w my dear Alison Balfour? She was younger than I, and yet
you see we have both grown auld wives together. Little Olive, ye
have come to me in a birthday gift, my dear. I am eighty years old
to-day--just eighty years, thank the Lord!"

The old lady reverently raised her blue eyes--true Scottish eyes--limpid
and clear as the dew on Scottish heather. Cheerful they were withal,
for they soon began to flit hither and thither, following the motions
of Jean's "eident hand" with most housewifely care. And Jean herself, a
handmaid prim and ancient, but youthful compared to her mistress,
seemed to watch the latter's faintest gesture with most affectionate
observance. Of all the light traits which reveal character, none is more
suggestive than the sight of a mistress whom her servants love.

After tea Mrs. Mora insisted on Olive's retiring for the night. "Your
room has a grand view over the Braid Hills. They call them hills here;
but oh! if ye had seen the blue mountains sweeping in waves from the old
house at home. Night and day I was wearying for them, for years after I
came to live at Morningside. But one must e'en dree one's weird!"

She always spoke in this rambling way, wandering from the subject, after
the fashion of old age. Olive could have listened long to the pleasant
stream of talk, which seemed murmuring round her, wrapping her in a
soft dream of peace. She laid down her tired head on the pillow, with an
unwonted feeling of calmness and rest. Even the one weary pain that
ever pursued her sank into momentary repose. Her last waking thought
was still of Harold; but it was more like the yearning of a spirit from
beyond the grave.

Just between waking and sleeping Olive was roused by music. Her door had
been left ajar, and the sound she heard was the voices of the household,
engaged in their evening devotion. The tune was that sweetest of all
Presbyterian psalmody, "plaintive Martyrs." Olive caught some words
of the hymn--it was one with which she had often, often been lulled to
sleep in poor old Elspie's arms. Distinct and clear its quaint rhymes
came back upon her memory now:

The Lord's my shepherd, I'll not want,
He makes me down to lie
In pastures green, He leadeth me
The quiet waters by.

Yea, though I walk in death's dark vale,
Yet will I fear none ill;
For Thou art with me, and Thy rod
And staff me comfort still.

Poor lonely Olive lay and listened. The