lready tired. It is still early. I
had much rather go home alone."

Harold sat down again at once.

She prepared to depart. She shook hands with his mother, and then with
himself, saying in a voice that, lest it should tremble, she made very
low, quiet, and cold, how glad she was that he had come home safe.
However, before she reached the garden gate, Harold followed her.

"Excuse me, but my mother is not easy for you to set off thus; and we
may as well return to our old custom of walking home together--just once
more."

What could he mean? Olive would have asked him, but she dared not. Even
yet there was a veil between their hearts. Would it ever be drawn aside?

There were few words spoken on the way to Farnwood, and those few
were of ordinary things. Once Olive talked of Michael Vanbrugh and his
misfortunes.

"You call him unfortunate; how know you that?" said Harold, quickly. "He
needed no human affection, and so, on its loss, suffered no pain; he
had no desire save for fame; his pride was never humbled to find himself
dependent on mere love. The old painter was a great and a happy man."

"Great he was, but not happy. I think I had rather be the poor little
sister who spent her life for him."

"Ay, in a foolish affection which was all in vain."

"Affection is never in vain. I have thought sometimes that as to give
is better than to receive, they who love are happier than they who are
loved."

Harold was silent. He remained so until they stood at Miss Rothesay's
door. Then bidding her good-bye, he took her two hands, saying, as if
inquiringly, "Olive?"

"Yes," she answered, trembling a little--but not much--for her dream of
happiness was fading slowly away, and she was sinking back into her old
patient, hopeless self. That olden self alone spoke as she added, "Is
there anything you would say to me?"

"No, no--nothing--only good night." And he hastily walked away.

An hour after, Olive closed her heavy eyes, that burned with long
weeping, and lay down to sleep, thinking there was no blessing like the
oblivion of night, after every weary day! She lay down, little knowing
what mystery of fate that quiet night was bearing in its bosom.

From her first sleep she started in the vague terror of one who has been
suddenly awakened. There was a great noise--knocking--crashing--a sound
of mingled voices--and, above all, her name called. Anywhere, waking or
sleeping, she would have known _that_ voice, for it was