and then Olive drew her
breath, and her thoughts began to form themselves as she went along.

"I am now alone, quite alone. I must shut my life up in myself--look
to no one's help, yearn for no one's love. What I receive I will take
thankfully; but I have no claim upon any one in this wide world. Many
pleasant friendships I have, many tender ties, but none close enough to
fill the void in my heart--none to love as I could love--as I did
love for many years. Oh, mother, why did you go away? Why did I love
again--lose again? Always loving only to lose."

Many times she said to herself, "I am alone--quite alone in the world;"
and at last the words seemed to strike the echo of some old remembrance.
But it was one so very dim, that for a long time Olive could not give it
any distinct form. At last she recollected the letter which, ten years
ago, she had put away in a secret drawer of her father's desk. Strange
to say, she had never thought of it since. Perhaps this was because, at
the time, she had instinctively shuddered at the suggestions it gave,
and so determined to banish them. And then the quick, changing scenes of
life had prevented her ever recurring to the subject Now, when all had
come true, when on that desert land which, still distant, had seemed so
fearful to the girl's eyes, the woman's feet already stood, she turned
with an eager desire to the words which her father had written--"_To his
daughter Olive when she was quite alone in the world_."

Reaching home, and hearing Christal warbling some Italian song, Olive
went at once to her own apartment, half parlour, half studio. There was
a fire lit, and candles. She fastened the door, that she might not be
interrupted, and sat down before her desk.

She found some difficulty in opening the secret drawer, for the spring
was rusty from long disuse, and her own fingers trembled much. When at
last she held the letter in her hand, its yellow paper and faded ink
struck her painfully. It seemed like suddenly coming face to face with
the dead.

A solemn, anxious feeling stole over her. Ere breaking the seal,
she lingered long; she tried to call up all she remembered of her
father--his face--his voice--his manners. Very dim everything was! She
had been such a mere child until he died, and the ten following years
were so full of action, passion, and endurance, that they made the old
time look pale and distant. She could hardly remember how she used to
feel then, least o