has won her heart, she is already bound. It is mockery to talk as
the world talks, of the sense of honour that leaves a woman 'free.' She
is not free. She is as much bound as if she were married to him. Tell
him so! Bid him take her to his heart, that, come what will, she may
feel she has a place there. Let him not insult her by the doubt that
she dreads poverty or long delay. If she loves him truly, she will wait
years, a whole lifetime, until he claim her. If he labour, she will
strengthen him; if he suffer, she will comfort him; in the world's
fierce battle, her faithfulness will be to him rest, and help, and
balm."

"But," said Harold, his voice hoarse and trembling, "what if they should
live on thus for years, and never marry? What if he should die?"

"Die!"

"Yes. If so, far better that he should never have spoken--that his
secret should go down with him to the grave."

"What, you mean that he should die, and she never know that he loved
her! O Heaven! what misery could equal that!"

As Olive spoke, the tears sprang into her eyes, and, utterly subdued,
she stood still and let them flow.

Harold, too, seemed strangely moved, but only for a moment. Then he
said, very softly and quietly, "Miss Rothesay, you speak like one who
feels every word. These are things we learn in but one school. Tell
me--as a friend, who night and day prays for your happiness--are you not
speaking from your own heart? You love, or you have loved?"

For a moment Olive's senses seemed to reel. But his eyes were upon
her--those truthful, truth-searching eyes.

"Must I look in his face and tell him a lie?" was her half-frenzied
thought. "I cannot, I cannot! And the whole truth he will never, never
know."

Dropping her head, she answered, in one word--"Yes!"

"And, with a woman like you, to love once is to love for evermore?"

Again Olive bent her head, and that was all. There was a sound as
of crushed leaves, and those with which Harold had been playing fell
scattered on the ground. He gave no other sign of emotion or sympathy.

For many minutes they walked on slowly, the little laughing brook beside
them seeming to rise like a thunder-voice upon the dead silence. Olive
listened to every ripple, that fell as it were like the boom of an
engulphing wave. Nothing else she heard, or felt, or thought, until
Harold spoke.

His tone was soft and very kind, and he took her hand the while. "I
thank you for this confidence. You must forgi