od beat in another little heart, that
her life had given breath to its laughing lips, and the warm color to
the dimpled cheeks. In the room down stairs, each sister had her own;
even little Jean would soon be claimed by one to whom she was dearer
than all else in the world; and in a few years mother might be gone, and
then--_success_ was hers. She had worked and won. Her name was on many
lips, and her fame spreading. The goal she had looked forward to for
years, with eager heart, was hers at last, and while the anticipation,
had in this case, lost nothing through possession; did it wholly satisfy
her? Was there no corner, no longing, or want that brushes, oils, and
inspiration failed to satisfy? Her eyes grew blind with strange, wistful
tears, a queer choking filled her throat, and with a sudden movement she
had crossed the room and knelt down by the baby. Had she no
disappointment? Would she not have said "come," to some one, still a
wanderer beyond the seas, had it been in her power? Or, had he stood
before her, with the old, old longing, would she have drawn back and
said: "My art is all I want."

Ah, indeed, Uncle Ridley had been right:

"A single flame gives little warmth, and needs a kindred spark."

Art was none the less dear, but the woman's heart had asserted itself,
and there was a yearning passionate cry for a love that would answer to
that, which had so strangely grown within her heart, and which called
for something more than a lifeless irresponsive idol.

Sometimes, even out of books, the right thing happens just at the right
moment; then, again, sometimes it does not; but this is what happened
just at that moment. Some one had been standing in the shadow outside
the door, for several moments and now entered, and crossing the room,
stood beside her, kneeling there, and said:

"Olive."

She stood up quickly, and looked at him for a moment, and knew him, in
spite of seven years' absence, and the bronze and change wrought by time
and constant travel. Yes, she knew him, for the eyes were the same, and
wore the look she had seen in them last. It was a true love that had
bided its time, and won its reward at last. She did not blush rosy red,
as most women would have done, but a speechless joy came slowly into her
eyes, where the tears yet lay, and she was quite silent.

"You have no welcome for me?" he asked, holding out his hand. "Have I
waited so long, and come in vain, at last, Olive?"

"No," she