k.

That last evening of Bea's in the old home came very near being a sad
one, in spite of every one's attempt to the contrary. Ernestine stayed
down stairs for the first evening since her illness, and the excitement
brought a stain of color into her white cheeks that made her look more
like her old self, as she lay on the lounge.

Bea sat on the stool at her mother's feet, and Mrs. Dering softly
caressed the plump, white hand, that to-morrow she would give away, and
now and then a pause would come, when the mother's eyes would fill with
tears, and her lips tremble, and then some one would rush in, to break
the silence, and thrust irrelevant nonsense into the groove cut for
April tears.

Wherever Mr. Congreve and Olive came from, they had a serious talk on
the way home. Something evidently disturbed the old gentleman's mind,
and he fidgetted nervously, until he had relieved himself with the
explosive remark:

"So you sent Roger home, did you?"

"No, sir, he went," answered Olive, with a smile but with some
surprise.

"Humph! He did, and what did you say, to make him come home, looking
like a criminal expecting to be hung?"

"I said I couldn't love him, and I can't and don't," answered Olive,
feeling provoked to think that Roger couldn't keep his own counsel.

"Tut, tut! what did you say that, for?"

"Because it's the truth; I like him very much indeed, but I don't want
any lovers, I'm too young, and something else to think about," exclaimed
Olive with unmistakable aversion to the thought.

"Heighty-tighty! your mother was married at eighteen," cried the old
gentleman briskly.

"I can't help it, sir. I never want, or expect to marry. My work is all
I want."

"Yes, but your work will fail you some time, child; a one-sided love on
a single altar soon burns itself out for want of fuel. There must be

"'The happiness thrown on from kindred flames to sustain
A spark of devotion for a lifeless love.'

"The time will come when you may be alone in the world, and I'm much
mistaken if your art alone will satisfy the cravings of your woman's
heart."

Olive listened in some amaze to such a lengthy speech from the usually
short spoken gentleman; and though she felt no less certain of lifelong
satisfaction with her art, she asked meekly.

"What would you have me do, Uncle Ridley? I don't love him."

"But are you sure you don't, my child? I knew he loved you all along,
and it made my old heart glad; but