otten,
though sealed among the holy records of the past. Even on her
marriage-day the thought had come--"O thou, to whom in life I gave all
love, all duty,--now needed by thee no more, both pass unto _him_. If
souls can behold and rejoice in the happiness of those beloved on earth,
mother, look down from heaven and bless my husband!"

Nor did it wrong the dead, if this marriage-bond involved another, which
awakened in Olive feelings that seemed almost a renewal of the love
once buried in Mrs. Rothesay's grave. And Harold's wife inly vowed, that
while she lived, his mother should never want the devotion and affection
of a daughter.

In the past fading memories of Olive's former life was one more, which
now grew into a duty, over whose fulfilment, even amidst her bridal
happiness, she pondered continually; and talked thereof to her husband,
to whom it was scarcely less absorbing.

Since they came home to Morningside, they had constantly sought at St.
Margaret's for news of Christal Manners.

Many times Olive had written to her, but no answer came. The silence
of the convent walls seemed to fold itself over all revelations of the
tortured spirit which had found refuge there. However, Christal had
taken no vows. Mrs. Flora and Harold had both been rigid on that point,
and the good nuns reverenced their order too much to admit any one who
might have sought it from the impulse of despair, rather than from any
pious "vocation."

Olive's heart yearned over her sister. On this day she resolved to make
one more effort to break the silence between them. So, in the afternoon,
she went to the convent quite alone, walking through the pleasant lanes
where she had formerly walked with Marion M'Gillivray. Strange contrast
between the present and the past! When she stood in the little convent
parlour, and remembered how she had stood there with a bursting heart,
that longed for any rest--any oblivion, to deaden its cruel pain,--Olive
trembled with her happiness now. And she felt how solemn is the portion
of those whose cup God has thus crowned, in order that they may pour it
out before Him continually, in offerings of thanksgiving and of fruitful
deeds.

Sister Ignatia entered--the same bright-eyed, benevolent, simple soul.
"Ah, you are come again this week, too, my dear Mrs. Harold Gwynne--(I
can hardly remember your new name even yet)--but I fear your coming is
vain; though, day after day, I beseech your sister to see you."

"