Weeks glided into months; and within the three-mile circle of the Hall, the Parsonage, and the Dell, was as pleasant a little society as could be found, anywhere. Frequent meetings, usually confined to themselves alone, produced the necessary intimacy of a country neighbourhood.

As it sometimes happens that persons, or families taught to love each other unknown, when well known learn to hate; so, on the contrary, it is no unfrequent circumstance for those who have lived for years in enmity, when suddenly brought together, to become closer friends than if there had been no former antipathy between them. So it was with the Rothesays and the Gwynnes.

Once after Mrs. Gwynne and her son had spent a long pleasant evening at the Dell, Olive chanced to light upon the packet of Harold's letters, which, years before, she had put by, with the sincere wish that she might never hear anything of him more.

“You would not wish so now, Olive—nor would I,” said Mrs. Rothesay, when her daughter had smilingly referred to the fact. “The society of the Gwynnes has really proved a great addition to our happiness. How kind and warmhearted Mrs. Gwynne is—so earnest in her friendship for us, too!”

“Yes, indeed. Do you know, it struck me that it must have been from her report of us, that aunt Flora Rothesay sent the kind message which the Gwynnes brought to-day. I own, it made me happy! To think that my long-past romantic dream should be likely to come true, and that next year we should go to Scotland and see papa's dear old aunt.”

“You will go, my child.”

“And you too, darling. Think how much you would like it, when the summer comes. You will be quite strong then; and how pleasant it will be to know that good aunt Flora, of whom the Gwynnes talk so much. She must be a very, very old lady now, though Mrs. Gwynne says she is quite beautiful still. But she can't be so beautiful as my own mamma. O, darling, there never will be seen such a wondrous old lady as you, when you are seventy or eighty, Then, I shall be quite elderly myself. We shall seem just like two sisters—growing old together.”

Olive never spoke, never dreamed of any other possibility than this.

Calmly, cheerfully, passed the winter, Miss Rothesay devoting herself, as heretofore, to the two great interests of her life; but she had other minor interests gathering up around her, which in some respects were of much service. They prevented that engrossing study, which was often more than her health could bear. Once when reading letters from Rome, from Mr. Vanbrugh and Meliora, Olive said,

“Mamma, I think on the whole I am happier here than I was at Woodford Cottage. I feel less of an artist and more of a woman.”

“And, Olive, I am happy too—happy to think that my child is safe with me, and not carried off to Rome.” For Olive had of course told her mother of that circumstance in her life, which might have changed its current so entirely. “My daughter, I would not have you leave me to marry any man in the world!”

“I never shall, darling!” she answered. And she felt that this was true. Her heart was absorbed in her mother.

Nevertheless, the other interests before mentioned, though quite external, filled up many little crevices in that loving heart which had room for so many affections. Among these was one which, in Olive's whole lifetime, had been an impulse, strong, but ever unfulfilled—love for a child. She took to her heart Harold's little daughter, less regarding it as his, than as poor Sara's. The more so, because, though a good and careful, he was not a very loving father. But he seemed gratified by the kindness that Miss Rothesay showed to little Ailie; and frequently suffered the child to stay with her, and be taught by her all things, save those in which it was his pleasure that his daughter should remain ignorant—the doctrines of the Church of England.

Sometimes in her visiting of the poor, Olive saw the frightful profanities of that cant knowledge which young or ignorant minds acquire, and by which the greatest mysteries of Christianity are lowered to a burlesque. Then she inclined to think that Harold Gwynne was right, and that in this temporary prohibition he acted as became a wise father and “a discreet and learned minister of God's Word.” As such she ever considered him; though she sometimes thought he received and communicated that Word less through his heart than through his intellect. His moral character and doctrines were irreproachable, but it seemed to her as if the dew of Christian love had never fallen on his soul.

This feeling gave her, in spite of herself, a sort of awe for him, which she would not willingly have felt towards her pastor, and one whom she so much regarded and respected. Especially as on any other subject she ever held with him full and free communion, and he seemed gradually to unbend his somewhat hard nature, as a man will do who inclines in friendship towards a truly good woman.

Perhaps here it would be as well to observe, that, close and intimate friends as they were, the tie was such that none of their two households, no, not even the most tattling gossips of Farnwood and Harbury, ever dreamed of saying that Harold Gwynne was “in love” with Miss Rothesay. The good folks did chatter now and then, as country gossips will, about him and Christal Manners; and perhaps they would have chattered more, if the young lady had not been almost constantly at the Hall, whither Mr. Gwynne rarely went. But they left the bond between him and Olive Rothesay untouched, untroubled by their idle jests. Perhaps those who remembered the beautiful Mrs. Harold Gwynne, imagined the widower would never choose a second wife so different from his first; or perhaps there was cast about the daughter, so devotedly tending her blind mother, a sanctity which their unholy and foolish tongues dared not to violate.

Thus Olive went on her way, showing great tenderness to little Ailie, and, as it seemed, being gradually drawn by the child to the father. Besides, there was another sympathy between them, caused by the early associations of both, and by their common Scottish blood. For Harold had inherited from his father nothing but his name; from his mother everything besides. Born in Scotland, he was a Scotsman to the very core. His influence awakened once more every feeling that bound Olive Rothesay to the land of her birth—her father's land. All things connected therewith took, in her eyes, a new romance. She was happy, she knew not why—happy as she had been in her dreamy girlhood. It seemed as though in her life had dawned a second spring.

Perhaps there was but one thing which really troubled her; and that was the prohibition in her teaching of little Ailie. She talked the matter over with her mother; that is, she uttered aloud her own thoughts, to which Mrs. Rothesay meekly assented; saying, as usual, that Olive was quite right. And at last, after much hesitation, she made up her mind to speak openly on the subject with Mr. Gwynne.

For this arduous undertaking, at which in spite of herself she trembled a little, she chose a time when he had met her in one of her forest-walks, which she had undertaken, as she often did, to fulfil some charitable duty, usually that of the clergyman or the clergyman's family.

“How kind you are, Miss Rothesay; and to come all through the wintry forest, too! It was scarcely fit for you.”.

“Then it certainly was not for Mrs. Gwynne. I was quite glad to relieve her; and it gives me real pleasure to read and talk with John Dent's sick mother. Much as she suffers, she is the happiest old woman I ever saw in my life.”

“What makes her happy, think you?” said Harold continuing the conversation as if he wished it to be continued, and so falling naturally into a quiet arm-in-arm walk.

Olive answered, responding to his evident intention, and passing at once, as in their conversations they always did, to a subject of interest, “She is happy, because she has a meek and trusting faith in God; and though she knows little she loves much.”

“Can one love Him whom one does not fully know?” It was one of the sharp searching questions that Mr. Gwynne sometimes put, which never failed to startle Olive, and to which she could not always reply; but she made an effort to do so now.

“Yes, when what we do know of Him commands love. Does Ailie, even Ailie, thoroughly know her father? And yet she loves him.”

“That I cannot judge; but most true it is, we know as little of God as Ailie knows of her father—ay, and look up to Heaven with as blindfold ignorance as Ailie looks up to me.

“Alas! Ailie's is indeed blindfold ignorance!” said Olive, not quite understanding his half-muttered words, but thinking they offered a good opportunity for fulfilling her purpose. “Mr. Gwynne, may I speak to you about something which has long troubled me?”

“Troubled you, Miss Rothesay? Surely that is not my fault? I would not for the world do aught that would give pain to one so good as you.”

He said this very kindly, pressing her arm with a brotherly gentleness, which passed into her heart; imparting to her not only a quick sense of pleasure, but likewise courage.

“Thank you, Mr. Gwynne. This does really pain me. It is the subject on which we talked the first time that ever you and I met, and of which we have never since spoken—your determination with respect to little Ailie's religious instruction.”

“Ah!” A start, and a dark look. “Well, Miss Rothesay, what have you to say?”

“That I think you are not quite right—nay, quite wrong,” said Olive, gathering resolution. “You are taking from your child her only strength in life—her only comfort in death. You keep from her the true faith; she will soon make to herself a false one.”

“Nay, what is more false than the idle traditions taught by ranting parents to their offspring—the Bible travestied into a nursery talc—heaven transformed into a pretty pleasure-house—and hell and its horrors brought as bugbears to frighten children in the dark. Do you think I would have my child turned into a baby saint, to patter glibly over parrot prayers, exchange pet sweetmeats for missionary pennies, and so learn to keep up a debtor and creditor account with Heaven? No, Miss Rothesay, I would rather see her grow up a heathen.”

Olive, awed by his language, which was bitter even to fierceness, at first made him no answer. At length, however, she ventured, not without trembling, to touch another chord.

“But—suppose that your child should be taken away, would you have her die as she lives now, utterly ignorant of all holy things?”

“Would I have her die an infant bigot—prattling blindly of subjects which in the common course of nature no child can comprehend? Would I have her chronicled in some penny tract as a 'remarkable instance of infant piety' a small 'vessel of mercy,' to whom the Gospel was miraculously revealed at three years old?”

“Do not—oh! do not speak thus,” cried Olive, shrinking from him, for she saw in his face a look she had never seen before—an expression answering to the bitter, daring sarcasm of his tone.

“You think me a strange specimen of a Church of England clergyman? Well, perhaps you are right! I believe I am rather different to my brethren.” He said this with sharp irony. “Nevertheless, if you inquire concerning me in the neighbourhood, I think you will find that my moral conduct has never disgraced my cloth.”

“Never!” cried Olive warmly. “Mr. Gwynne, pardon me if I have overstepped the deference due to yourself and your opinions. In some things I cannot fathom them or you; but that you are a good, sincere, and pious man, I most earnestly believe.”

“Do you!”

Olive started. The two words were simple, but she thought they had an under-meaning, as though he were mocking either himself or her, or both. But she thought this could only be fancy; when in a minute or two after, he said in his ordinary manner,

“Miss Rothesay, we have been talking earnestly, and you have unconsciously betrayed me into speaking more warmly than I ought to speak. Do not misjudge me. All men's faith is free; and in some minor points of Christianity, I perhaps hold peculiar opinions. As regards little Ailie, I thank you for your kind interest in this matter, which we will discuss again another time.”

They had now reached John Dent's cottage. Olive asked if he would not enter with her.

“No, no; you are a far better apostle than your clergyman. Besides, I have business at home, and must return. Good morning, Miss Rothesay.”

He lifted his hat with a courtly grace, but his eyes showed that reverence which no courts could command—the reverence of a sincere man for a noble-hearted woman. And so he walked back into the forest.