mfort for
their sister still; for he could not believe there was in the whole
world a heart so hard and cold, that it could not be melted by Olive's
gentle influence, and warmed by the shining of Olive's spirit of love.

They were going home, when she saw that her husband looked tired
and dull--he had been poring over his books all day. For though now
independent of the world, as regarded fortune, he could not relinquish
his scientific pursuits; but was every day adding to his acquirements,
and to the fame which had been his when only a poor clergyman at
Harbury. So, without saying anything, Olive led him down the winding
road that leads from Edinburgh towards the Braid Hills, laughing and
talking with him the while, "to send the cobwebs out of his brain,"
as she often told him. Though at the time she never let him see how
skilfully she did this, lest his man's dignity should revolt at being
so lovingly beguiled. For he was still as ever the very quintessence of
pride. Well for him his wife had not that quality--yet perhaps she loved
him all the better for possessing it.

At the gate of the Hermitage Harold paused. Neither of them had seen the
place since they last stood there. At the remembrance he seemed greatly
moved.

His wife looked lovingly up to him. "Harold, are you content? You
would not send me from you?--you would not wish to live your whole life
without me now?"

"No--no!" he cried, pressing her hand close to his heart. The mute
gesture said enough--Olive desired no more.

They walked on a long way, even climbing to the summit of the Braid
Hills. The night was coming on fast,--the stormy night of early
winter--for the wind had risen, and swept howling over the heathery
ridge.

"But I have my plaid here, and you will not mind the cold, my
lassie--Scottish born," said Harold to his wife. And in his own cheek,
now brown with health, rose the fresh mountain-blood, while the bold
mountain-spirit shone in his fearless eyes. No marvel that Olive looked
with pride at her husband, and thought that not in the whole world was
there such another man!

"I glory in the wind," cried Harold, tossing back his head, and shaking
his wavy hair, something lion-like. "It makes me strong and bold. I love
to meet it, to wrestle with it; to feel myself in spirit and in frame,
stern to resist, daring to achieve, as a man should feel!"

And on her part, Olive with her clinging sweetness, her upward gaze, was
a type of true