one had need to
be whom Mrs. Gwynne would call daughter and Harold wife. Yet by her
meekness she had oftentimes controlled them both. She did so now.

"Olive--darling," whispered Harold, his eyes full of love; "my mother
says right Let her come and sit by me a little. Nay, stay near, though.
I must have you in my sight--it will strengthen me."

She pressed his hand, and went away to the other end of the room.

Then Harold said, tenderly, "Mother, I want to tell you something."

"It is no misfortune--no sin? O, my son, I am too old to bear either!"
she answered, as she sat down, trembling a little.

"My own mother--my mother that I love, dearer now than ever in my life
before--listen to me, and then judge me. Twelve or fourteen years ago,
there was a son--an only son--who had a noble mother. She had sacrificed
everything for him--the time came when he had to sacrifice something for
her. It was a point of conscience; light, perhaps, _then_--but still it
caused him a struggle. He must conquer it, and he did so. He stifled all
scruples, pressed down all doubts, and became a minister of a Church in
whose faith he did not quite believe."

"Go on," said Mrs. Gwynne, hurriedly. "I had a fear once--a bitter fear.
But no matter! Go on!"

"Well, he did this sin, for sin it was, though done for his mother's
sake. He had better have supported her by the labour of his hands, than
have darkened his soul by a lie. But he did not think of that then. All
the fault was his--not his mother's; mind--I say _not his mother's._"

She looked at him, and then looked away again.

"He could blame no one but himself--he never did--though his first faint
doubts grew, until they prisoned him like a black mist, through which he
could see neither earth nor heaven. Men's natures are different; his
was not meant for that of a quiet village priest. Circumstances,
associations, habits of mind--all were against him. And so his
scepticism and his misery increased, until in despair of heaven, he
plunged into the oblivion of an earthly passion. He went mad for a
woman's beauty,--for her beauty only!"

Harold pressed his hand upon his brow, as if old memories stung him
still. His betrothed saw it, but she felt no pain. She knew that her own
love had shone down into his heart's dark depths, removing every stain,
binding up every wound. By that love's great might she had saved him,
won him, and would have power to keep him evermore.

"Mother," Harold