l me, are you quite well, quite
happy? You do not know how glad I am to see you, my dear friend."

And her hand alighted softly on his arm like a bird of peace. Harold
pressed it and kept it there, as he often did; they were used to that
kind of friendly familiarity.

"You are very good, Miss Rothesay. Yes, all is well at Harbury. Pray, be
quite easy on that account But I thought, hearing how merry you were at
the garden-gate, that amidst your pleasures here you scarcely remembered
us at all."

His somewhat vexed tone went to Olive's heart. But she only answered,

"You were not quite right there. I never forget my friends."

"No, no! I ought to have known that. Forgive me; I speak rudely,
unkindly; but I have so many things to embitter me just now. Let us
go in, and you shall talk my ill-humour away, as you have done many a
time."

There was a repentant accent in his voice as he drew Olive's arm in his.
And she--she looked, and spoke, and smiled, as she had long learned to
do. In the little quiet face, the soft, subdued manner, was no trace of
any passion or emotion.

"Have you seen Aunt Flora?" said Olive, as they stood together in the
parlour.

"No. When I came she had already retired. I have only been here an hour.
I passed that time in walking about the garden. Jean told me you would
come in soon."

"I would have come sooner had I known. How weary you must be after your
journey! Come, take Aunt Flora's chair here, and rest."

He did indeed seem to need rest. As he leaned back with closed eyes on
the cushions she had placed, Olive stood and looked at him a moment. She
thought, "Oh, that I were dead, and become an invisible spirit, that
I might comfort and help him. But I shall never do it. Never in this
world!"

She pressed back two burning tears, and then began to move about the
room, arranging little household matters for his comfort. She had never
done so before, and now the duties seemed sweet and homelike, like those
of a sister, or--a wife. Once she thought thus--but she dared not
think again. And Harold was watching her, too; following her--as she
deemed--with the listless gaze of weariness. But soon he turned his face
from her, and whatever was written thereon Olive read no more.

He was to stay that night, for Mrs. Flora's house was always his home in
Edinburgh. But he seemed disinclined to talk. One or two questions
Olive put about himself and his plans, but they seemed to increase his
restl