d of five and the dignity of
"teens,"--it always seems like a cloudy landscape, with a few points of
view here and there, which stand out clearly from the rest. Therein the
fields are larger and the sky brighter than any we now behold. Persons,
places, and events assume a mystery and importance. We never think of
them, or hear them named afterwards, but there clings to them something
of the strange glamour of the time when "we saw men as trees walking."

Olive's childhood was passed in the place mentioned by her father.
Merivale! Oldchurch! In her future life the words, whenever heard,
always sounded like an echo of that dreamy time, whose sole epochs are
birthdays, Christmas-days, the first snowdrop found in the garden, the
first daisy in the field. Such formed the only chronicle of Olive's
childhood.

Its earliest period was marked by events which she was too young to
notice, troubles which she was too young to feel. They passed over her
like storm-clouds over a safely sheltered flower--only perceived by the
momentary shadow which they cast. Once--it was in the first summer at
Merivale--the child noticed how pleased every one seemed, and how papa
and mamma, now always together, used to speak more tenderly than usual
to her. Elspie said it was because they were so happy, and that Olive
ought to be happy too, because God would soon send her "a wee wee
brother." She would find him some day in the pretty cradle, which Elspie
showed her. So the little girl went to look there every morning, but in
vain. At last her nurse said she need not look there any more, for God
had taken away the baby-brother as soon as it came. Olive was very much
disappointed, and when she went down to her father that day she told him
of her trouble. But he angrily sent her away to her nurse. She looked
ever after with grief and childish awe on the empty cradle.

[Illustration: Page 45, Olive, little noticed, sat on the hearthrug]

At last it was empty no longer. She, a thoughtful child of seven, could
never forget the impression made, when one morning she was roused by the
loud pealing of the Old-church bells, and the maids told her, laughing,
that it was in honour of her little brother, come at last. She was
allowed to kiss him once, and then spent half her time, watching, with
great joy and wonderment, the tiny face and touching the tiny hands.
After some days she missed him; and after some more Elspie showed her
a little heap in the nearest c