no
one to teach me to control myself. It could not be helped! and it is too
late now."

"It is never too late," cried Olive. But Christal's emotion had passed,
and she resumed her lofty manner.

"Excuse me, but I am a little too old to be lectured; and, I have no
doubt, shall be able to guide my own conduct. For the future, we will
not have quite such serious conversations as this. Good-night!"

Olive went away, heavy at heart. She had long been unaccustomed to
wrestle with an angry spirit. Indeed, she lived in an atmosphere so
pure and full of love, that on it never gloomed one domestic storm. She
almost wished that Christal had not come with them to Farnwood. But then
it seemed such an awful thing for this young and headstrong creature
to be adrift on the wide world. She determined that, whether Christal
desired it or no, she would never lose sight of her, but try to guide
her with so light a hand, that the girl might never even feel the sway.

Next morning Miss Manners abruptly communicated her determination not to
have the horse, and the matter was never again referred to. But it had
placed a chasm between Olive and Christal, which the one could not, the
other would not pass. And as various other interests grew up in Miss
Rothesay's life, her anxiety over this wayward girl a little ceased.
Christal stayed almost wholly at Farnwood Hall; and in humble, happy,
Farnwood Dell, Olive abode, devoted to her Art and to her mother.

CHAPTER XXIX.

Weeks glided into months; and within the three-mile circle of the Hall,
the Parsonage, and the Dell, was as pleasant a little society as could
be found, anywhere. Frequent meetings, usually confined to themselves
alone, produced the necessary intimacy of a country neighbourhood.

As it sometimes happens that persons, or families taught to love each
other unknown, when well known learn to hate; so, on the contrary, it is
no unfrequent circumstance for those who have lived for years in enmity,
when suddenly brought together, to become closer friends than if there
had been no former antipathy between them. So it was with the Rothesays
and the Gwynnes.

Once after Mrs. Gwynne and her son had spent a long pleasant evening at
the Dell, Olive chanced to light upon the packet of Harold's letters,
which, years before, she had put by, with the sincere wish that she
might never hear anything of him more.

"You would not wish so now, Olive--nor would I," said Mrs. Rothesay,
w