servation. "I am indeed truly grieved," she began to say, but he
stopped her.

"Do not speak to me yet, I pray you."

She obeyed; though yearning with pity over him. Hitherto, in all their
intercourse, whatever had been his kindness towards her, towards him
she had continually felt a sense of restraint--even of fear. That
controlling influence, which Mr. Gwynne seemed to exercise over all with
whom he deigned to associate, was heavy upon Olive Rothesay. Before
him she felt more subdued than she had ever done before any one; in his
presence she unconsciously measured her words and guarded her looks, as
if meeting the eye of a master. And he was a master--a man born to rule
over the wills of his brethren, swaying them at his lightest breath, as
the wind bends the grass of the field.

But now the sceptre seemed torn from his hand--he was a king no more.
He walked along--his head drooped, his eyes fixed on the ground. And
beholding him thus, there came to Olive, in the place of fear, a strong
compassion, tender as strong, and pure as tender. Angel-like, it arose
in her heart, ready to pierce his darkness with its shining eyes--to
fold around him and all his misery its sheltering wings. He was a great
and learned man, and she a lowly woman; in her knowledge far beneath
him, in her faith--oh! how immeasurably above!

She began very carefully. "You are not well, I fear. This painful scene
has been too much, even for you. Death seems more horrible to men than
to feeble women."

"Death!--do you think that I fear Death?" and he clenched his hand
as though he would battle with the great Destroyer. "No!--I have met
him--stood and looked at him--until my eyes were blinded, and my brain
reeled. But what am I saying? Don't heed me, Miss Rothesay; don't." And
he began to walk on hurriedly.

"You are ill, I am sure; and there is something that rests on your
mind," said Olive, in a quiet, soft tone.

"What!--have I betrayed anything? I mean, have you anything to charge
me with! Have I left any duty unfulfilled; said any words unbecoming a
clergyman?" asked he with a freezing haughtiness.

"Not that I am aware. Forgive me, Mr. Gwynne, if I have trespassed
beyond the bounds of our friendship. For we are friends--have you not
often said so?"

"Yes, and with truth. I respect you, Miss Rothesay. You are no
thoughtless girl, but a woman who has, I am sure, both felt and
suffered! I have suffered too; therefore it is no marvel we are