voice sounds so sweet in a mother's ears, especially when"---- She
stopped, for Olive just then entered.

"Where shall I read, mamma?"

"Where I think we have come to--reading every night as we do--the last
few chapters of the Revelations."

Olive read them--the blessed words, the delight of her
childhood--telling of the heavenly kingdom, and the afterlife of the
just. And _he_ heard them: he who believed in neither. He sat in the
shadow, covering his face with his hands, or lifting it at times with
a blind, despairing look, like that of one who, staggering in darkness,
sees afar a faint light, and yet cannot, dare not, believe in its
reality.

When he bade Mrs. Rothesay good night, she held his hand, and said, "God
bless you!" with more than her usual kindness. He drew back, as if the
words stung him. Then he wrung Olive's hand, looked at her a moment, as
if to say something, but said it not, and quitted the house.

The mother and daughter were alone. They clasped their arms round each
other, and sat a little while listening to the wild March wind.

"It is just such a night as that on which we came to Farnwood, is it
not, darling?"

"Yes, my child! And we have been very happy here; happier, I think, than
I have ever been in my life. Remember that, love, always!"

She said these words with a beautiful, life-beaming smile. Then, leaning
on Olive's shoulder, she lifted herself rather feebly, from her little
chair, and prepared to walk upstairs.

"Tired, are you? I wish I could carry you, darling: I almost think I
could."

"You carry me in your heart, evermore, Olive! You bear all my
feebleness, troubles, and pain. God ever bless you, my daughter!"

When Olive came down once more to the little parlour, she thought it
looked rather lonely. However, she stayed a minute or two, put her
mother's little chair in the corner, and her mother's knitting basket
beside it.

"It will be ready for her when she comes down again." Then she went
upstairs to bed; and mother and daughter fell asleep, as ever, closely
clasped in each other's arms.

CHAPTER XXXII.

"My child!"

The feeble call startled Olive out of a dream, wherein she was walking
through one of those lovely visionary landscapes--more glorious than any
ever seen by day--with her mother and with Harold Gwynne.

"Yes, darling," she answered, in a sleepy, happy voice, thinking it a
continuation of the dream.

"Olive, I feel ill--very ill! I have a du