essness.

"I cannot tell; perhaps I shall go; perhaps not at all. We will talk the
matter over to-morrow--that is, if you are still kind enough to listen."

She smiled. "Little doubt of that, I think."

"Thank you! And now I will say good-night," observed Harold, rising.

Ere he went, however, he looked down curiously into Olive's face.

"You seem quite strong and well now, Miss Rothesay. You have been happy
here?"

"Happy--oh, yes! quite happy."

"I thought it would be so--I was right! Though still--But I am glad,
very glad to hear it. Good-night."

He shook her hand--an easy, careless shake; not the close, lingering
clasp--how different they were! Then he went quickly up-stairs to his
chamber.

But hour after hour sped; the darkness changed to dawn, the dawn to
light, and still Olive lay sleepless. Her heart, stirred from its
serenity, again swayed miserably to and fro. Vainly she argued with
herself on her folly in giving way to these emotions; counting over,
even in pitiful scorn, the years that she had past her youth.

"Three more, and I shall be a woman of thirty. Yet here I lie, drowning
my pillow with tears, like a love-sick girl. Oh that this trouble had
visited me long ago, that I might have risen up from it like the young
grass after rain! But now it falls on me like an autumn storm--it tears
me, it crushes me; I shall never, never rise."

When it was broad daylight, she roused herself, bathed her brow in
water, shut out the sunbeams from her hot, aching eyes, and then lay
down again and slept.

Sleeping, she dreamed that she was walking with Harold Gwynne,
hand-in-hand, as if they were little children. Suddenly he took her in
his arms, clasping her close as a lover his betrothed; and in so doing
pressed a bright steel into her heart. Yet it was such sweet death,
that, waking, she would fain have wished it true.

But she lifted her head, saw the sunlight dancing on the floor, and knew
that the morning was come--that she must rise once more to renew her
life's bitter strife.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

Olive dressed herself carefully in her delicate-coloured morning-gown.
She was one of those women who take pains to appear freshest and fairest
in the early hours of the day; to greet the sun as the flowers greet
him--rich "in the dew of youth." Despite her weary vigil, the balmy
morning brought colour to her cheek and a faint sweetness to her heart.
It was a new and pleasant thing to wake beneath