son. Now, it came with such a solemnity, that all
agitation ceased. Her hands were folded on her heart, her eyes looked
heavenwards. Her prayer was,--"O God, if this happiness should be, make
me worthy of it--worthy of him!--If not, keep us both safe until the
eternal meeting!"

Then, all emotion having passed away, she went back quietly to Harold
and his mother.

They were sitting together on the sofa, Harold holding his mother's
hand in one of his. When Olive approached, he stretched out the other,
saying, "Come to us, little Olive,--come! Shall she, mother?"

"Yes," was Mrs. Gwynne's low answer. But Olive heard it. It was the
lonely heart's first welcome home.

For an hour afterwards she sat by Harold's side in the gathering
darkness, feeling her hand safe clasped in his. Never was there any
clasp like Harold's--so firm, yet soft--so gentle, yet so close and
warm. It filled her with a sense of rest and protection--she, long
tossed about in the weary world. Once or twice she moved her hand, but
only to lay it again in his, and feel his welcoming fingers close over
it, as if to say, "Mine--mine--always mine!"

So they sat and talked together--she, and Harold, and Harold's
mother--talked as if they were one loving household, whose every
interest was united. Though, nevertheless, not one word was spoken that
might break the seal upon any of their hearts.

"How happy it is to come home!" said Harold. "How blessed to feel that
one has a home! I thought so more strongly than ever I had done before,
one day, at Home, when I was with Olive's old friend, Michael Vanbrugh."

"Oh, tell me of the Vanbrughs," cried Olive eagerly. "Then you did see
them at last, though you never said anything about it in your letters?"

"No; for it was a long story, and both our thoughts were too full. Shall
I tell it now? Yet it is sad, it will pain you, Olive." And he pressed
her hand closer while he spoke.

She answered, "Still, tell me all." And she felt that, so listening, the
heaviest worldly sorrow would have fallen light.

"I was long before I could discover Mr. Vanbrugh, and still longer
before I found out-his abode. Day after day I met him, and talked with
him at the Sistine, but he never spoke of his home, or asked me thither.
He had good reason."

"Were they so poor then? I feared this," said Olive compassionately.

"Yes, it was the story of a shattered hope. As I think, Vanbrugh was a
man to whom Fortune could never come.