half-suspicious glance at the tall, dark figure which stood near her in
the moonlight.

"What! did you not know me, brother Harold? How funny!" And he laughed:
his laugh was something like Sara's.

It seemed to ring jarringly on Mr. Gwynne's ear. "I was not aware, Miss
Rothesay, that you knew my brother-in-law."

"Oh, Miss Rothesay and I were friends almost ten years ago. She was our
neighbour at Oldchurch."

"Indeed." And Olive thought she discerned in his face, which she had
already begun to read, some slight pain or annoyance. Perhaps it wounded
him to know any one who had known Sara. Perhaps--but conjectures were
vain.

"I am glad you are come," she said to Harold. "Mamma has been wishing
for you all day. Lyle, will you go and tell her who is here. Nay, Mr.
Gwynne, surely you will come back with me to the house?"

He seemed half-inclined to resist, but at last yielded. So he made one
of the little circle, and "assisted" well at this, the first of many
social evenings, at Farnwood Dell But at times, Olive caught some of
his terse, keen, and somewhat sarcastic sayings, and thought she could
imagine the look and tone with which he had said the bitter words about
"never trusting woman more."

He and Lyle went away together, and Christal, who had at last succeeded
in apparently involving the light-hearted young collegian within the
meshes of her smiles, took consolation in a little quiet drollery with
Charley Fludyer; but even this resource failed when Charley spoke of
returning home.

"I shall not go back with you to-night," said Christal. "I shall stay
at the Dell. You may come and fetch me to-morrow, with the pony you lent
me; and bring Mr. Derwent, too, to lead it. To see him so employed would
be excellent fun."

"You seem to have taken a sudden passion for riding, Christal," said
Olive, with a smile, when they were alone.

"Yes, it suits me. I like dashing along across the country--it is
excitement; and I like, too, to have a horse obeying me--'tis so
delicious to rule! To think that Madame Blandin should consider riding
unfeminine, and that I should have missed that pleasure for so many
years! But I am my own mistress now. By the way," she added, carelessly,
"I wanted to have a few words with you, Miss Rothesay." She had rarely
called her _Olive_ of late.

"Nay, my dears," interposed Mrs. Rothesay, "do not begin to talk just
yet--not until I am gone to bed; for I am very, very tired" And so,
until