I never knew how very dear you were
to him, until he came back from here, and told me what you had said. You
think marriage would interfere with your work, but it will not; why,
Roger is as proud and anxious for your success as ever you could be for
yourself. He told me that if you would only let him share your work and
efforts, that he would take you abroad, that you should see the finest
paintings the world holds, and that you should study with the finest
masters. You--" but here he paused, for Olive gave a gasp, and turned
white as a ghost in the moonlight. _Abroad, masters!_ The words struck
her like a flash of lightning, and made her tremble with a great rush of
delicious longing. She clung to the old gentleman's arm for a moment,
and wondered if she was dreaming; but his next words brought her back;
though she heard them but dimly.

"Here is a letter for you; he wanted me to bring it, and Olive, don't
make up your mind too quickly. Both you and Roger are very dear to me,
and I would like to see you both happy before I die--as I suppose I must
before many years, and--and--confound it! where's my snuff?--I hope you
will send a different word back to him."

Olive took the letter and put it in her pocket, still in that dazed
wonder, and when they reached home, she longed to go off up stairs, and
think it over alone, but it would be unkind on Bea's last evening; so
she followed Mr. Congreve into the sitting-room, where a chorus of
questions met them.

"God bless my soul, what curiosity!" cried the old gentleman, crustily.
"She went down town and I went after her, let that do."

So no one asked another question, except Jean, who got on to his lap
with the freedom of one who knew that nothing she did would receive
reproof; and she whispered something in his ear, that made him smile
good-naturedly, and immediately take an immense pinch of snuff.

That night, as on the one so long ago, when Mr. Congreve made his first
visit to them, two persons found it hard to sleep, even after silence
and slumber had long held the others.

To-night, as on that other, Mrs. Dering sat alone in her room, only now
she sat by the window, instead of the dying fire. Now, as then, Jean
slept soundly, only now her childish face wore the rosy flush of health
instead of feebleness and pallor, and the little form was straight and
perfect, instead of crooked and crippled.

Who, but a mother, can appreciate a mother's thoughts, when she stands