against he came home. After this she never spoke again."

"Poor Meliora! poor simple, loving soul!" And Olive melted into quiet
tears. After a while she inquired in what way this blow had fallen upon
Michael Vanbrugh.

"Strangely, indeed," said Harold. "It was I who told him first of his
sister's death. He received the news quite coldly--as a thing impossible
to realise! He even sat down to the table, as if he expected her to come
in and pour out his tea; but afterwards, leaving the meal untouched, he
went and shut himself up in his painting-room, without speaking a word.
And then I quitted the house."

"But you saw him again?"

"No; for I left Rome immediately. However, I had a friend who watched
over him and constantly sent me news. So I learnt that after his
sister's death a great change came over him. His one household stay
gone, he seemed to sink down helpless as a child. He would wander about
the house, as though he missed something--he knew not what; his painting
was neglected, he became slovenly in his dress, restless in his look.
No one could say he grieved for his sister, but he missed her--as
one misses the habit of a lifetime. So he gradually changed, and grew
speedily to be a worn-out, miserable old man. A week since I heard that
his last picture had been bought by the Cardinal F----, and that Michael
Vanbrugh slept eternally beneath the blue sky of Rome."

"He had his wish--he had his wish!" said Olive, gently. "And his
faithful little sister had hers; for nothing ever parted them. Women are
content thus to give up their lives to some one beloved. The happiness
is far beyond the pain."

"You told me so once before," answered Harold, in a low tone. "Do you
remember? It was at the Hermitage of Braid."

He stopped, thinking she would have replied; but she was silent. Her
silence seemed to grow over him like a cloud. When the lights came in,
he looked the same proud, impassive Harold Gwynne, as in the old time.
Already his clasp had melted from Olive's hand. Before she could guess
the reason why, she found him speaking, and she answering coldly,
indifferently. All the sweetness of that sweet hour had with it passed
away.

This sudden change so pained her, that very soon she began to talk of
returning home. Harold rose to accompany her, but he did so with the
formal speech of necessary courtesy--"Allow me the pleasure, Miss
Rothesay." It stung her to the heart.

"Indeed, you need not, when you are a