“Well, I never in my life knew such a change as Farnwood has made in Miss Manners,” observed old Hannah, the Woodford Cottage maid; who, though carefully kept in ignorance of any facts that could betray the secret of Christal's history, yet seemed at times to bear a secret grudge against her, as an interloper. “There she comes, riding across the country like some wild thing—she who used to be so prim and precise!”

“Poor young creature, she is like a bird just let out of a cage,” said Mrs. Rothesay, kindly. “It is often so with girls brought up as she has been. Olive, I am glad you never went to school.”

Olive's answer was stopped by the appearance of Christal, followed by one of the young Fludyer boys, with whom she had become a first-rate favourite. Her fearless frankness, her exuberant spirits, tempered only by her anxiety to appear always “the grand lady,” made her a welcome guest at Farnwood Hall. Indeed, she was rarely at home, save when appearing, as now, on a hasty visit, which quite disturbed Mrs. Rothesay's placidity, and almost drove old Hannah crazy.

“He is not come yet, you see,” Christal said, with a mysterious nod to Charley Fludyer. “I thought we should outride him—a parson never can manage a pony. But he will surely be here soon?”

“Who will be here soon?” asked Olive, considerably surprised. “Are you speaking of Mr. Gwynne?”

“Mr. Gwynne, no! Far better fun than that, isn't it, Charley? Shall we tell the secret or not? Or else shall we tell half of it, and let her puzzle it out till he comes?” The boy nodded assent “Well, then, there is coming to see you to-day a friend of Charley's, who only arrived at Farnwood last night, and since then has been talking of nothing else but his old idol, Miss Olive Rothesay. So I told him to meet me here, and, lo! he comes.”

There was a hurried knock at the door, and immediately the little parlour was graced by the presence of an individual,—whom Olive did not recognise in the least. He seemed about twenty, slight and tall, of a complexion red and white; his features pretty, though rather girlish.

Olive bowed to him in undisguised surprise; but the moment he saw her his face became “celestial rosy red,” apparently from a habit he had, in common with other bashful youths, of blushing on all occasions.

“I see you do not remember me, Miss Rothesay. Of course I could not expect it. But I have not forgotten you.”

Olive, though still doubtful, instinctively offered him her hand. The tall youth took it eagerly, and as he looked down upon her, something in his expression reminded her of a face she had herself once looked down upon—her little knight of the garden at Oldchurch. In the impulse of the moment she called him again by his old name—“Lyle! Lyle Derwent!”

“Yes, it is indeed I!” cried the young man. “Oh, Miss Rothesay, you can't tell how glad I am to meet you again.”

“I am glad, too.” And Olive regarded him with that half-mournful curiosity with which we trace the lineaments of some long-forgotten face, belonging to that olden time, between which and now a whole lifetime seems to have intervened.

“Is that little Lyle Derwent?” cried Mrs. Rothesay, catching the name. “How very strange! Come hither, my dear boy! Alas, I cannot see you. Let me put my hand on your head.”

But she could not reach it, he was grown so tall. She seemed startled to think how time had flown.

“He is quite a man now, mamma,” said Olive; “you know we have not seen him for many years”——

Lyle added, blushing deeper than before—“The last time—I remember it well—was in the garden, one Sunday in spring—nine years ago.”

“Nine years ago! Is it then nine years since my Angus died?” murmured the widow; and a grave silence spread itself over them all. In the midst of it Christal and Charley, seeing this meeting was not likely to produce the “fun” they expected, took the opportunity of escaping.

Then came the questions, which after so long a period one shrinks from asking, afraid of answer. Olive learnt that old Mr. Derwent had ceased to scold, and poor Bob played his mischievous pranks no more. Both lay quiet in Oldchurch churchyard. Worldly losses, too, had chanced, until the sole survivor of the family found himself very poor.

“I should not even have gone to college,” said Lyle, “but for the kindness of my brother-in-law, Harold Gwynne.”

Olive started. “Oh, true—I forgot all about that. Then he has been a good brother to you?” added she, with a feeling of pleasure and interest.

“He has indeed. When my father died, I had not a relative in the world, save a rich old uncle who wanted to put me in his counting-house; but Harold stood between us, and saved me from a calling I hated. And when my uncle turned me off, he took me home. Yes! I am not ashamed to say that I owe everything in the world to my brother Harold. I feel this the more, because he was not quite happy in his marriage. She did not suit him—my sister Sara.”

“Indeed?” said Olive, and changed the conversation. After tea, Lyle, who appeared rather a sentimental young gentleman, proposed a moonlight walk in the garden. Miss Christal, after eyeing Olive and her cavalier with a mixture of amusement and vexation, as if she did not like to miss so excellent a chance of fun and flirtation, consoled herself with ball-playing and Charley Fludyer.

As their conversation grew more familiar, Olive was rather disappointed in Lyle. In his boyhood, she had thought him quite a little genius; but the bud had given more promise than the flower was ever likely to fulfil. Now she saw in him one of those not uncommon characters, who with sensitive feeling, and some graceful talent, yet never rise to the standard of genius. Strength, daring, and, above all, originality were wanting in his mind. With all his dreamy sentiment—his lip-library of perpetually quoted poets—and his own numberless scribblings (of which he took care to inform Miss Rothesay)—Lyle Der-went would probably remain to his life's end a mere “poetical gentleman.”

Olive soon divined all this, and she began to weary a little of her companion and his vague sentimentalities, “in linked sweetness long drawn out.” Besides, thoughts much deeper had haunted her at times, during the evening—thoughts of the marriage which had been “not quite happy.” This fact scarcely surprised her. The more she began to know of Mr. Gwynne—and she had seen a great deal of him, considering the few weeks of their acquaintance—the more she marvelled that he had ever chosen Sara Derwent for his wife. Their union must have been like that of night and day, fierce fire and unstable water. Olive longed to fathom the mystery, and could not resist saying.

“You were talking of your sister a-while ago. I stopped you, for I saw it pained mamma. But now I should so like to hear something about my poor Sara.”

“I can tell you little, for I was a boy when she died. But things I then little noticed, I put together afterwards. It must have been quite a romance, I think. You know my sister had a former lover—Charles Geddes. Do you remember him?”

“I do—well!” and Olive sighed—perhaps over the remembrance of the dream born in that fairy time—her first girlish dream of ideal love.

“He was at sea when Sara married. On his return the news almost drove him wild. I remember his coming in the garden—our old garden, you know—where he and Sara used to walk. He seemed half mad, and I went to him, and comforted him as well as I could, though little I understood his grief. Perhaps I should now!” said Lyle, lifting his eyes with rather a doleful, sentimental air; which, alas! was all lost upon his companion.

“Poor Charles!” she murmured. “But tell me more.”

“He persuaded me to take back all her letters, together with one from himself, and give them to my sister the next time I went to Harbury. I did so. Well I remember that night! Harold came in, and found his wife crying over the letters. In a fit of jealousy he took them and read them all through—together with that of Charles. He did not see me, or know the part I had in the matter, but I shall never forget him.”

“What did he do?” asked Olive, eagerly. Strange that her question and her thoughts were not of Sara, but of Harold.

“Do? nothing! But his words—I remember them distinctly, they were so freezing, so stern. He grasped her arm, and said, 'Sara, when you said you loved me, you uttered a lie! When you took your marriage oath, you vowed a lie! Every day since, that you have smiled in my face, you have looked a lie! Henceforth I will never trust you—or any woman. '”

“And what followed?” cried Olive, now so strongly interested that she never paused to think if she had any right to ask these questions.

“Soon after, Sara came home to us. She did not stay long, and then returned to Harbury. Harold was never unkind to her—that I know. But, somehow, she pined away; the more so after she heard of Charles Geddes's sudden death.”

“Alas! he died too.”

“Yes; by an accident his own recklessness caused. But he was weary of his life, poor fellow! Well—Sara never quite recovered that shock. After little Ailie was born, she lingered a few weeks, and then died. It was almost a relief to us all.”

“What! did you not love your sister?”

“Of course I did; but then she was older than I, and had never cared for me much. Now, as to Harold, I owe him everything. He has been to me less like a brother than a father; not in affection, perhaps that is scarcely in his nature, but in kindness and in counsel. There is not in the world a better man than Harold Gwynne.”

Olive replied warmly. “I am sure of it, and I like you the more for acknowledging it.” Then, in some confusion, she added, “Pardon me, but I had quite gone back to the old times, when you were my little pet. I really must learn to show more formality and respect to Mr. Derwent.”

“Don't say Mr. Derwent. Pray call me Lyle, as you used to do.”

“That I will, with pleasure. Only,” she continued, smiling, “when I look up at you, I shall begin to feel quite an ancient dame, since I am so much older than you.”

“Not at all,” Lyle answered, with an eagerness somewhat deeper than the mannish pride of youths who have just crossed the Rubicon that divides them from their much-scorned 'teens.' “I have advanced, and you seem to have stood still; there is scarcely any difference between us now.” And Olive, somewhat amused, let her old favourite have his way.

They spoke on trivial subjects, until it was time to return to the house. Just as they were entering, Lyle said:

“Look! there is my brother-in-law standing at the gate. Oh, Miss Rothesay, be sure you never tell him of the things we have been talking about.”

“It is not likely I shall ever have the opportunity. Mr. Gwynne seems a very reserved man.”

“He is so; and of these matters he now never speaks at all.”

“Hush! he is here;” and with a feeling of unwonted nervousness, as if she feared he had been aware of how much she had thought and conversed about him, Olive met Harold Gwynne.

“I am afraid I am an intruder, Miss Rothesay,” said the latter, with a half-suspicious glance at the tall, dark figure which stood near her in the moonlight.

“What! did you not know me, brother Harold? How funny!” And he laughed: his laugh was something like Sara's.

It seemed to ring jarringly on Mr. Gwynne's ear. “I was not aware, Miss Rothesay, that you knew my brother-in-law.”

“Oh, Miss Rothesay and I were friends almost ten years ago. She was our neighbour at Oldchurch.”

“Indeed.” And Olive thought she discerned in his face, which she had already begun to read, some slight pain or annoyance. Perhaps it wounded him to know any one who had known Sara. Perhaps—but conjectures were vain.

“I am glad you are come,” she said to Harold. “Mamma has been wishing for you all day. Lyle, will you go and tell her who is here. Nay, Mr. Gwynne, surely you will come back with me to the house?”

He seemed half-inclined to resist, but at last yielded. So he made one of the little circle, and “assisted” well at this, the first of many social evenings, at Farnwood Dell But at times, Olive caught some of his terse, keen, and somewhat sarcastic sayings, and thought she could imagine the look and tone with which he had said the bitter words about “never trusting woman more.”

He and Lyle went away together, and Christal, who had at last succeeded in apparently involving the light-hearted young collegian within the meshes of her smiles, took consolation in a little quiet drollery with Charley Fludyer; but even this resource failed when Charley spoke of returning home.

“I shall not go back with you to-night,” said Christal. “I shall stay at the Dell. You may come and fetch me to-morrow, with the pony you lent me; and bring Mr. Derwent, too, to lead it. To see him so employed would be excellent fun.”

“You seem to have taken a sudden passion for riding, Christal,” said Olive, with a smile, when they were alone.

“Yes, it suits me. I like dashing along across the country—it is excitement; and I like, too, to have a horse obeying me—'tis so delicious to rule! To think that Madame Blandin should consider riding unfeminine, and that I should have missed that pleasure for so many years! But I am my own mistress now. By the way,” she added, carelessly, “I wanted to have a few words with you, Miss Rothesay.” She had rarely called her Olive of late.

“Nay, my dears,” interposed Mrs. Rothesay, “do not begin to talk just yet—not until I am gone to bed; for I am very, very tired” And so, until Olive came downstairs again, Christal sat in dignified solitude by the parlour fire.

“Well,” said Miss Rothesay, when she entered, “what have you to say to me, my dear child?”

Christal drew back a little at the familiar word and manner, as though she did not quite like it. But she only said, “Oh, it is a mere trifle; I am obliged to mention it, because I understand Miss Vanbrugh left my money matters under your care until I came of age.”

“Certainly; you know it was by your consent, Christal.”

“O yes, because it will save me trouble. Well, all I wanted to say was, that I wish to keep a horse.”

“To keep a horse!”

“Certainly; what harm can there be in that? I long to ride about at my own will; go to the meets in the forest; even to follow the hounds. I am my own mistress, and I choose to do it,” said Christal in rather a high tone.

“You cannot, indeed, my dear,” answered Olive mildly. “Think of all the expenses it would entail—expenses far beyond your income.”

“I myself am the best judge of that.”

“Not quite. Because, Christal, you are still very young, and have little knowledge of the world. Besides, to tell you the plain truth—must I?”

“Certainly; of all things I hate deceit and concealment.” Here Christal stopped, blushed a little; and half-turning aside, hid further in her bosom a little ornament which occasionally peeped out—a silver cross and beads. Then she said in a somewhat less angry tone, “You are right; tell me all your mind.”

“I think, then, that though your income is sufficient to give you independence, it cannot provide you with luxuries. Also,” she continued, speaking very gently, “it seems to me scarcely right, that a young girl like you, without father or brother, should go riding and hunting in the way you purpose.”

“That still is my own affair—no one has a right to control me.” Olive was silent. “Do you mean to say you have? Because you are in some sort my guardian, are you to thwart me in this manner? I will not endure it.”

And there rose in her the same fierce spirit which had startled Olive on the first night of the girl's arrival at Woodford Cottage, and which, something to her surprise, had lain dormant ever since, covered over with the light-hearted trifling which formed Christal's outward character. “What am I to do?” thought Olive, much troubled. “How am I to wrestle with this girl? But I will do it—if only for Meliora's sake. Christal,” she said affectionately, “we have never talked together seriously for a long time; not since the first night we met.”

“I remember, you were good to me then,” answered Christal, a little subdued.

“Because I was grieved for you—I pitied you.” “Pitied!” and the angry demon again rose. Olive saw she must not touch that chord again.

“My dear,” she said, still more kindly; “indeed I have neither the wish nor the right to rule you; I only advise.” “And to advice I am ready to listen. Don't mistake me, Miss Rothesay. I liked you—I do still—very much indeed; but you don't quite understand or sympathise with me now.”

“Why not, dear? Is it because I have little time to be with you, being so much occupied with my mother, and with my profession?”

“Ay, that is it,” said Christal, loftily. “My dear Miss Rothesay, I am much obliged to you for all your kindness; but we do not suit one another. I have found that out since I visited at Farnwood Hall. There is a difference between a mere artist working for a livelihood, and an independent lady.”

Even Christal, abrupt as her anger had made her, blushed for the rudeness of this speech. But false shame kept her from offering any atonement.

Olive's slight figure expressed unwonted dignity. In her arose something of the old Rothesay pride, but still more of pride in her Art. “There is a difference; but, to my way of thinking, it is often on the side of the artist.”

Christal made no answer, and Olive continued, resuming her usual manner. “Come, we will not discuss this matter. All that need be decided now, is, whether or not I shall draw the sum you will require to buy your horse. I will, if you desire it; because, as you say, I have indeed no control over you. But, my dear Christal, I entreat you to pause and consider; at least till morning.”

Olive rose, for she was unequal to further conversation. Deeply it pained her that this girl, whom she wished so to love, should evidently turn from her, not in dislike, but in a sort of contemptuous indifference. Still she made one effort more. As she was retiring, she went up, bade her good-night, and kissed her as usual.

“Do not let this conversation make any division between us, Christal.”

“Oh no,” said Christal, rather coldly. “Only,” she added, in the passionate, yet mournful tone, which she had before used when at Woodford Cottage; “only, you must not interfere with me, Olive. Remember, I was not brought up like you. I had no one to control me, no one to teach me to control myself. It could not be helped! and it is too late now.”

“It is never too late,” cried Olive. But Christal's emotion had passed, and she resumed her lofty manner.

“Excuse me, but I am a little too old to be lectured; and, I have no doubt, shall be able to guide my own conduct. For the future, we will not have quite such serious conversations as this. Good-night!”

Olive went away, heavy at heart. She had long been unaccustomed to wrestle with an angry spirit. Indeed, she lived in an atmosphere so pure and full of love, that on it never gloomed one domestic storm. She almost wished that Christal had not come with them to Farnwood. But then it seemed such an awful thing for this young and headstrong creature to be adrift on the wide world. She determined that, whether Christal desired it or no, she would never lose sight of her, but try to guide her with so light a hand, that the girl might never even feel the sway.

Next morning Miss Manners abruptly communicated her determination not to have the horse, and the matter was never again referred to. But it had placed a chasm between Olive and Christal, which the one could not, the other would not pass. And as various other interests grew up in Miss Rothesay's life, her anxiety over this wayward girl a little ceased. Christal stayed almost wholly at Farnwood Hall; and in humble, happy, Farnwood Dell, Olive abode, devoted to her Art and to her mother.