Olive dressed herself carefully in her delicate-coloured morning-gown. She was one of those women who take pains to appear freshest and fairest in the early hours of the day; to greet the sun as the flowers greet him—rich “in the dew of youth.” Despite her weary vigil, the balmy morning brought colour to her cheek and a faint sweetness to her heart. It was a new and pleasant thing to wake beneath the same roof as Harold Gwynne; to know that his face would meet her when she descended—that she would walk and talk with him the whole day long.

Never did any woman think less of herself than Olive Rothesay. Yet as she stood twisting up her beautiful hair, she felt glad that it was beautiful. Once she thought of what Marion had told her about some one saying she was “like a dove.” Who said it? Not Harold—that was impossible. Arranging her dress, she looked a moment, with half-mournful curiosity, at the pale, small face reflected in the mirror.

“Ah, no! There is no beauty in me. Even did he care for me, I could give him nothing but my poor heart. I can give him that still. It can do him no harm to love him—the very act of loving is blessedness to me.”

So thinking, she left her chamber.

It was long before the old lady's time for rising. There was no one in the breakfast-room, but she saw Harold walking on the garden terrace. Very soon he came in with some heliotrope in his hand. He did not give it to Olive, but laid it by her plate, observing, half-carelessly,

“You were always fond of heliotropes, Miss Rothesay.”

“Thank you for remembering my likings;” and Olive put the flowers in her bosom. She fancied he looked pleased; and suddenly she remembered the meaning given to the flower, “I love you!” At the thought, she began to tremble all over, though contemning her own folly the while. Even had the words been true, she and Harold were both too old for such sentimentalities.

They breakfasted alone. Harold still looked pale and weary, nor did he deny the fact that he had scarcely slept. He told her all the Harbury news, but spoke little of himself or of his plans. “They were yet uncertain,” he said, “but a few more days would decide all.” And then he remained silent until, a little time after, they were standing together at the window. From thence it was a pleasant view. Close beneath, a little fountain rose in slender diamond threads, and fell again with a soft trickling, like a Naiad's sigh. Bees were humming over the richest of autumn flower-gardens, which sloped down, terrace after terrace, until its boundary was hid in the little valley below. Beyond—looking in the clear September air so close that you could almost see the purple of the heather—lay the Braid Hills, a horizon-line soft as that which enclosed the Happy Valley of Prince Rasselas.

Harold stood and gazed.

“How beautiful and calm this is! It looks like a quiet nest—a home for a man's tired heart and brain. Tell me, friend, do you think one could ever find such in this world?”

“A home!” she repeated, somewhat confusedly, for his voice had startled her.—“You have often said that man needed none; that his life was in himself—the life of intellect and of power. It is only we women who have a longing after rest and home.”

Harold made no immediate reply; but after a while he said,

“I want to have a quiet talk with you, Miss Rothesay. And I long to see once more my favourite haunt, the Hermitage of Braid. 'Tis a sweet place, and we can walk and converse there at our leisure. You will come?”

She rarely said him nay in anything, and he somehow unconsciously used a tone of command, like an elder brother;—but there was such sweetness in being ruled by him! Olive obeyed at once; and soon, for the thousandth time, she and Harold were walking out together arm-in-arm.

If ever there was a “lover's walk,” it is that which winds along the burn-side in the Hermitage of Braid. On either side

shutting out all but the small blue rift of sky above. Even the sun seems slow to peep in, as if his brightness were not needed by those who walk in the light of their own hearts. And the little birds warble and the little burnie runs, as if neither knew there was a weary world outside, where many a heart, pure as either, grows dumb amidst its singing, and freezes slowly as it flows.

Olive walked along by Harold's side in a happy dream. He looked so cheerful, so “good”—a word she had often used, and he had smiled at—meaning those times when, beneath her influence, the bitterness melted from him. Such times there were—else she could never have learned to love him as she did. Then, as now, his eyes were wont to lighten, and his lips to smile, and there came an almost angelic beauty over his face.

“I think,” he said, “that my spirit is changing within me. I feel as if I had never known life until now. In vain I say unto myself that this must be a mere fantasy of mine; I, who am marked with the 'frost of eild,' who will soon be—let me see—seven-and-thirty years old. What think you of that age?”

His eyes, bent on her, spoke more than mere curiosity; but Olive, unaware, looked up and smiled.

“Why, I am getting elderly myself; but I heed it not. One need mind nothing if one's heart does not grow old.”

“Does yours?”

“I hope not. I would like to lead a life like Aunt Flora's—a quiet stream that goes on singing to the end.”

“Look me in the face, Olive Rothesay,” said Harold, abruptly. “Nay—pardon me, but I speak like one athirst, who would fain know if any other human thirst is ever satisfied. Tell me, do you look back on your life with content, and forward with hope? Are you happy?”

Olive's eyes sank on the ground.

“Do not question me so.” she said trembling. “In life there is nothing perfect; but I have peace, great peace. And for you there might be not only peace, but happiness.”

Again there fell between them one of those pauses which rarely come save between two friends or lovers, who know thoroughly—in words or in silence—each other's hearts. Then Harold, guiding the conversation as he always did, changed it suddenly.

“I am thinking of the last time I walked here—when I came to Edinburgh this summer. There was with me one whom I regarded highly, and we talked—as gravely as you and I do now, though on a far different theme.”

“What was it?”

“One suited to the season and the place, and my friend's ardent youth. He was in love, poor fellow, and he asked me about his wooing. Perhaps you may think he chose an adviser ill fitted to the task?”

Harold spoke carelessly—and waiting Olive's reply, he pulled a handful of red-brown leaves from a tree that overhung the path, and began playing with them.

“You do not answer, Miss Rothesay. Come, there is scarcely a subject that we have not discussed at some time or other, save this. Let us, just for amusement, take my friend's melancholy case as a text, and argue concerning what young people call 'love.'”

“As you will.”

“A cold acquiescence. You think, perhaps, the matter is either above or beneath me—that I can have no interest therein?” And his eyes, bright, piercing, commanding, seemed to force an answer.

It came, very quietly and coldly.

“I have heard you say that love was the brief madness of a man's life; if fulfilled, a burden—if unfulfilled or deceived, a curse.”

“I said so, did I? Well, you give my opinions—what think you of me? Answer truly—like a friend.”

She did so. She never could look in Harold's eyes and tell him what was not true.

“I think you are one of those men in whom strong intellect prevents the need of love. Youthful passion you may have felt; but true, deep, earnest love you never did know, and, as I believe, never will! Nay, forgive me if I err; I only take you on your own showing.”

“Thank you, thank you! You speak honestly and frankly—that is something for a woman,” muttered Harold; and then there was a long, awkward pause. How one poor heart ached the while!

At last, fearing that her silence annoyed him, Olive took courage to say, “You were going to talk to me about your plans. Do so now; that is, if you are not angry with me,” she added, with a little deprecatory soothing.

It seemed to touch him. “Angry! How could you think so? I am never angry with you. But what do you desire to hear about? Whither I am going, and when? Do you, then, wish—I mean, advise me to go?”

“Yes, if it is for your good. If leaving Harbury would give you rest on that one subject of which we never speak.”

“But of which I, at least, think night and day, and never without a prayer—(I can pray now)—for the good angel who brought light into my darkness,” said Harold, solemnly. “That comfort is with me, whatever else may—But you wanted to hear about my going abroad?”

“Yes, tell me all. You know I like to hear.”

“Well, then, I have only to decide, and I might depart immediately; to America, I think. I should engage in science and literature. Mine would be a safe, sure course; but, at the beginning, I might have a hard struggle. I do not like to take any one to share it.”

“Not your mother, who loves you so?”

“No, because her love would be sorely tried. We should be strangers in a strange land; perhaps poverty would be added to our endurance; I should have to labour unceasingly, and my temper might fail. These are hard things for a woman to bear.”

“You do not know what a woman's affection is!” said Olive earnestly. “How could she be desolate when she had you with her! Little would she care for being poor! And if, when sorely tried, you were bitter at times, the more need for her to soothe you. We can bear all things for those we love.”

“Is it so?” Harold said, thoughtfully, his countenance changing, and his voice becoming soft as he looked upon her. “Do you think that any woman—I mean my mother, of course—would love me with this love?”

And once more Olive taught herself to answer calmly, “I do think so.”

Again there was a silence. Harold broke it by saying, “You would smile to know how childishly my last walk here haunts me; I really must go and see that love-stricken friend of mine. But you, I suppose, take no interest in his wooing?”

“O yes! I like to hear of young people's happiness.”

“But he was not quite happy. He did not know whether the woman he loved loved him. He had never asked her the question.”

“Why not?”

“There were several reasons. First, because he was a proud man, and, like many others, had been deceived once. He would not again let a girl mock his peace. And he was right. Do you not think so?”

“Yes, if she were one who would act so cruelly. But no true woman ever mocked at true love. Rarely, knowingly, would she give cause for it to be cast before her in vain. If your friend be worthy, how knows he but that she may love him all the while?”

“Well, well, let that pass. He has other reasons.” He paused and looked towards her, but Olive's face was drooped out of sight. He continued,—“Reasons such as men only feel. You know not what an awful thing it is to cast one's pride, one's hope—perhaps the weal or woe of one's whole life—upon a woman's light 'Yes' or 'No.' I speak,” he added, abruptly, “as my friend, the youth in love, would speak.”

“Yes, I know—I understand. Tell me more. That is, if I may hear.”

“Oh, certainly. His other reasons were,—that he was poor; that, if betrothed, it might be years before they could marry; or, perhaps, as his health was feeble, he might die, and never call her wife at all. Therefore, though he loved her as dearly as ever man loved woman, he held it right, and good, and just, to keep silence.”

“Did he imagine, even in his lightest thought, that she loved him?”

“He could not tell. Sometimes it almost seemed so.”

“Then he was wrong—cruelly wrong! He thought of his own pride, not of her. Little he knew the long, silent agony she must bear—the doubt of being loved causing shame for loving. Little he saw of the daily struggle: the poor heart frozen sometimes into dull endurance, and then wakened into miserable throbbing life by the shining of some hope, which passes and leaves it darker and colder than before. Poor thing! Poor thing!”

And utterly forgetting herself, forgetting all but the compassion learnt from sorrow, Olive spoke with strong agitation.

Harold watched her intently. “Your words are sympathising and kind. Say on! What should he, this lover, do?”

“Let him tell her that he loves her—let him save her from the misery that wears away youth, and strength, and hope.”

“What! and bind her by a promise which it may take years to fulfil?”

“If he has won her heart, she is already bound. It is mockery to talk as the world talks, of the sense of honour that leaves a woman 'free.' She is not free. She is as much bound as if she were married to him. Tell him so! Bid him take her to his heart, that, come what will, she may feel she has a place there. Let him not insult her by the doubt that she dreads poverty or long delay. If she loves him truly, she will wait years, a whole lifetime, until he claim her. If he labour, she will strengthen him; if he suffer, she will comfort him; in the world's fierce battle, her faithfulness will be to him rest, and help, and balm.”

“But,” said Harold, his voice hoarse and trembling, “what if they should live on thus for years, and never marry? What if he should die?”

“Die!”

“Yes. If so, far better that he should never have spoken—that his secret should go down with him to the grave.”

“What, you mean that he should die, and she never know that he loved her! O Heaven! what misery could equal that!”

As Olive spoke, the tears sprang into her eyes, and, utterly subdued, she stood still and let them flow.

Harold, too, seemed strangely moved, but only for a moment. Then he said, very softly and quietly, “Miss Rothesay, you speak like one who feels every word. These are things we learn in but one school. Tell me—as a friend, who night and day prays for your happiness—are you not speaking from your own heart? You love, or you have loved?”

For a moment Olive's senses seemed to reel. But his eyes were upon her—those truthful, truth-searching eyes.

“Must I look in his face and tell him a lie?” was her half-frenzied thought. “I cannot, I cannot! And the whole truth he will never, never know.”

Dropping her head, she answered, in one word—“Yes!”

“And, with a woman like you, to love once is to love for evermore?”

Again Olive bent her head, and that was all. There was a sound as of crushed leaves, and those with which Harold had been playing fell scattered on the ground. He gave no other sign of emotion or sympathy.

For many minutes they walked on slowly, the little laughing brook beside them seeming to rise like a thunder-voice upon the dead silence. Olive listened to every ripple, that fell as it were like the boom of an engulphing wave. Nothing else she heard, or felt, or thought, until Harold spoke.

His tone was soft and very kind, and he took her hand the while. “I thank you for this confidence. You must forgive me if I did wrong in asking it. Henceforth I shall ask no more. If your life be happy, as I pray God it may, you will have no need of me. If not, hold me ever to your service as a true friend and brother.”

She stooped, she leaned her brow upon the two clasped hands—her own and his—and wept as if her heart were breaking.

But very soon all this ceased, and she felt a calmness like death. Upon it broke Harold's cold, clear voice—as cold and clear as ever.

“Once more, let me tell you all I owe you—friendship, counsel, patience,—for I have tried your patience much. I pray you pardon me! From you I have learned to have faith in Heaven, peace towards man, reverence for women. Your friendship has blessed me—may God bless you.”

His words ceased, somewhat tremulously; and she felt, for the first time, Harold's lips touch her hand.

Quietly and mutely they walked home; quietly and mutely, nay, even coldly, they parted. The time had come and passed; and between their two hearts now rose the silence of an existence.