on the threshold of the first separation; the first giving up of her own
into another's love and keeping "for better, for worse, until death
should them part." The pale young moon climbed slowly up above the
tree-top, and just as its slanting rays reached the window-sill, and
fell in across the floor, the door opened carefully, and Olive's voice
spoke:

"Mama? You are up?"

"Yes, dear; are you sick? What is the matter?"

"Nothing. I only want to tell you something;" and Olive pushed the stool
up as she spoke, and sat down.

"I meant to tell you before, but somehow I never did. Will you listen
now?"

"Certainly, dear;" for well enough she knew that something weighed on
Olive's mind to bring her there at that time. So Olive told her story,
without a blush or hesitancy, from the beginning down to the receipt of
the letter; and as Mrs. Dering watched her face in the pale light, so
clearly expressing its dislike to any lover, and its rapt devotion to
her art, she knew well enough what the decision would be.

"And I'm going to say no," finished Olive, at last. "Have I done right,
mama?"

"Perfectly, Olive. I am surprised, and yet not wholly so, for something
of the kind occurred to me when he was here. Never marry where you do
not love, dear. No possible advantage, influence, or station, that can
be gained by a loveless marriage, will ever be sufficient recompense for
the galling misery of two hearts, grinding their life out, for want of
sympathy and mutual love to oil the way. I admire and think a great deal
of Roger Congreve, and you have won the love of a good man, dear, which
if true, will bide its time patiently, and when you are older it may
seem different to you."

Olive looked up in mute amazement. Even mother said that to her.

"No," she said obstinately, in a moment. "I don't think it will be so. I
know it will not. I'm sorry that he loves me, because it will always
keep us from being friends. Mama, surely you would not have me do such a
thing as get married, and drop my work, as I would have to do, more or
less, with so many new duties?"

"No, dear, no; I am only too glad that your heart is still free, for you
are too young to think of marriage. I would not consent to it. Besides
you are quite right; with the duties and responsibilities of a wife, you
could not devote your whole time and love to your art, and I should feel
very sorry to think that anything is going to interfere with perfecting
the ta