rs?"

"I hope not. I would like to lead a life like Aunt Flora's--a quiet
stream that goes on singing to the end."

"Look me in the face, Olive Rothesay," said Harold, abruptly.
"Nay--pardon me, but I speak like one athirst, who would fain know if
any other human thirst is ever satisfied. Tell me, do you look back on
your life with content, and forward with hope? Are you happy?"

Olive's eyes sank on the ground.

"Do not question me so." she said trembling. "In life there is nothing
perfect; but I have peace, great peace. And for you there might be not
only peace, but happiness."

Again there fell between them one of those pauses which rarely come
save between two friends or lovers, who know thoroughly--in words or in
silence--each other's hearts. Then Harold, guiding the conversation as
he always did, changed it suddenly.

"I am thinking of the last time I walked here--when I came to Edinburgh
this summer. There was with me one whom I regarded highly, and we
talked--as gravely as you and I do now, though on a far different
theme."

"What was it?"

"One suited to the season and the place, and my friend's ardent youth.
He was in love, poor fellow, and he asked me about his wooing. Perhaps
you may think he chose an adviser ill fitted to the task?"

Harold spoke carelessly--and waiting Olive's reply, he pulled a handful
of red-brown leaves from a tree that overhung the path, and began
playing with them.

"You do not answer, Miss Rothesay. Come, there is scarcely a subject
that we have not discussed at some time or other, save this. Let us,
just for amusement, take my friend's melancholy case as a text, and
argue concerning what young people call 'love.'"

"As you will."

"A cold acquiescence. You think, perhaps, the matter is either above
or beneath _me_--that I can have no interest therein?" And his eyes,
bright, piercing, commanding, seemed to force an answer.

It came, very quietly and coldly.

"I have heard you say that love was the brief madness of a man's life;
if fulfilled, a burden--if unfulfilled or deceived, a curse."

"I said so, did I? Well, you give my opinions--what think you _of me_?
Answer truly--like a friend."

She did so. She never could look in Harold's eyes and tell him what was
not true.

"I think you are one of those men in whom strong intellect prevents
the need of love. Youthful passion you may have felt; but true, deep,
earnest love you never did know, and, as I believe, nev