Very still and solemn was
that chamber; but there was no sorrow there--no weeping, no struggle
of life with death. After a few hours all suffering ceased, and Mrs.
Rothesay lay quiet; sometimes in her daughter's arms, sometimes with
Olive sitting by her side. Now and then they talked together, holding
peaceful communion, like friends about to part for a long journey, in
which neither wished to leave unsaid any words of love or counsel; but
all was spoken calmly, hopefully, and without grief or fear.

As midnight approached, Olive's eyes grew heavy, and a strange
drowsiness oppressed her. Many a watcher has doubtless felt this--the
dull stupor which comes over heart and brain, sometimes even compelling
sleep, though some beloved one lies dying. Hannah, who sat up with
Olive, tried to persuade her to go down and take some coffee which she
had prepared. Mrs. Rothesay, overhearing, entreated the same. "It will
do you good. You must keep strong, my child."

"Yes, darling."

Olive went down in the little parlour, and forced herself to take food
and drink. As she sat there by herself, in the still night, with the
wind howling round the cottage, she tried to realise the truth that her
mother was then dying--that ere another day, in this world she would
be alone, quite alone, for evermore. Yet there she sat, wrapped in that
awful calm.

When Olive came back, Mrs. Rothesay roused herself and asked for some
wine. Her daughter gave it.

"It is very good--all things are very good--very sweet to me from
Olive's hand. My only daughter--my life's comfort--I bless God for
thee!"

After a while she said--passing her hand over her daughter's
cheek--"Olive, little Olive, I wish I could see your face--just once,
once more. It feels almost as small and soft as when you were a little
babe at Stirling."

And saying this, there came a cloud over Mrs. Rothesay's face; but soon
it went away, as she continued, "Child! listen to something I never told
you--never could have told you, until now. Just after you were born, I
dreamt a strange dream--that I lost you, and there came to me in your
stead an angel, who comforted me and guided me through a long weary way,
until, in parting, I knew that it was indeed my Olive. All this has come
true, save that I did not _lose_ you: I wickedly cast you from me. Ay,
God forgive me! there was a time when I, a mother, had no love for the
child I bore."

She wept a little, and held Olive with a closer s