e. Oh! how
I wrestled against this love--I, who had been once deceived, so that I
believed in no woman's truth. At last, I resolved to trust in yours, but
I would try to be quite sure of it first You remember how I talked to
you, and how you answered, in the Hermitage of Braid? Then I knew you
loved, but I thought you loved not me."

"How could you think so? Oh! Harold--Harold!"

As she uttered his name, tremulously as a woman breathes for the first
time the beloved name in the beloved ear, Harold started. But still he
answered calmly,

"Whether that thought was true or not, would not change what I am about
to say now. All my pride is gone--I only desire that you should know
how deeply I loved you: and that, living or dying, I shall love you
evermore."

Olive tried to answer--tried to tell him the story of her one great
love--so hopeless, yet so faithful--so passionate, yet so dumb. But she
could utter nothing save the murmur--"Harold! Harold!" And therein he
learnt all.

Looking upon her, there came into his face an expression of unutterable
joy. He made an effort to raise himself, but in vain. "Come," he
murmured, "come near me, Olive--my little Olive that loves me!--is it
not so?"

"Ever--from the first, you only--none but you!"

"Kiss me, then, my own faithful one," he said faintly.

Olive leaned over him, and kissed him on the eyes and mouth. He tried to
fold his arms round her, but failed.

"I have no strength at all," he said, sorrowfully. "I cannot take her to
my heart--my darling--my wife! So worn-out am I--so weak."

"But I am strong," Olive answered. She put her arm under his head, and
made him lean on her shoulder. He looked up smiling.

"Oh, this is sweet, very sweet! I could sleep--I could almost
die--thus"----

"No, God will not let you die, my Harold," whispered Olive; and then
neither spoke again.

Overpowered by an emotion which was too much for his feeble strength,
Harold lay quiet By degrees, when the room darkened--for it was
evening--his breathing grew deeper, and he fell asleep, his head still
resting on Olive's shoulder.

She looked down upon him--his wasted face--his thin hand, that, even in
slumber, still clung helplessly to hers. What a tide of emotion swept
through her heart! It seemed that therein was gathered up for him every
tenderness that woman's soul could know. She loved him at once with the
love of mother, sister, friend, and wife--loved him as those only can
who h