"Nothing," exclaimed Olive, withdrawing her hand in mortified haste, and
flushing scarlet again.

"I thought perhaps you was getting ready to blow his head off,"
exclaimed Mr. Congreve, as if in relief. "That's something the way you
looked at me, only not so ferocious, no! God bless my soul, no! I should
have run if it had been; I should indeed. Now let's go to supper.
Jeanie, come and help your old uncle along, and Roger, you take your
Cousin Olive, and lead the way."

Olive was angry, mortified and confused, so her reception of Roger's arm
was none too gracious, nor the few words she uttered in answer to what
he said, anything but barely audible and civil. Sensitively aware that
she had allowed her feelings to get possession of her in the
commencement, she tried to rectify matters now, and grew so frigid that
there was no thawing her out. Roger Congreve's eyes wore a constant
twinkle, and he looked at her so frequently that Olive defiantly felt
that he was laughing at her awkward confusion, and the thought made his
prospects towards gaining her friendship, none too bright. So on the
whole, supper was not a successful meal, for Mr. Congreve never, when at
the table, allowed any duty or pleasure to interfere with his eating;
in consequence of which, he now devoted himself solely to chicken and
chocolate, with only an occasional word, shot in edgeways, between
bites. Jean was worried, because Olive looked so displeased, and as for
Mr. Congreve the younger, he soon found that their guest preferred to
say little or nothing, so allowed her to have her way. Immediately at
the close of the meal, Jean and Olive went up stairs. Mr. Congreve went
to sleep, with a big pocket handkerchief over his head, and his hands
folded solemnly over his waistcoat; and the young gentleman took himself
away,--to see "Miss Murray," said Jean, as she settled in Olive's lap
for a chat. "I know he's going there, because I heard him tell Carl,
that's the gardener, to gather a beautiful bouquet."

For the first week the two sisters were left entirely to themselves; and
they talked early and late, until every step travelled by each; during
their separation, had been gone over, and made familiar with, by the
other. Almost every day, Jean wanted to hear Ernestine's story repeated,
and each time it seemed to grieve her more, though she never failed to
say with a patient trusting faith--"She will come back, I know she will,
for I ask God every night, a