ars. No wonder I am not
as they--that I am quiet and silent, without mirth or winning grace, a
creature worn out before her time, pale, joyless, _deformed_. Yes, let
me teach myself that word, with all other truths that 'can quench this
mad dream. Then, perhaps knowing all hope vain, I may be able to endure.

"What am I to do? Am I to try and cleanse my heart of this love, as if
it were some pollution? Not so. Sorrow it is--deep, abiding sorrow;
but it is not sin. If I thought it so, I would crush it out, though I
crushed my life out with it. But I need not. My heart is pure--O God,
Thou knowest!

"Another comfort I have. He has not deceived me, as men sometimes
deceive, with wooing that seems like love, and yet is only idle, cruel
sport. He has ever treated me as a friend--a sister--nothing more!
Therefore, no bitterness is there in my sorrow, since he has done no
wrong.

"I will not cease from loving--I would not if I could. Better this
suffering than the utter void which must otherwise be in my heart
eternally, seeing I have neither father, mother, brother, nor sister,
and shall never know any nearer tie than the chance friendships which
spring up on the world's wayside, and wither where they spring. I know
there are those who would bid me cast off this love as it were a serpent
from my bosom. No! Rather let it creep in there, and fold itself close
and secret. What matter, even if its sweet sting be death?

"But I shall not die. How could I, while he lived, and might need any
comfort that I could give? Did he not say, 'Keep near me!' Ay, I will!
Though a world lay between us, my spirit shall follow him all his life
long. Distance shall be nothing--years nothing! Whenever he calls,
'Friend I need thee.' I will answer, 'I am here!' If I could condense
my whole life's current of joy into one drop of peace for him, I would
pour it out at his feet, smile content, and die. And when I am dead--he
will know how I loved him--Harold--my Harold."

Such were her thoughts--though no words passed her lips--except the
last. As she rose and went towards the house, she might even have met
him and not trembled--she had grown so calm.

It was already night--but the mist had quite gone--there was only the
sky and its stars.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

I know that I am promulgating a new theory of love; I know that in Olive
Rothesay I dare to paint a woman full of all maidenly virtues, who has
yet given her heart away unrequited--gi