d friends, and chiefly to Lyle Derwent, who evidently
regarded her with much affection. But all other affections grew pale
before the one great love. Every lesser tie that would fain come in the
place of that which was unattainable, smote her with only a keener pain.

Still, half remorsefully, she looked on her old favourite, and wished
that she could care for him more. So thinking, her manner became gentler
than usual, while that of Lyle grew more earnest and less dreamy.

"I wish you would write to me while you are away, Miss Rothesay; or, at
all events, let me write to you."

"That you may; and I shall be so glad to hear all about Harbury and
Farnwood." Here she paused, half-shaming to confess to herself that for
this reason chiefly would she welcome the letters of poor Lyle.

"Is that all? Will you not care to hear about _me_? Oh, Miss Rothesay,"
cried Lyle, "I often wish I was again a little boy in the dear old
garden at Oldchurch."

"Why so?"

"Because--because"--and the quick blood rose in his cheek. "No, no, I
cannot tell you now; but perhaps I may, some time."

"Just as you like," answered Olive, absently. Her thoughts, wakened by
the long-silent name, were travelling over many years; back to her old
home, her happy girlhood. She almost wished she had died then, while she
was young. But her mother!

"No, I am glad I lived to comfort _her._" she mused. "Perhaps it may be
true that none ever leave earth until they are no longer needed there.
So I will even patiently live on."

Unable to talk more with Lyle, Olive re-entered the Parsonage. Harold
sat reading.

"Have you long come in?" she asked in a somewhat trembling voice.

He answered, "About an hour."

"I did not see you enter."

"It was not likely; you were engaged with my brother-in-law. Therefore I
would not disturb you, but took my book."

He spoke in the abrupt, cold manner he sometimes used. Olive thought
something had happened to annoy him. She sat down and talked with him
until the cloud passed away.

Many times during the evening Lyle renewed his lamentations over Miss
Rothesay's journey; but Harold never uttered one word of regret. When
Olive departed, however, he offered to accompany her home.

"Nay--it is such a rainy night--perhaps"----

"Very well, since you choose it so," and he sat down again. But Olive
saw she had wounded his pride, _only_ his pride; she said this to her
heart, to keep down its unconscious thrill. She repl