used to think if she had any right to ask these questions.

"Soon after, Sara came home to us. She did not stay long, and then
returned to Harbury. Harold was never unkind to her--that I know. But,
somehow, she pined away; the more so after she heard of Charles Geddes's
sudden death."

"Alas! he died too."

"Yes; by an accident his own recklessness caused. But he was weary of
his life, poor fellow! Well--Sara never quite recovered that shock.
After little Ailie was born, she lingered a few weeks, and then died. It
was almost a relief to us all."

"What! did you not love your sister?"

"Of course I did; but then she was older than I, and had never cared for
me much. Now, as to Harold, I owe him everything. He has been to me less
like a brother than a father; not in affection, perhaps that is scarcely
in his nature, but in kindness and in counsel. There is not in the world
a better man than Harold Gwynne."

Olive replied warmly. "I am sure of it, and I like you the more for
acknowledging it." Then, in some confusion, she added, "Pardon me, but
I had quite gone back to the old times, when you were my little pet. I
really must learn to show more formality and respect to Mr. Derwent."

"Don't say _Mr. Derwent_. Pray call me Lyle, as you used to do."

"That I will, with pleasure. Only," she continued, smiling, "when I look
up at you, I shall begin to feel quite an ancient dame, since I am so
much older than you."

"Not at all," Lyle answered, with an eagerness somewhat deeper than the
mannish pride of youths who have just crossed the Rubicon that divides
them from their much-scorned '_teens_.' "I have advanced, and you seem to
have stood still; there is scarcely any difference between us now." And
Olive, somewhat amused, let her old favourite have his way.

They spoke on trivial subjects, until it was time to return to the
house. Just as they were entering, Lyle said:

"Look! there is my brother-in-law standing at the gate. Oh, Miss
Rothesay, be sure you never tell him of the things we have been talking
about."

"It is not likely I shall ever have the opportunity. Mr. Gwynne seems a
very reserved man."

"He is so; and of these matters he now never speaks at all."

"Hush! he is here;" and with a feeling of unwonted nervousness, as if
she feared he had been aware of how much she had thought and conversed
about him, Olive met Harold Gwynne.

"I am afraid I am an intruder, Miss Rothesay," said the latter, with a