he comes not so often," she re-commenced her musings, "even then I
ought to be quite content. I know he respects and esteems me; nay, that
he has for me a warm regard. I have done him good, too; he tells me so.
How fervently ought I to thank God if any feeble words of mine may so
influence him, as in time to lead him from error to truth. My friend,
my dear friend! I could not die, knowing or fearing that the abyss of
eternity would lie between my spirit and his. Now, whatever may part us
during life"----

Here again she paused, overcome with the consciousness of great pain.
If there was gloom in the silence of a week, what would a whole life's
silence be? Something whispered that even in this world it would be very
bitter to part with Harold Gwynne.

"You are not painting, Miss Rothesay; you are thinking," suddenly cried
Lyle Derwent.

Olive started almost with a sense of shame. "Has not an artist a right
to dream a little?" she said. Yet she blushed deeply. Were her thoughts
wrong, that they needed to be thus glossed over? Was there stealing into
her heart a secret that taught her to feign?

"What! are you, always the idlest of the idle, reproving Miss Rothesay
for being idle too?" said Christal, somewhat sharply. "No wonder she is
dull, and I likewise. You are getting as solemn as Mr. Gwynne himself. I
almost wish he would come in your place."

"Do you? Then 'reap the misery of a granted prayer' for there is a knock
It may be my worthy brother-in-law himself."

"If so, for charity's sake, give me your arm and help me into the next
room. I cannot abide his gloomy face."

"O woman!--changeful--fickle--vain!" laughed the young man, as he
performed the duty of supporting the not very fragile form of the fair
Christal.

Olive was left alone. Why did she tremble? Why did her pulse
sink, slower and slower? She asked herself this question, even in
self-disdain. But there was no answer.

Harold entered.

"I am come with a message from my mother," said he; but added anxiously,
"How is this, Miss Rothesay? You look as if you had been ill?"

"Oh, no! only weary with a long morning's work. But will you sit!"

He received, as usual, the quiet smile--the greeting gentle and
friendly. He was deceived by them as heretofore.

"Are you better than when last I was at the Parsonage? I have seen
nothing of you for a week, you know."

"Is it so long? I did not note the time." He "did not note the time."
And she had told ev