--but it must be only one"----

Olive bowed her head--she was past speaking--and followed Mrs. Gwynne.
With a step as silent and solemn as though she were going to look on
death, she went and looked on the beloved of her heart.

Harold lay; his face perfectly blanched, his dark hair falling heavily
on the pillow, as if never to be stirred by life or motion more. They
stood by his bed--the mother that bore him, and the woman who loved
him dearer than her own soul. These two--the strongest of all earthly
loves--so blended in one object, constrained them each to each. They
turned from gazing on Harold, and sank into one another's arms.

For a few more days continued this agonised wrestling with death, during
which they who would have given their life for Harold's could only look
on and pray. During this time there came news to Olive from the world
without--news that otherwise would have moved her, but which was now
coldly received, as of no moment at all. Lyle Derwent had suddenly
married; his heart, like many another, being "won in the rebound." And
Mrs. Flora Rothesay had passed away; dying, in the night, peacefully,
and without pain, for they found her in the attitude of sleep.

But even for her Olive had no tears. She only shuddered over the letter,
because it spoke of death. All the world seemed full of death. She
walked in its shadow night and day. Her only thought and prayer was,
"Give me his life--only his life, O God!"

And Harold's life was given her. But the hope came very faintly at
first, or it might have been too much to bear. Day by day it grew
stronger, until all present danger was gone. But there were many chances
to be guarded against; and so, as soon as this change for the better
arrived, Olive came to look at him in his sleep no more. His mother was
very cautious over his every look and word, so that Olive could not even
learn whether he had ever given any sign that he thought of her. And
now that his health was returning, her womanly reserve came back; she
no longer lingered at his door; even her joy was restrained and mingled
with a trembling doubt.

At length, Harold was allowed to be moved to his mother's dressing-room.
Very eager and joyful Mrs. Gwynne was, ransacking the house for pillows
to make him lie easy on the sofa; and plaids to wrap him in;--full of
that glad, even childish excitement with which we delight to hail the
recovery of one beloved, who has been nearly lost. The pleasure ext