, but only for the last time, ere it quitted
her heart for ever.

For, dispelling all doubts, healing all wounds, fell the words of her
betrothed husband--tender, though grave: "Olive, if you love me, and
believe that I love you, never grieve me by such thoughts again. To me
you are all beautiful--in heart and mind, in form and soul."

Then, as if silently to count up her beauties, he kissed her little
hands, her soft smiling mouth, her long gold curls. And Olive hid her
face in his breast, murmuring,

"I am content, since I am fair in your sight, my Harold--my only love!"

CHAPTER XLIX.

Late autumn, that season so beautiful in Scotland, was shining into the
house at Morningside. She, its mistress, who had there lived from middle
life to far-extended years, and then passed from the weakness of age to
the renewed youth of immortality, was seen no more within its walls. But
her spirit seemed to abide there still; in the flowers which at early
spring she had planted, for other hands to gather; in the fountain she
had placed, which sang its song of murmuring freshness to soothe many
an ear and heart, when _she_, walking by the streams of living waters,
needed those of earth no more.

Mrs. Flora Rothesay was dead; but she had lived one of those holy lives
whose influence remains for generations. So, though now her name had
gradually ceased from familiar lips, and from her house and garden
walks, her image faded slowly in the thoughts of those who best loved
her; still she lived, even on earth, in the good deeds she had left
behind--in the happiness she had created wherever her own sore-wounded
footsteps trod.

In the dwelling from which she had departed there seemed little change.
Everything looked as it had done more than a year before, when Olive had
come thither, and found rest and peace. There were fewer flowers in the
autumnal garden, and the Hermitage woods beyond were all brown and
gold; but there was the same clear line of the Braid Hills, their purple
slopes lying in the early morning sun. No one looked at them, though,
for the breakfast-room was empty. But very soon there stole into
it, with the soft footstep of old, with the same quiet smile,--Olive
Rothesay.

No, reader! Neither you nor any one else will ever see Olive _Rothesay_
more. She wears on her finger a golden ring, she bears a new name--the
well-beloved name.--She is Harold Gwynne's wife now.

To their fortunes Heaven allowed, as Heaven