too vividly to mind.

But partly to divert Madeline's mind from her own woes, partly to
enable the unfortunate girl to feel less a stranger among them, she
has talked to her of Doctor Vaughan, of her sister, and at last of
herself.

And Madeline has listened to her description of merry, lovely Claire
Keith, and wondered what she could have in common with this buoyant,
care-free girl, who was evidently her sister's idol. Yet she found
herself thinking often of Olive's beautiful sister. Once, in the brief
absence of Olive, she had said to Doctor Vaughan:

"Mrs. Girard has told me of her sister; is she very lovely? And do you
know her well?"

"She is very fair, and sweet, and good. You will love her when you
know her, and I think you will be friends."

[Illustration: "Pale and weak, she sits in the great easy
chair."--page 108.]

She had not needed this; the tell-tale eye was sufficient to reveal
the fact that it was not, as she had at first supposed, Olive Girard,
but the younger sister, whom Clarence Vaughan loved.

"I might have known," she murmured to herself. "Olive Girard has the
face of one whose love dream has passed away and lost itself in
sorrow; and he looks, full of strength and hope, straight into the
future."

As they sat together waiting, there was still that same contrast,
which you felt rather than saw, between these two. They might have
posed as the models of Resignation and Unrest.

The look of patient waiting was five years old upon the face of Olive
Girard. Five years ago she had been so happy--a bride, beautiful and
beloved. Beautiful she was still--with the beauty of shadow; beloved
too, but how sadly! Philip Girard had been convicted of a great crime,
and for five long years had worn a felon's garb, and borne the anguish
of one set apart from all the world.

The hand that had darkened the life of Olive Girard, and the hand that
had turned the young days of the girl Madeline into a burden, was one
and the same.

Afterwards Madeline listened to the pathetic history of Olive's
sorrow.

Sitting in that great lounging chair, Madeline looked very fair, very
childlike. Sadly sweet were her large, deep eyes, and her hair, shorn
while the fever raged, clustered in soft tiny rings about her slender,
snowy neck and blue-veined temples. She had not been permitted to talk
much during her convalescence, and Olive had as yet gleaned only a
general outline of her story.

"Mrs. Girard," said the g