decision was made. Mrs. Gwynne wrote to her son and told
him all. He was in Paris then, as she knew. So she charged him to
seek out the school where Christal was. Sustained by his position as a
clergyman, his grave dignity, and his mature years, he might well and
ably exercise an unseen guardianship over the girl. His mother earnestly
desired him to do this, from his natural benevolence, and for _Olive's
sake_.

"I said that, my dear," observed Mrs. Gwynne, "because I know his strong
regard for you, and his anxiety for your happiness."

These words, thrilling in her ear, made broken and trembling the few
lines which Olive wrote to Harold, saying how entirely she trusted him,
and how she implored him to save her sister.

"I am ready to do all you wish," wrote Harold in reply. "O my dear
friend, to whom I owe so much, most happy should I be if in any way I
could do good to you and yours!"

From that time his letters came frequently and regularly. Passages from
them will best show how his work of mercy sped.

"Paris, Jan.--I have had no difficulty in gaining admittance to the
_pension_, for I chanced to go in Lord Arundale's carriage, and Madame
Blandin would receive any one who came under the shadow of an English
_milord_. Christal is there, in the situation she planned. I found out
speedily,--as she, poor girl, will find,--how different is the position
of a poor teacher from that of a rich pupil. I could not speak with her
at all. Madame Blandin said she refused to see any English friends: and,
besides, she could not be spared from the schoolroom. I must try some
other plan... Do not speak again of this matter being 'burdensome' to
me. How could it be so, when it is for you and your sister? Believe
me, though the duty is somewhat new, it is most grateful to me for your
sake, my dear friend."

... "I have seen Christal. It was at mass. She goes there with some
Catholic pupils, I suppose. I watched her closely, but secretly. Poor
girl! a life's anguish is written in her face. How changed since I last
saw it! Even knowing all, I could not choose but pity her. When she was
bending before a crucifix, I saw how her whole frame trembled with sobs.
It seemed not like devotion--it must be heart-broken misery. I came
closer, to meet her when she rose. The moment she saw me her whole face
blazed. But for the sanctity of the place, I think she could not
have controlled herself. I never before saw at once such anger, such
def