Christal and Charley, seeing this meeting was not likely to
produce the "fun" they expected, took the opportunity of escaping.

Then came the questions, which after so long a period one shrinks from
asking, afraid of answer. Olive learnt that old Mr. Derwent had ceased
to scold, and poor Bob played his mischievous pranks no more. Both lay
quiet in Oldchurch churchyard. Worldly losses, too, had chanced, until
the sole survivor of the family found himself very poor.

"I should not even have gone to college," said Lyle, "but for the
kindness of my brother-in-law, Harold Gwynne."

Olive started. "Oh, true--I forgot all about that. Then he has been
a good brother to you?" added she, with a feeling of pleasure and
interest.

"He has indeed. When my father died, I had not a relative in the world,
save a rich old uncle who wanted to put me in his counting-house; but
Harold stood between us, and saved me from a calling I hated. And when
my uncle turned me off, he took me home. Yes! I am not ashamed to say
that I owe everything in the world to my brother Harold. I feel this the
more, because he was not quite happy in his marriage. She did not suit
him--my sister Sara."

"Indeed?" said Olive, and changed the conversation. After tea, Lyle, who
appeared rather a sentimental young gentleman, proposed a moonlight walk
in the garden. Miss Christal, after eyeing Olive and her cavalier with
a mixture of amusement and vexation, as if she did not like to miss
so excellent a chance of fun and flirtation, consoled herself with
ball-playing and Charley Fludyer.

As their conversation grew more familiar, Olive was rather disappointed
in Lyle. In his boyhood, she had thought him quite a little genius;
but the bud had given more promise than the flower was ever likely to
fulfil. Now she saw in him one of those not uncommon characters, who
with sensitive feeling, and some graceful talent, yet never rise to the
standard of genius. Strength, daring, and, above all, originality were
wanting in his mind. With all his dreamy sentiment--his lip-library of
perpetually quoted poets--and his own numberless scribblings (of which
he took care to inform Miss Rothesay)--Lyle Der-went would probably
remain to his life's end a mere "poetical gentleman."

Olive soon divined all this, and she began to weary a little of her
companion and his vague sentimentalities, "in linked sweetness long
drawn out." Besides, thoughts much deeper had haunted her at times