ne,
stern in her justice, began to reprove and condemn, still she ever
conquered so far as to leave Christal silent, if not subdued.

Subdued she was not. Night after night, when Olive was recovering, they
heard her pacing up and down her chamber, sometimes even until dawn. A
little her spirit had been crushed, Mrs. Gwynne thought, when there was
hanging over her what might become the guilt of murder; but as soon as
Olive's danger passed, it again rose. No commands, no persuasions, could
induce Christal to visit her sister, though the latter entreated it
daily, longing for the meeting and reconciliation.

But in illness there is great peace sometimes, especially after a
long mental struggle. In the dreamy quiet of her sick-room, all things
belonging to the world without, all cares, all sufferings, grew dim to
Olive. Ay, even her love. It became sanctified, as though it had been
an affection beyond the grave. She lay for hours together, thinking of
Harold; of all that had passed between them--of his goodness, his tender
friendship; of hers to him, more faithful than he would ever know.

It was very sweet, too, to be nursed so tenderly by Harold's mother--to
feel that there was growing between them a bond like that of parent and
child. Often Mrs. Gwynne even said so, wishing that in her old age she
could have a daughter like Olive; and now and then, when Olive did not
see, she stole a penetrating glance, as if to observe how her words were
received.

One day when Olive was just able to sit up, and looked, in her white
drapery and close cap, so like her lost mother,--Mrs. Gwynne entered
with letters. Olive grew pale. To her fancy every letter that came to
Harbury could only be from Rome.

"Good tidings, my dear; tidings from Harold. But you are trembling."

"Everything sudden startles me now. I am very weak, I fear," murmured
Olive. "But you look so pleased!--All is well with him?"

"All is quite well. He has written me a long letter, and here is one for
you!"

"For me!" The poor pale face lighted up, and the hand was eagerly
stretched out. But when she held the letter, she could not open it for
trembling. In her feebleness, all power of self-control vanished. She
looked wistfully at Harold's writing, and burst into tears.

Mrs. Gwynne regarded Olive for a moment, as _his_ mother naturally
would, jealous over her own claim, yet not blaming the one whose only
blame was "loving where _she_ did." But she said nothin