“Captain Rothesay?”

“My dear?”

Reader, did you ever notice the intense frigidity that can be expressed in a “my dear!” The coldest, cruellest husband we ever knew once impressed this fact on our childish fancy, by our always hearing him call his wife thus. Poor, pale, broken-hearted creature! He “my deared” her into her grave.

Captain Rothesay also used the epithet with a formality which was chilling enough in its way. He said it without lifting his eyes from the book, “Smith's Wealth of Nations,” which had become his usual evening's study now, whenever he was at home. That circumstance, rare enough to have been welcome, and yet it was not welcome, now subdued his wife and daughter into silence and quietness. Alas! that ever a presence which ought to be the sunshine of a household should enter only to cast a perpetual shade.

The firelight shone on the same trio which had formed the little after-dinner circle years ago at Stirling. But there was a change in all. The father and mother sat—not side by side, in that propinquity which is so sweet, when every breath, every touch of the beloved's garment gives pleasure; they sat one at each corner of the table, engrossed in their several occupations; reading with an uncommunicative eagerness, and sewing in unbroken silence. Each was entrenched within a chilling circle of thoughts and interests in which the other never entered. And now the only point of meeting between them was the once-banished child.

Little Olive was growing almost a woman now, but she was called “little Olive” still. She retained her diminutive stature, together with her girlish dress, but her face wore, as ever, its look of premature age. And as she sat between her father and mother, now helping the one in her delicate fancy-work, now arranging the lamp for the other's reading, continually in request by both, or when left quiet for a minute, watching both with anxious earnestness, there was quite enough in Olive's manner to show that she had entered on a woman's life of care, and had not learned a woman's wisdom one day too soon.

The captain's last “my dear” found his wife in the intricacies of a Berlin-wool pattern, so that she did not speak Again for several minutes, when she again appealed to “Captain Rothesay.” She rarely called him anything else now. Alas! the time of “Angus” and “Sybilla” was gone.

“Well, my dear, what have you to say?”

“I wish you would not be always reading, it makes the evening so dull.”

“Does it?” and he turned over another leaf of Adam Smith, and leisurely settled himself for its perusal.

“Papa is tired, and may like to be quiet. Suppose we talk to one another, mamma?” whispered Olive, as she put aside her own work—idle, but graceful designings with pencil and paper—and drawing near to her mother, began to converse in a low tone. She discussed all questions as to whether the rose should be red or white, and what coloured wool would form the striped tulip, just as though they had been the most interesting topics in the world. Only once her eyes wandered wistfully to the deserted “Sabrina,” which, half sketched, lay within the leaves of her “Comus.” Mrs. Rothesay observed this, and said, kindly—

“Let me look at what you are doing, love. Ah!—very pretty! What is Sabrina? Tell me all about her.” And she listened, with a pleased, maternal smile, while her gratified little daughter dilated on the beloved “Comus,” and read a passage or two in illustration. “Very pretty, my love,” again repeated Mrs. Rothesay, stroking Olive's hair. “Ah! you are a clever child. But now come and tell me what sort of winter dresses you think we should have.”

If any observer could have seen a shade of disappointment on Olive's face, he would also have seen it instantly suppressed. The young girl closed “Comus” with the drawing inside, and came to sit down again, looking up into the eyes of her “beautiful mamma.” And even the commonplace question of dress soon became interesting to her, for her artistic predilection followed her even there, and no lover ever gloried in his mistress's charms, no painter ever delighted to deck his model, more than Olive loved to adorn and to admire the still exquisite beauty of her mother. It stood to her in the place of all attractions in herself—in fact, she rarely thought about herself at all. The consciousness of her personal defect had worn off through habit, and her almost total seclusion from strangers prevented its being painfully forced on her mind.

“I wish we could leave off this mourning,” said Mrs. Rothesay. “It is quite time, seeing Sir Andrew Rothesay has been dead six months. And, living or dying, he did not show kindness enough to make one remember him longer.”

“Yet he was kind to papa, when a child; and so was Auntie Flora,” softly said Olive, to whose enthusiastic memory there ever clung Elspie's tales about the Perthshire relatives—bachelor brother and maiden sister, living together in their lonely, gloomy home. But she rarely talked about them; and now, seeing her mamma looked troubled, as she always did at any reference to Scotland and the old times, the little maiden ceased at once. Mrs. Rothesay was soon again safely and contentedly plunged into the mysteries of winter costume.

“Your dresses must be handsomer and more womanly now, Olive; for I intend to take you out with me now and then. You are quite old enough; and I am tired of visiting alone. I intended to speak to your papa about it to-night; but he seems not in a good humour.”

“Only tired with his journey,” put in the sweet little awdiator. “Is it not so papa?”

Captain Rothesay started from a dull, anxious reverie, into which his reading had merged, and lifted his face, knitted and darkened with some inward care, heavy enough to make his tone sharp and angry, as he said,

“Well, child, what do you want?”

“Do not scold Olive; it was I who wished to speak to you.” And then, without pausing to consider how evidently ill-timed the conversation was, Mrs. Rothesay began to talk eagerly about Olive's “coming out,” and whether it should be at home or abroad; finally arguing that a ball at Merivale would be best, and entering at large on the question of ball-costume. There was nothing wrong in anything she said, but she said it at the wrong time. Her husband listened first with indifference, then fidgeted restlessly in his chair, and at last subsided into an angry silence.

“Why don't you speak, Captain Rothesay?” He took up the poker and hammered the fire to small cinders. “Of course, you will be reasonable. Say, shall it be as I have arranged?”

“No!” The word came thundering out—as Captain Rothesay rarely thundered; for he was calm and dignified even in his wrath. Immediately afterwards he rose up and left the room.

Sybilla grew pale, sorrowful, and then melted into tears. She tried not to let Olive see them. She was still too faithful a wife to seek in any way to turn the child against her father. But yet she wept: and drawing her young daughter closer to her arms, she felt the sweetness of having a child—and such a child—left to love her. In proportion as the wife's heart closed, the mother's opened.

Ere long, Captain Rothesay sent for little Olive, to read the evening newspaper to him in his study.

“Go, love,” said Mrs. Rothesay; and she went—without fear, too; for her father never said a harsh word to her. And as, each year of her life, the sterling truth and stern uprightness of his character dawned upon her, she could not fail to respect him, even while she worshipped her sweet-tempered gentle mother.

Captain Rothesay made no remark, save upon the subject she was reading, and came in with Olive to tea, just as usual. But when he had finished, and was fast sinking back into that painful reverie which seemed to oppress him, his weak ill-judging wife recommenced her attack. She talked gently when speaking of Olive, even affectionately—poor soul! She persuaded herself, all the time, that she was doing right, and that he was a hardhearted father not to listen to her. He did listen, apparently; and she took his silence for consent, for she ended with—

“Well, then, it is quite settled; the ball shall be at Merivale, on the 20th of next month.”

Angus turned round, his blue eyes glittering, yet cold as steel—“Mrs. Rothesay, if you will worm the truth out of me, you shall. By next month you may not have a roof over your head.”

He rose up and again quitted the room. Mrs. Rothesay trembled—grew terrified—but tried to reassure herself. “He only says this in anger, or else to frighten me. I will not believe it.” Then conscience whispered, that never in her whole life had she known Angus Rothesay to tell a falsehood; and she trembled more and more. Finally, she passed into a violent fit of nervous weeping—a circumstance by no means rare. Her health was weakened by the exciting gaieties of her outward life, and the inward sorrow which preyed upon her heart.

This night—and not for the first time either—the little maiden of fifteen might have been seen, acting with the energy and self-possession of a woman—soothing her mother's hysterical sufferings—smoothing her pillow, and finally watching by her until she fell asleep. Then Olive crept downstairs, and knocked at her father's study-door. He said, “Come in,” in a dull, subdued tone. She entered, and saw him sitting, his head on his hand, jaded and exhausted, leaning over the last embers of the fire, which had gone out without his noticing it. If there had been any anger in the child's heart, it must have vanished at once, when she looked upon her father thus.

“Oh! is that you, Olive?” was all he said, beginning to turn over his papers, as if to make a show of occupation.

But he soon relapsed into that unknown thought which oppressed him so much. It was some minutes before he completely aroused himself, and saw the little elfin-like figure standing beside him, silent and immovable, with the taper in her hand.

“Shall I bring your candle, dear papa? It is eleven o'clock and more.”

“Where is your mother, Olive?”

“She is gone to bed;” and Olive paused, uncertain whether she should tell him that her mamma was ill. Again there was a silence—during which, do what he would, Captain Rothesay could not keep his eyes from the earnest, wistful, entreating gaze of his “little Olive.” At last, he lifted her on his knee, and took her face between his two hands, saying, in a smothered tone,

“You are not like your mother; you are like mine—ay, and seem more so as you grow to be a woman.”

“I wish I were a woman, that papa might talk to me and tell me anything which he has on his mind,” whispered Olive, scarcely daring to breathe that which she had nerved herself to say, during many minutes of silent pondering at the study-door.

Captain Rothesay relapsed hastily into his cold manner. “Child, how do you know?”

“I know nothing, and want to know nothing, that papa does not wish to tell me,” answered Olive, gently.

The father turned round again, and looked into his daughter's eyes. Perhaps he read there a spirit equal to, and not unlike, his own—a nature calm, resolute, clear-sighted; the strong will and decision of a man, united to the tenderness of a woman. From that hour father and daughter understood one another.

“Olive, how old are you?—I forget.”

“Fifteen, dear papa.”

“Ah! and you are a thoughtful girl. I can talk to you as to a woman—pah! I mean, a sensible woman. Put out your candle; you can sit up a while longer.”

She obeyed, and sat with him for two whole hours in his study, while he explained to her how sudden reverses had so damaged his fortune that it was necessary to have a far smaller establishment than Merivale Hall.

“Not that we need fear poverty, my dear child; but the future must be considered and provided for. Your mother's jointure, should I die—nay, do not look sad, we will not talk of that—and then, too, your own portion, when you marry.”

Olive blushed, as any girl of fifteen will do when talked to on such a topic, even in the most business-like way. “I shall not marry, papa,” said she, expressing the thought which had come to her, as it does to most young girls who love their parents very dearly, too dearly to imagine a parting.

Captain Rothesay started, as if suddenly recollecting himself. Then he regarded her earnestly, mournfully; and in the look was something which struck on Olive's memory as though she had seen it before.

“I had forgotten,” muttered Captain Rothesay to himself. “Of course, she will never marry. Poor child!—poor child!”

He kissed her very tenderly, then lighted his candle, and went upstairs to bed, holding her hand all the way, until they parted at her room door, when he kissed her a second time. As he did so, she contrived to whisper—

“Mamma is sure to wake; she always does when you come in. Kiss mamma, too.”

Olive went to bed, happier than she could have believed possible, had any one told her in the morning that ere night she would hear the ill news of having to leave beautiful Merivale. But it was so sweet to feel herself a comfort to both parents—they who, alas! would receive no comfort from each other.

Only, just when she was falling asleep, the thought floated across Olive's mind—

“I wonder why papa said that, of course, I should never marry!”