his wife--she counted none of these things. Her
love was too unselfish, too utterly bound up in him. She only thought
that she would see his face, clasp his hand, and walk with him--the same
as in the dear old time. Not quite, perhaps, for she was conscious that
in the bond between them had come a change, a growth. How, she knew not,
but it had come. Sometimes she sat thinking--would he tell her all those
things which he had promised, and what could they be? And, above all,
would he call her, as in his letters, _Olive_? Written, it looked most
beautiful in her sight; but when spoken, it must be a music of which the
world could hold no parallel.

A little she strove to temper her happiness, for she was no love-sick
girl, but a woman, who, giving her heart--how wholly none but herself
could tell--had given it in the fear of God, and in all simplicity.
Having known the sorrow of love, she was not ashamed to rejoice in
love's joy. But she did so meekly and half-tremblingly, scarcely
believing that it was such, lest it should overpower her. She set
herself to all her duties, and above all, worked sedulously at a picture
which she had begun.

"It must be finished before Harold comes home," said Harold's mother. "I
told him of it in my letters, you know."

"Indeed. I do not remember that. And yet for this long while you have
let me see all your letters, I think."

"All--except one I wrote when you were ill. But never mind it, my dear,
I can tell you what I said--or, perhaps Harold will," answered Mrs.
Gwynne, her face brightening in its own peculiar smile of heartfelt
benevolence and lurking humour. And then the brief conversation ceased.

For a while longer these two loving hearts waited anxiously for Harold's
coming. At last he came.

It was in the sweetest month, the opening gate of the summer year--April
Mrs. Gwynne and Olive, only they two, had spent the day together at
Harbury; for little Ailie, a child too restless to be ruled by quiet
age, was now sent away to school. Mrs. Gwynne sat in her armchair,
knitting. Olive stood at the window, thinking how beautiful the garden
looked, just freshened with an April shower; and how the same passing
rain-cloud, melting in the west, had burst into a most gorgeous sunset
Her happiness even took a light tone of girlish romance. Looking at
the thorn-tree, now covered with pale green leaves, she thought with a
pleasant fancy, that when it was white with blossoms Harold, would
b