en
her mother so easily?"

But _she did not forget_. Selfish, worldly mourners are they, who think
that the memory of the beloved lost can only be kept green by tears.
Olive Rothesay was not of these. To her, her mother's departure appeared
no more like death, than did one Divine parting--with reverence be it
spoken!--appear to those who stood and looked upward from the hill of
Bethany. And thus should we think upon all happy and holy deaths--if we
fully and truly believed the faith we own.

Olive did not forget her mother--she could as soon have forgotten her
own soul. In all her actions, words, and thoughts, this most sacred
memory abided--a continual presence, silent as sweet, and sweet as
holy. When her many and most affectionate friends had beguiled her into
cheerfulness, so that they fancied she had put aside her sorrow, she
used to say in her heart, "See, mother, I can think of you and not
grieve. I would not that it should pain you to know I suffer still!"

Yet human feelings could not utterly be suppressed; and there were many
times, when at night-time she buried her face on the now lonely pillow,
and stretched out her arms into the empty darkness, crying, "My mother,
oh my mother!" But then strong love came between Olive and her agony,
whispering, that wherever her spirit abided, the mother _could not_
forget her child.

Olive looked very calm now, as she sat with Mrs. Gwynne in the
bay-window of the little drawing-room at the Parsonage, engaged in some
light work, with Ailie reading a lesson at her knee. It was a lesson
too, taken from that lore--at once the most simple and most divine--the
Gospels of the New Testament.

"I thought my son would prove himself right in all his opinions,"
observed Mrs. Gwynne, when the lesson was over and the child had run
away. "I knew he would allow Ailie to learn everything at the right
time."

Olive made no answer. Her thoughts turned to the day--now some months
back--when, stung by the disobedience and falsehood that lay hid in
a young mind which knew no higher law than a human parent's command,
Harold had come to her for counsel She remembered his almost despairing
words, "Teach the child as you will--true or false--I care not; so that
she becomes like yourself, and is saved from those doubts which rack her
father's soul."

Harold Gwynne was not singular in this. Scarcely ever was there an
unbeliever who desired to see his own scepticism reflected in his child.