your head."

But she could not reach it, he was grown so tall. She seemed startled to
think how time had flown.

"He is quite a man now, mamma," said Olive; "you know we have not seen
him for many years"----

Lyle added, blushing deeper than before--"The last time--I remember it
well--was in the garden, one Sunday in spring--nine years ago."

"Nine years ago! Is it then nine years since my Angus died?" murmured
the widow; and a grave silence spread itself over them all. In the
midst of it