n his wooing?"

"O yes! I like to hear of young people's happiness."

"But he was not quite happy. He did not know whether the woman he loved
loved him. He had never asked her the question."

"Why not?"

"There were several reasons. First, because he was a proud man, and,
like many others, had been deceived _once_. He would not again let a
girl mock his peace. And he was right. Do you not think so?"

"Yes, if she were one who would act so cruelly. But no true woman ever
mocked at true love. Rarely, _knowingly_, would she give cause for it to
be cast before her in vain. If your friend be worthy, how knows he but
that she may love him all the while?"

"Well, well, let that pass. He has other reasons." He paused and
looked towards her, but Olive's face was drooped out of sight. He
continued,--"Reasons such as men only feel. You know not what an awful
thing it is to cast one's pride, one's hope--perhaps the weal or woe
of one's whole life--upon a woman's light 'Yes' or 'No.' I speak," he
added, abruptly, "as my friend, the youth in love, would speak."

"Yes, I know--I understand. Tell me more. That is, if I may hear."

"Oh, certainly. His other reasons were,--that he was poor; that, if
betrothed, it might be years before they could marry; or, perhaps, as
his health was feeble, he might die, and never call her wife at all.
Therefore, though he loved her as dearly as ever man loved woman, he
held it right, and good, and just, to keep silence."

"Did he imagine, even in his lightest thought, that she loved him?"

"He could not tell. Sometimes it almost seemed so."

"Then he was wrong--cruelly wrong! He thought of his own pride, not of
_her_. Little he knew the long, silent agony she must bear--the doubt
of being loved causing shame for loving. Little he saw of the daily
struggle: the poor heart frozen sometimes into dull endurance, and then
wakened into miserable throbbing life by the shining of some hope, which
passes and leaves it darker and colder than before. Poor thing! Poor
thing!"

And utterly forgetting herself, forgetting all but the compassion learnt
from sorrow, Olive spoke with strong agitation.

Harold watched her intently. "Your words are sympathising and kind. Say
on! What should he, this lover, do?"

"Let him tell her that he loves her--let him save her from the misery
that wears away youth, and strength, and hope."

"What! and bind her by a promise which it may take years to fulfil?"

"If he