arold, as he watched his mother from the
room. Olive followed, but Mrs. Gwynne said she would rather go to church
alone, and Harold must not be left. Olive stayed with her a few minutes,
rendering all those little services which youth can so sweetly pay to
age. And sweet too was the reward when Harold's mother kissed her,
and once more called her "daughter." So, full of content, she went
down-stairs to her betrothed.

Harold was again sitting in his favourite arm-chair by the window. The
rain had lately ceased, and just at the horizon there had come to the
heavy grey sky a golden fringe--a line of watery light, so dazzling that
the eye could scarcely bear it. It filled the whole room, and fell
like a glory on Harold's head. Olive stood still to look at him. Coming
closer, she saw that he was not asleep, though his eyes were cast down
in painful thought. Something in his expression reminded her of that
which he had worn on the night when he first came to Edinburgh, and she
had leaned over him, longing to comfort him--as she had now a right to
do. She did so! He felt the kiss on his brow, and smiled.

"Little Olive--good little Olive, she always comes when I most need
her," he said, fondly.

"Little Olive is very happy in so doing. And now tell me what you were
thinking of, that you pressed your lips together, and knotted your
forehead--the broad beautiful forehead that I love? It was not good of
you, my Harold."

"Do not jest, Olive; I cannot. If I go abroad, I must go alone. What
will become of my mother and Ailie?"

"They shall stay and comfort me. Nay, you will not forbid it. How could
I go on with my painting, living all alone?"

"Ay, there is another sting," he answered. "Not one word say you;--but I
feel it. How many years you may have still to work on alone!"

"Do you think I fear that? Nay--I do not give my heart like some women I
have known--from dread of living to be an old maid, or to gain a house,
a name, and a husband;--I gave it for love, pure love! If I were to
wait for years--if I were never your wife at all, but died only your
betrothed, still I should die satisfied. Oh, Harold, you know not how
sweet it is to love you, and be loved by you--to share all your cares,
and rejoice in all your joys! Indeed--indeed I am content."

"You might, my gentle one, but not I. Little you think how strong is
man's pride--how stronger still is man's love. We will not look to such
a future--I could not bear it. I