“He has given his life in saving mine. Oh, would that I had died for thee—my Harold—my Harold!”

This was evermore Olive's cry during the days of awful suspense, when they knew not but that every hour might be Harold's last. He had broken a bloodvessel in the lungs; through some violent mental emotion, the physician said. Nothing else could have produced such results in his usually strong and manly frame.

“And it was for me—for me!” moaned Olive. “Yet I doubted him—I almost called him cruel. Oh, that I should never have known his heart until now!”

Every feeling of womanly shame vanished before the threatening shadow of death. Night and day, Olive hovered about the door of Harold's room, listening for any sound. But there was always silence. No one passed in and out except his mother,—his mother, on whom Olive hardly dared to look, lest—innocent though she was—she might read reproach in Mrs. Gwynne's sorrowful eye. Once, she even ventured to hint this.

“I angry, because it was in saving you that this happened to my son? No, Olive, no! Whatever God sends, we will bear together.”

Mrs. Gwynne said this kindly, but her heart seemed frozen to every thought except one. She rarely quitted Harold's chamber, and scarcely noticed any person—not even Olive.

One night, or rather early morning, during the time of great crisis, she came out, and saw Olive standing in the passage, with a face whereon was written such utter woe, that before it even the mother's sorrow paled. It seemed to move Mrs. Gwynne deeply.

“My dear, how long have you been here?”

“All night.”

“Poor child—poor child!”

“It is all I can do for him and you. If I could only”——

“I guess what you would say. No, no! He must be perfectly quiet; he must not see or hear you.” And the mother turned away, as though she had said too much. But what to Olive was it now to know that Harold loved her? She would have resigned all the blessing of his love to bring to him health and life. So crushed, so hopeless was her look, that Harold's mother pitied her. Thinking a moment, she said:

“He is fast asleep now. If it would comfort you, poor child, to look at him for one moment—but it must be only one”——

Olive bowed her head—she was past speaking—and followed Mrs. Gwynne. With a step as silent and solemn as though she were going to look on death, she went and looked on the beloved of her heart.

Harold lay; his face perfectly blanched, his dark hair falling heavily on the pillow, as if never to be stirred by life or motion more. They stood by his bed—the mother that bore him, and the woman who loved him dearer than her own soul. These two—the strongest of all earthly loves—so blended in one object, constrained them each to each. They turned from gazing on Harold, and sank into one another's arms.

For a few more days continued this agonised wrestling with death, during which they who would have given their life for Harold's could only look on and pray. During this time there came news to Olive from the world without—news that otherwise would have moved her, but which was now coldly received, as of no moment at all. Lyle Derwent had suddenly married; his heart, like many another, being “won in the rebound.” And Mrs. Flora Rothesay had passed away; dying, in the night, peacefully, and without pain, for they found her in the attitude of sleep.

But even for her Olive had no tears. She only shuddered over the letter, because it spoke of death. All the world seemed full of death. She walked in its shadow night and day. Her only thought and prayer was, “Give me his life—only his life, O God!”

And Harold's life was given her. But the hope came very faintly at first, or it might have been too much to bear. Day by day it grew stronger, until all present danger was gone. But there were many chances to be guarded against; and so, as soon as this change for the better arrived, Olive came to look at him in his sleep no more. His mother was very cautious over his every look and word, so that Olive could not even learn whether he had ever given any sign that he thought of her. And now that his health was returning, her womanly reserve came back; she no longer lingered at his door; even her joy was restrained and mingled with a trembling doubt.

At length, Harold was allowed to be moved to his mother's dressing-room. Very eager and joyful Mrs. Gwynne was, ransacking the house for pillows to make him lie easy on the sofa; and plaids to wrap him in;—full of that glad, even childish excitement with which we delight to hail the recovery of one beloved, who has been nearly lost. The pleasure extended itself over the whole household, to whom their master was very dear. Olive only sat in her own room, listening to every footstep.

Mrs. Gwynne came to her at last “It is all done, my dear, and he is not so weak as we feared. But he is very much exhausted still. We must take great care even now.”

“Certainly,” answered Olive. She knew what the anxious mother meant, and dared not utter the longing at her heart.

“I hardly know what to do,” said Mrs. Gwynne, restlessly. “He has been asking to see you.”

“To see me! And—may I!”——

“I told him not to-day, and I was right. Child, look at your own face now! Until you can calm yourself, you shall not see my Harold.” Without offering any opposition, Olive sat down. Mrs. Gwynne was melted. “Nay,” she said, “you shall do as you will, little patient one! I left him asleep now; you shall stay by him until he wakes. Come.”

She took her to the door, but quitted her there, perhaps remembering the days when she too was young.

Olive entered noiselessly, and took her place by Harold's side. He was sleeping; though it was not the death-like sleep in which she had beheld him, that mournful night; but a quiet, healthful slumber. His whole face seemed softened and spiritualised, as is often the case with strong men, whom a long illness has brought low. With childlike helplessness there seems to come a childlike peace. Olive knew now why Mrs. Gwynne had said, a few days since, that Harold looked as he had done when he was a little boy—his mother's only boy.

For a few minutes Olive sat silently watching. She felt how utterly she loved him—how, had he died, the whole world would have faded from her like a blank dream. And even now, should she have to part from him in any way——

“I cannot—I cannot It would be more than I could bear.” And from the depth of her heart rose a heavy sigh.

Harold seemed to hear it. He moved a little, and said, faintly. “Who is there?”

“It is I.”

“Olive—little Olive.” His white cheek flushed, and he held out his hand.

She, remembering his mother's caution, only whispered, “I am so glad—so glad!”

“It is a long time since I saw you,” he said brokenly. “Stand so that I can look at you, Olive!” She obeyed. He looked long and wistfully at her face. “You have been weeping, I see. Wherefore?”

“Because I am so happy to think you are better.”

“Is that true? Do you think so much of me?” And a pale but most joyful smile broke over his face; though, leaving it, the features trembled with emotion. Olive was alarmed.

“You must not talk now—not one word. Remember how very ill you have been. I will sit by you here. Oh, what can I ever do or say in gratitude for all you have done for me?”

“Gratitude!” Harold echoed the word, as if with pain, and then lay still, looking up at her no more. Gradually there came a change over his countenance, as if some bitter thought were slowly softening into calmness. “Olive,” he said, “you speak of gratitude, then what must be mine to you? In those long hours when I lay conscious, but silent, knowing that there might be but a breath between me and eternity, how should I have felt had I not learnt from you that holy faith which conquers death?”

“Thank God! thank God! But you are weak, and must not speak.”

“I must, for I am stronger now; I draw strength from your very presence—you, who have been my life's good angel. Let me tell you so while I can.”

“While you can!”

“Yes; for I sometimes think that, though I am thus far better, I shall never be quite myself again; but slowly, perhaps without suffering, pass away from this world.”

“Oh, no!—oh, no!” And Olive clasped his hand tighter, looking up with a terrified air. “You cannot—shall not die! I—I could not bear it” And then her face was dyed with a crimson blush—soon washed away by a torrent of tears.

Harold turned feebly round, and laid his right hand on her head. “Little Olive! To think that you should weep thus, and I should be so calm!” He waited awhile, until her emotion had ceased. Then he said, “Lift up your face; let me look at you. Nay, tremble not, for I am going to speak very solemnly;—of things that I might never have uttered, save for such an hour as this. You will listen, my own dear friend, my sister, as you said you would be?”

“Yes—yes, always!”

“Ah! Olive, you thought not that you were more to me than any friend—any sister—that I loved you—not calmly, brotherly—but with all the strength and passion of my heart, as a man loves the woman he would choose out of all the world to be his wife.”

These words trembled on lips white as though they had been the lips of death. Olive heard; but she only pressed his hand without speaking.

Harold went on. “I tell you this, because now, when I feel so changed that all earthly things grow dim, I am not too proud to say I love you. Once I was. You stole into my heart before I was aware. Oh! how I wrestled against this love—I, who had been once deceived, so that I believed in no woman's truth. At last, I resolved to trust in yours, but I would try to be quite sure of it first You remember how I talked to you, and how you answered, in the Hermitage of Braid? Then I knew you loved, but I thought you loved not me.”

“How could you think so? Oh! Harold—Harold!”

As she uttered his name, tremulously as a woman breathes for the first time the beloved name in the beloved ear, Harold started. But still he answered calmly,

“Whether that thought was true or not, would not change what I am about to say now. All my pride is gone—I only desire that you should know how deeply I loved you: and that, living or dying, I shall love you evermore.”

Olive tried to answer—tried to tell him the story of her one great love—so hopeless, yet so faithful—so passionate, yet so dumb. But she could utter nothing save the murmur—“Harold! Harold!” And therein he learnt all.

Looking upon her, there came into his face an expression of unutterable joy. He made an effort to raise himself, but in vain. “Come,” he murmured, “come near me, Olive—my little Olive that loves me!—is it not so?”

“Ever—from the first, you only—none but you!”

“Kiss me, then, my own faithful one,” he said faintly.

Olive leaned over him, and kissed him on the eyes and mouth. He tried to fold his arms round her, but failed.

“I have no strength at all,” he said, sorrowfully. “I cannot take her to my heart—my darling—my wife! So worn-out am I—so weak.”

“But I am strong,” Olive answered. She put her arm under his head, and made him lean on her shoulder. He looked up smiling.

“Oh, this is sweet, very sweet! I could sleep—I could almost die—thus”——

“No, God will not let you die, my Harold,” whispered Olive; and then neither spoke again.

Overpowered by an emotion which was too much for his feeble strength, Harold lay quiet By degrees, when the room darkened—for it was evening—his breathing grew deeper, and he fell asleep, his head still resting on Olive's shoulder.

She looked down upon him—his wasted face—his thin hand, that, even in slumber, still clung helplessly to hers. What a tide of emotion swept through her heart! It seemed that therein was gathered up for him every tenderness that woman's soul could know. She loved him at once with the love of mother, sister, friend, and wife—loved him as those only can who have no other kindred tie—nothing in the whole wide world to love beside. She laid her cheek against his hair—but softly, lest she should waken him.

“I thought to have led a whole long lonely life for thy sake, Harold! And I would have led it, without murmuring, either against Heaven or thee, knowing my own un-worthiness. But since it is not to be so, I will give thee instead a whole life of faithful love—a wife's love—such as never was wife's before.”

And then, over long years, her fancy went back, discerning how all things had worked together to this end. She saw how patience had ripened into hope, and suffering into joy. Not one step of the whole weary way had been trodden in vain—not one thorn had pierced her feet, that had not while entering there distilled a saving balm.

Travelling over many scenes, her memory beheld Harold, as in those early days when her influence and her prayers had changed his heart, and led him from darkness to light. Again, as in the first bitterness of her love for him; when continually he tortured her, never dreaming of the wounds he gave. And once more, as in the time, when knowing her fate, she had calmly prepared to meet it, and tried to make herself a true friend unto him—he so unresponsive, cold, and stern. Remembering him thus, she looked at him as he lay, turning for rest and comfort to her—only her. Once more she kissed his forehead as he slept, and then her lips uttered the words with which Mrs. Flora had blessed her.

“O God, I thank Thee, for Thou hast given me my heart's desire!”

Soon after, Mrs. Gwynne entered the room. But no blush came to Olive's cheek—too solemn was her joy.

“Hush!” she whispered; “do not wake him. He loves me—I know it now. You will not be angry?—I have loved him always.”

“I knew it, Olive.”

Harold's mother stood a long time in silence. Heaven only knows what struggle there might have been in her heart—so bound up as it was in him—her only child. Ere it ended—he awoke.

“Mother!—is not that my mother?”

“Yes!” Mrs. Gwynne answered. She went up and kissed them both, first her son, and afterwards Olive. Then, without speaking, she quitted the room, leaving them alone together.