ardon I neither ask nor grant; I only say, Farewell.

"Christal Manners."

The letter was afterwards apparently re-opened, and a hasty postscript
added:

"Tell Lyle Derwent that I have gone for ever; or, still better, that
I am dead. But if you dare to tell him anything more, I will hunt you
through the world, but I will be revenged."

Mrs. Gwynne read this letter aloud. It awoke in the stern, upright,
God-fearing Scotswoman, less of pity, than a solemn sense of retributive
justice, which she could scarcely repress, even though it involved the
condemnation of him whose memory was mingled with the memories of her
youth.

But Olive, more gentle, tried to wash away her dead father's guilt with
tears; and for her living sister she offered unto Heaven that beseeching
never offered in vain, a pure heart's humble prayers.

CHAPTER XLV.

Many a consultation was held between Mrs. Gwynne and Olive, as to what
must be done concerning that hapless child: for little more than a child
she was in years, though her miserable destiny had nurtured in her so
much of woman's suffering, and more than woman's sin. Yet still, when
Olive read the reference to Mrs. Rothesay, she thought there might yet
be a lingering angel sitting in poor Christal's heart.

"Oh that some one could seek her out and save her, some one who would
rule and yet soothe her; who, coming from us, should not be mingled with
us in her fancy, so that no good influence might be lost."

"I have thought of this," answered Mrs. Gwynne. "But, Olive, it is a
solemn secret--your father's, too. You ought never to reveal it, except
to one bound to you by closest ties. If you married, your husband would
have a right to know it, or you might tell your brother."

"I do not quite understand," said Olive, yet she changed colour a
little.

Mrs. Gwynne kindly dropped her eyes, and avoided looking at her
companion, as she said, "You, my dear, are my adopted daughter;
therefore, my son should be to you as a brother. Will you trust Harold?"

"Trust him? There is nothing with which I could not trust him," said
Olive, earnestly. She had long found out that praise of Harold was as
sweet to his mother's heart as to her own.

"Then trust him in this. I think he has almost a right--or one day he
may have."

Mrs. Gwynne's latter words sank indistinctly, and scarcely reached
Olive. Perhaps it was well; such light falling on her darkness might
have blinded her.

Ere long the