n rest, deep and placid, came
over her, as over one who, escaped from a stormy wrack and tempest,
falls asleep amid the murmur of "quiet waters," in a pleasant land.

She awoke in the morning, as if waking in another world. The clear cold
air, thrilled with sunshine, filled her room. It was the "best room,"
furnished with a curious mingling of the ancient and the modern. The
pretty chintz couch laughed at the oaken, high-backed chair, stiff with
a century of worm-eaten state. On either side the fireplace hung two
ancient engravings, of Mary Stuart and "bonnie Prince Charlie," both
garnished with verses, at once remarkable for devoted loyalty and
eccentric rhythm. Between the two was Sir William Ross's sweet, maidenly
portrait of our own Victoria. Opposite, on a shadowed wall, with one
sunbeam kissing the face, was a large well-painted likeness, which Olive
at once recognised. It was Mrs. Flora Rothesay, at eighteen. No wonder,
Olive thought, that she was called "the Flower of Perth." But strange it
was, that the fair flower had been planted in no good man's bosom; that
this lovely and winning creature had lived, bloomed, withered--"an
old maid." Olive, looking into the sweet eyes that followed her
everywhere--as those of some portraits do--tried to read therein the
foreshadowing of a life-history of eighty years. It made her dreamy
and sad, so she arose and looked out upon the sunny slopes of the
Braid Hills until her cheerfulness returned. Then she descended to the
breakfast-table.

It was too early for the old lady to appear, but there were waiting
three or four young damsels--invited, they said, to welcome Miss
Rothesay, and show her the beauties of Edinburgh. They talked
continually of "dear Auntie Mora," and were most anxious to "call
cousins" with Olive herself, who, though she could not at all make out
the relationship, was quite ready to take it upon faith. She tried
very hard properly to distinguish between the three Miss M'Gillivrays,
daughters of Sir Andrew Rothesay's half-sister's son, and Miss Flora
Anstruther, the old lady's third cousin and name-child, and especially
little twelve-years-old Maggie Oliphant, whose grandfather was Mrs.
Flora's nephew on the mother's side, and first cousin ta Alison Balfour.

All these conflicting relationships wrapped Olive in an inexplicable
net; but it was woven of such friendly arms that she had no wish to
get free. Her heart opened to the loving welcome; and when she