would soon burn itself out--it has left
nothing but ashes. Once he deceived himself, and sorely he has reaped
the fruits of his folly. The result is, that he will live to old age
without ever having known the blessing of true love."

"Is that so mournful, then?" said Olive, more as if thinking aloud than
speaking.

Mrs. Gwynne did not hear the words, for she had started up at the sound
of a horse's hoofs at the gate. "If that should be Harold! He said he
would be at home this week or next. It is--it is he! How glad I am--that
is, I am glad that he should be in time to see the Fludyers and Miss
Manners before their journey to-morrow."

Thus, from long habit, trying to make excuses for her overflowing
tenderness, she hurried out. Olive heard Mr. Gwynne's voice in the Hall,
his anxious tender inquiry for his mother; even the quick, flying step
of little Ailie bounding to meet "papa."

She paused: her work fell, and a mist came over her eyes. She felt then,
as she had sometimes done before, though never so strongly, that it was
hard to be in the world alone.

This thought haunted her awhile; until at last it was banished by the
influence of one of those pleasant social evenings, such as were often
spent at the Parsonage. The whole party, including Christal and Lyle,
were assembled in the twilight, the two latter keeping up a sort of
Benedick and Beatrice warfare. Harold and his mother seemed both very
quiet--they sat close together, her hand sometimes resting caressingly
on his shoulder or his knee. It was a new thing, this outward show of
affection; but of late since his health had declined (and, in truth, he
had often looked and been very ill), there had come a touching softness
between the mother and son.

Olive Rothesay sat a little apart, a single lamp lighting her at her
work; for she was not idle. Following her old master's example, she was
continually making studies from life for the picture on which she was
engaged. She took a pleasure in filling it with idealised heads, of
which the originals had place in her own warm affections. Christal was
there, with her gracefully-turned throat, and the singular charm of her
black eyes and fair hair. Lyle, too, with his delicate, womanish, but
yet handsome face. Nor was Mrs. Gwynne forgotten--Olive made great use
of her well-outlined form, and her majestic sweep of drapery. There was
one only of the group who had not been limned by Miss Rothesay.

"If I were my brothe