f.

"Oh, do finish your sentence!" she said, in her bright persuasive voice.
"You were going to say that I remind you of someone?"--and as he met her
kind friendly glance, his shy stiffness relaxed.

"Yes," he said, simply, and a great sadness came into his eyes, "you
remind me of my daughter. That first evening when you spoke to me you
reminded me of her then."

"And you have lost her! Oh, I am so sorry! Does it pain you to speak of
her? I should so like to know her name!"

"Her name was Olivia," he returned, slowly, "but we always called her
Olive. She was born at Beyrout, under the Syrian sun, and in the land of
grey olive-trees."

"How strange! What a curious coincidence!" returned young Mrs. Luttrell,
softly. "That is my name too, and Marcus often calls me Olive; and I
remind you of her?"

"Yes, Olive spoke in just that brisk, cheerful manner. She was so full
of life and energy. She died of fever at Rome--we were staying there.
She was only two-and-twenty, and she was to have been married that
summer. Her poor mother never got over the shock; before the autumn she
had followed her."

"Oh, how sad--how dreadfully sad!" observed Olivia, with tears in her
eyes. "What a tragedy to live through. And her poor lover too!"

"Oh, yes, Arbuthnot; he was bitterly cut up. He is a judge now, and has
a good wife, but I doubt if he has ever forgotten Olive. She was no
beauty, but she had a way with her. Stay--I will show you her picture."

"Poor man! No wonder he looks melancholy," thought Olivia, as he slowly
hobbled away on his crutches. "How strange that I should remind him of
her, and that she should be Olive too!" but when Mr. Gaythorne returned
and placed a beautiful miniature before her, she could see no resemblance
to herself in the dark sweet face of Olive Gaythorne.

No, she was not beautiful, but there was something wonderfully attractive
and winning in her expression; the eyes, deep-set like her father's, had
a frank soft look.

"Your only child--and you lost her," murmured Olivia, sympathetically.

"My only daughter," corrected Mr. Gaythorne, in a tone so peculiar, that
Olivia raised her eyes, and then she felt a little frightened. There was
a curious pallor on Mr. Gaythorne's face, which made it look like old
ivory, and his bushy eyebrows were drawn closely together.

"It is a sweet face--a dear face," returned Olivia, hurriedly. She was a
little nervous over her mistake. "It is ki