t possible picture of rural felicity," she
said, smiling; "I earnestly hope you may realise it, my dear Lyle--But
I suppose one must not call you so any more, since you are now Mr.
Derwent, of Hollywood."

"Oh, no; call me Lyle, nothing but Lyle. It sounds so sweet from your
lips--it always did, even when I was a little boy."

"I am afraid I have treated you quite like a boy until now. But you must
not mind it, for the sake of old times."

"Do you remember them still?" asked Lyle, a tone of deeper earnestness
stealing through his affectations of sentiment. "Do you remember how I
was your little knight, and used to say I loved you better than all the
world?"

"I do indeed. It was an amusing rehearsal of what you will begin to
enact in reality some of these days. You will make a most poetical
lover."

"Do you think so? O Miss Rothesay, do you really think so?" And then his
eagerness subsided into vivid blushes, which really caused Olive pain.
She began to fear that, unwittingly, she had been playing on some tender
string, and that there was more earnest feeling in Lyle than she had
ever dreamed of. She would not for the world have jested thus, had
she thought there was any real attachment in the case. So, a good deal
touched and interested, she began to talk to him in her own quiet,
affectionate way.

"You must not mistake me, Lyle; you must not think I am laughing at you.
But I did not know that you had ever considered these things. Though
there is plenty of time--as you are only just twenty-one. Tell me
candidly--you know you may--do you think you were ever seriously in
love?"

"It is very strange for you to ask me these questions."

"Then do not answer them. Forgive me, I only spoke from the desire I
have to see you happy: you, who are so mingled with many recollections;
you, poor Sara's brother, and my own little favourite in olden time."
And speaking in a subdued and tender voice, Olive held out her hand to
Lyle.

He snatched it eagerly. "How I love to hear you speak thus! Oh, if I
could but tell you all."

"You may, indeed," said Olive, gently. "I am sure, my dear Lyle, you can
trust me. Tell me the whole story."

--"The story of a dream I had, all my boyhood through, of a beautiful,
noble creature, whom I reverenced, admired, and at last have dared to
love," Lyle answered, in much agitation.

Olive felt quite sorry for him. "I did not expect this," she said. "You
poetic dreamers have so many light