the same roof as Harold
Gwynne; to know that his face would meet her when she descended--that
she would walk and talk with him the whole day long.

Never did any woman think less of herself than Olive Rothesay. Yet as
she stood twisting up her beautiful hair, she felt glad that it _was_
beautiful. Once she thought of what Marion had told her about some
one saying she was "like a dove." Who said it? Not Harold--that was
impossible. Arranging her dress, she looked a moment, with half-mournful
curiosity, at the pale, small face reflected in the mirror.

"Ah, no! There is no beauty in me. Even did he care for me, I could give
him nothing but my poor heart. I can give him that still. It can do him
no harm to love him--the very act of loving is blessedness to me."

So thinking, she left her chamber.

It was long before the old lady's time for rising. There was no one in
the breakfast-room, but she saw Harold walking on the garden terrace.
Very soon he came in with some heliotrope in his hand. He did not give
it to Olive, but laid it by her plate, observing, half-carelessly,

"You were always fond of heliotropes, Miss Rothesay."

"Thank you for remembering my likings;" and Olive put the flowers in her
bosom. She fancied he looked pleased; and suddenly she remembered the
meaning given to the flower, "I love you!" At the thought, she began to
tremble all over, though contemning her own folly the while. Even
had the words been true, she and Harold were both too old for such
sentimentalities.

They breakfasted alone. Harold still looked pale and weary, nor did he
deny the fact that he had scarcely slept. He told her all the Harbury
news, but spoke little of himself or of his plans. "They were yet
uncertain," he said, "but a few more days would decide all." And then he
remained silent until, a little time after, they were standing together
at the window. From thence it was a pleasant view. Close beneath, a
little fountain rose in slender diamond threads, and fell again with a
soft trickling, like a Naiad's sigh. Bees were humming over the richest
of autumn flower-gardens, which sloped down, terrace after terrace,
until its boundary was hid in the little valley below. Beyond--looking
in the clear September air so close that you could almost see the purple
of the heather--lay the Braid Hills, a horizon-line soft as that which
enclosed the Happy Valley of Prince Rasselas.

Harold stood and gazed.

"How beautiful and calm thi