can be relentless;
it is not easy for me to forgive, even when the offender is my own
flesh and blood, and I am no hypocrite. I must speak the truth at all
costs."

"And yet we expect our Father to forgive us," returned Olivia, almost
to herself, but Mr. Gaythorne heard her, and a strange expression
crossed his face.

"That is what she always said--my Olive, but it never seemed to make
any difference to me. Ah, well, it is no use talking, some spirits
refuse to be laid, but this is poor entertainment, my dear, and on your
birthday too!"

"Please do not say that. I should love to stay, but I must not; it is
late now, and Marcus will be waiting for me," and Olivia rose as she
spoke. "And now before I go may I ring for the lamps to be lighted?
there is something uncanny in this darkness, and the fire is getting
hollow too."

"Well, well, do as you like," was the abrupt answer. "I am going to
have my dinner here tonight, it is warmer," and so Olivia had her way.
As she bade him good-night, he said, a little wistfully, "You can come
to-morrow afternoon if you like. I have those views of Venice and
Florence to show you. I had an old Florentine palace for six months,
the year before my little Olive died; that was our last happy year."

"Of course I will come," she replied, smiling at him. But as she left
the room she sighed; had she really exorcised those evil spirits? or
would they return again, with tenfold force? "remorse;" that was the
word he used, this was the canker-worm that was robbing him of peace.
"It is not easy for me to forgive even if the offender is my own flesh
and blood." How sad it was to hear him say that.

"I think, after all, I did him some little good," she thought, as she
groped her way cautiously through the dark shrubbery. "That hard,
rigid look had quite disappeared before I left. I have a feeling
somehow that one day he will open his heart to me and tell me his
trouble. Every now and then he drops a word or two; perhaps this
evening, if I had not been so hurried, he would have spoken out."

Olivia's warm heart was full of pity for the lonely man sitting beside
his desolate hearth, but she was young, and as the heavy gate closed
after her, and she hurried across the road, a sudden vision of her own
bright little parlour with Marcus waiting for her rose blissfully
before her.

Marcus would have returned long ago and would be wondering at her
delay. She knew what he was doing--