Lyle's
little peculiarities, she is quite indignant. I rather think she likes
him--that is, as much as she likes any of her friends."

"There is little depth of affection in Christal's nature. She is too
proud. She feels no need of love, and therefore cares not to win it.
Do you know, Olive," continued Mrs. Gwynne, "if I must expose all my
weaknesses, there was a time when I watched Miss Manners more closely
than any one guesses. It was from a mother's jealousy over her son's
happiness, for I often heard her name coupled with Harold's."

"So have I, more than once," said Olive. "But I thought at the time how
idle was the rumour."

"It was idle, my dear; but I did not quite think so then."

"Indeed!" There was a little quick gesture of surprise; and Olive,
ceasing her work, looked inquiringly at Mrs. Gwynne.

"Men cannot do without love, and having once been married, Harold's
necessity for a good wife's sympathy and affection is the greater. I
always expected that my son would marry again, and therefore I have
eagerly watched every young woman whom he might meet in society, and
be disposed to choose. All men, especially clergymen, are better
married--at least in my opinion. Even you, yourself, as Harold's friend,
his most valued friend, must acknowledge that he would be much happier
with a second wife."

What was there in this frank speech that smote Olive with a secret pain?
Was it the unconscious distinction drawn between her and all other women
on whom Harold might look with admiring eyes, so that his mother, while
calling her his _friend_, never dreamed of her being anything more?

Olive knew not whence came the pain, yet still she felt it was there.
"Certainly he would," she answered, speaking in a slow, quiet tone.
"Nevertheless, I should scarcely think Christal a girl whom Mr. Gwynne
would be likely to select."

"Nor I. At first, deeming her something like the first Mrs. Harold,
I had my doubts; but they quickly vanished. My son will never marry
Christal Manners."

Olive, sitting at the window, looked up. It seemed to her as if over the
room had come a lightness like the passing away of a cloud.

"Nor, at present," pursued Mrs. Gwynne, "does it appear to me likely
that he will marry at all. I fear that domestic love--the strong, yet
quiet tenderness of a husband to a wife, is not in his nature. Passion
is, or was, in his youth; but he is not young now. In his first hasty
marriage I knew that the fire