er will! Nay,
forgive me if I err; I only take you on your own showing."

"Thank you, thank you! You speak honestly and frankly--that is something
for a woman," muttered Harold; and then there was a long, awkward pause.
How one poor heart ached the while!

At last, fearing that her silence annoyed him, Olive took courage to
say, "You were going to talk to me about your plans. Do so now; that
is, if you are not angry with me," she added, with a little deprecatory
soothing.

It seemed to touch him. "Angry! How could you think so? I am never angry
with you. But what do you desire to hear about? Whither I am going, and
when? Do you, then, wish--I mean, advise me to go?"

"Yes, if it is for your good. If leaving Harbury would give you rest on
that one subject of which we never speak."

"But of which I, at least, think night and day, and never without a
prayer--(I can pray now)--for the good angel who brought light into my
darkness," said Harold, solemnly. "That comfort is with me, whatever
else may--But you wanted to hear about my going abroad?"

"Yes, tell me all. You know I like to hear."

"Well, then, I have only to decide, and I might depart immediately; to
America, I think. I should engage in science and literature. Mine would
be a safe, sure course; but, at the beginning, I might have a hard
struggle. I do not like to take any one to share it."

"Not your mother, who loves you so?"

"No, because her love would be sorely tried. We should be strangers in a
strange land; perhaps poverty would be added to our endurance; I should
have to labour unceasingly, and my temper might fail. These are hard
things for a woman to bear."

"You do not know what a woman's affection is!" said Olive earnestly.
"How could she be desolate when she had you with her! Little would
she care for being poor! And if, when sorely tried, you were bitter at
times, the more need for her to soothe you. We can bear all things for
those we love."

"Is it so?" Harold said, thoughtfully, his countenance changing, and
his voice becoming soft as he looked upon her. "Do you think that any
woman--I mean my mother, of course--would love _me_ with this love?"

And once more Olive taught herself to answer calmly, "I do think so."

Again there was a silence. Harold broke it by saying, "You would smile
to know how childishly my last walk here haunts me; I really must go
and see that love-stricken friend of mine. But you, I suppose, take no
interest i