I know that I am promulgating a new theory of love; I know that in Olive Rothesay I dare to paint a woman full of all maidenly virtues, who has yet given her heart away unrequited—given it to a man who knows not of the treasure he has never sought to win. The case, I grant, is rare. I believe that a woman seldom bestows her love save in return for other love—be it silent or spoken—real or imaginary. If it is not so, either she has deceived herself, or has been deceived.

But the thing is quite possible—ay, and happens sometimes—that a woman unselfish, unexacting in all her affections, more prone to give than to receive, thinking perhaps very little of love or marriage, may be unconsciously attracted by some imagined perfection in the other sex, and be thus led on through the worship of abstract goodness until she wakes to find that she has learned to love the man. For what is love in its purest and divinest sense, but that innate yearning after perfection which we vainly hope to find in some other human soul; this is as likely to be felt by a woman as by a man—ay, and by one most pure from every thought of unfeminine boldness, vanity, or sin.

I know, too, that from many a sage and worthy matron my Olive has for ever earned her condemnation, because, at last discovering her mournful secret, she did not strive in horror and shame to root out this misplaced attachment. Then, after years of self-martyrdom, she might at last have pointed to her heart's trampled garden, and said, “Look what I have had strength to do!” But from such a wrecked and blasted soil what aftergrowth could ever spring?

Better, a thousand times, that a woman to whom this doom has come unwittingly, without her seeking—as inevitably and inexorably as fate—should pause, stand steadfast, and look it in the face, without fear. She cannot disguise it, or wrestle with it, or fly from it Let her meet it as she would meet death—solemnly, calmly, patiently. Let her draw nigh and look upon the bier of her life's dead hope, until the pale image grows beautiful as sleep; then cover it—bury it—if she can. Perhaps it may one day rise from the grave, wearing a likeness no longer human, but divine.

It is time that we women should begin to teach and to think thus. It is meet that we—maidens, wives, mothers, to whom the lines have fallen in more pleasant places—should turn and look on that pale sisterhood—some carrying meekly to the grave their heavy unuttered secret, some living unto old age, to bear the world's smile of pity, even of derision, over an “unfortunate attachment.” Others, perhaps, furnishing a text whereupon prudent mothers may lesson romantic daughters, saying, “See that you be not like these 'foolish virgins;' give not your heart away in requital of fancied love; or, madder still, in worship of ideal goodness—give it for nothing but the safe barter of a speedy settlement, a comfortable income, a husband, and a ring.”

Olive Rothesay, be not ashamed, nor afraid. Hide the arrow close in thy soul—lay over it thy folded hands and look upwards. Far purer art thou than many a young creature, married without love, living on in decent dignity as the mother of her husband's children, the convenient mistress of his household, and so sinking down into the grave, a pattern of all matronly virtue. Envy her not! A thousand times holier and happier than such a destiny is that silent lot of thine.

With meekness, yet with courage, Olive Rothesay prepared to live her appointed life. At first it seemed very bitter, as must needs be. Youth, while it is still youth, cannot at once and altogether be content to resign love. It will yearn for that tie which Heaven ordained to make its nature's completeness; it will shrink before the long dull vista of a solitary, aimless existence. Sometimes, wildly as she struggled against such thoughts, there would come to Olive's fancy dreams of what her life might have been. The holiness of lovers' love, of wedded love, of mother-love, would at times flit before her imagination; and her heart, still warm, still young, trembled to picture the lonely old age, the hearth blank and silent, the utter isolation from all those natural ties whose place not even the dearest bonds of adopted affection can. ever entirely fill. But, whenever these murmurings arose, Olive checked them; often with a feeling of intolerable shame.

She devoted herself more than ever to her Art, trying to make it as once before the chief interest and enjoyment of her life. It would become the same again, she hoped. Often and often in the world's history had been noted that of brave men who rose from the wreck of love, and found happiness in fame. But Olive had yet to learn that, with women, it is rarely so.

She felt more than ever the mournful change which had come over her, when it happened that great success was won by one of her later pictures—a picture unconsciously created from the inspiration of that sweet love-dream. When the news came—tidings which a year ago would have thrilled her with pleasure—Olive only smiled faintly, and a few minutes after went into her chamber, locked the door, and wept.

There was not, and there could not be, any difference made in her ordinary way of life. She still went to the Parsonage, and walked and talked with Harold, as he seemed always to expect. She listened to all his projects for the future—a future wherein she, alas! had no part Eagerly she strove to impress this fact upon her mind—to forget herself entirely, to think only of him, and what would be best for his happiness. Knowing him so well, and having over him an influence which he seemed rather to like, and which, at least, he never repelled, she was able continually to reason, to cheer him, and sympathise with him. He often thanked her for this, little knowing how every quiet word of hers was torn from a bleeding heart.

Walking home with her at nights, as usual, he never saw the white face turned upwards to the stars—the eyes wherein tears burned, but would not fall; the lips compressed in a choking agony, or opened to utter ordinary words in which his ear detected not one tremulous or discordant tone. When he sat in the house, absorbed in anxious thought, little he knew what looks were secretly fastened on his face, to learn by heart every beloved lineament, against the time when his visible likeness would be beheld no more.

Thus miserably did Olive struggle. The record of that time, its every day, its every hour, was seared on her heart as with a burning brand. Afterwards she never thought of it but with a shudder, marvelling how she had been able to endure all and live.

At last the inward suffering began to be outwardly written on her face. Some people said—Lyle Derwent first—that Miss Rothesay did not look so well as she used to do. But indeed it was no wonder, she was so engrossed in her painting, and worked far too much for her strength. Olive neither dissented nor denied: but she never complained, and still went painting on. Harold himself saw she was ill, and sometimes treated her with almost brotherly tenderness. Often he noticed her pale face, paler than ever beneath his eye, or, in wrapping her from the cold, observed how she shivered and trembled. And then Olive would go home and cry out in her misery,

“How long? how long? Oh, that this would cease, or else I die!”

She was quite alone at the Dell now, for Mrs. Fludyer had paid a flying visit home, and had taken back with her both Christal and the somewhat unwilling Lyle. Solitude, once sweet and profitable, now grew fearful unto Olive's tortured mind. And to escape it she had no resource, but that which she knew was to her like a poison-draught, and for which she yet thirsted evermore—the daily welcome at the Parsonage. But the web of circumstances, which she herself seemed to have no power to break, was at length apparently broken for her. One day she received a letter from her father's aunt, Miss Flora Rothesay, inviting—nay, entreating—her to visit Edinburgh, that the old lady might look upon the last of her race.

For a moment Olive blessed this chance of quitting the scenes now become so painful. But then, Harold might need her. In his present conflict of feeling and of purpose he had no confidant save herself. She would have braved years of suffering if her presence could have given him one hour's relief from care. But of this she must judge, so she set off at once to the Parsonage.

“Well, my dear,” said Mrs. Gwynne, with a smiling and mysterious face, “of course you will go at once! It will do your health a world of good. Harold said so only this morning.”

“Then he knew of the letter?”

“Why, to tell the truth, I believe he originated the plan. He saw you wanted change—he has such a regard for you, Olive.”

Then he had done it all! He could let her part from him, easily, as friend from friend. Yet, what marvel! they were nothing more. She answered, quietly, “I will go.”

She told him so when he came in. He seemed much pleased; and said, with more than his usual frankness,

“I should like you to know aunt Flora. You see, I call her my aunt Flora, too, for she is of some distant kin, and I have dearly loved her ever since I was a boy.”

It was something to be going to one whom Harold “dearly loved.” Olive felt a little comfort in her proposed journey.

“Besides, she knows you quite well already, my dear,” observed Mrs. Gwynne. “She tells me Harold used often to talk about you during his visit with her this summer.”

“I had a reason,” said Harold, his dark cheek changing a little. “I wished her to know and love her niece, and I was sure her niece would soon learn to love her.”

“Why, that is kind, and like yourself, my son. How thoughtfully you have been planning everything for Olive.”

“Olive will not be angry with me for that?” he said, and stopped. It was the first time she had ever heard him utter her Christian name. At the sound her heart leaped wildly, but only for an instant. The next, Harold had corrected himself, and said, “Miss Rothesay” in a distinct, cold, and formal tone. Very soon afterwards he went away.

Mrs. Gwynne persuaded Olive to spend the day at the Parsonage. They two were alone together, for Harold did not return. But in the afternoon their quietness was broken by the sudden appearance of Lyle Derwent.

“So soon back from Brighton! Who would have thought it!” said Mrs. Gwynne, smiling.

Lyle put on his favourite sentimental air, and muttered something about “not liking gaiety, and never being happy away from Farnwood.”

“Miss Rothesay is scarcely of your opinion; at all events, she is going to try the experiment by leaving us for a while.”

“Miss Rothesay leaving us!”

“It is indeed true, Lyle. You see I have not been well of late, and my kind friends here are over-anxious for me; and I want to see my aunt in Scotland.”

“It is to Scotland you are going?—all that long dreary way? You may stay there weeks, months! and that while what will become of me—I mean of us all at Farnwood?”

His evident regret touched Olive deeply. It was something to be missed, even by this boy: he always seemed a boy to her, partly because of olden times, partly because he was so boy-like and unsophisticated in mind and manner.

“My dear Lyle, how good of you to think of me in this manner! But indeed I will not forget you when I am away.”

“You promise that?” cried Lyle, eagerly.

Olive promised; with a sorrowful thought that none asked this pledge—none needed it—save the affectionate Lyle!

He was still inconsolable, poor youth! He looked so drearily pathetic, and quoted such doleful poetry, that Mrs. Gwynne, who, in her matter-of-fact plainness, had no patience with any of Lyle's “romantic vagaries,” as she called them, began to exert the dormant humour by which she always quenched his little ebullitions. Olive at last considerately came to the rescue, and proposed an evening stroll about the garden, to which Lyle gladly assented.

There he still talked of her departure, but his affectations were now broken by real feeling.

“I shall miss you bitterly,” he said, in a low tone; “but if your health needs change, and this journey is for your good, of course I would not think of myself at all.”

—The very expressions she had herself used to Harold! This coincidence touched her, and she half reproached herself for feeling so coldly to all her kind friends, and chiefly to Lyle Derwent, who evidently regarded her with much affection. But all other affections grew pale before the one great love. Every lesser tie that would fain come in the place of that which was unattainable, smote her with only a keener pain.

Still, half remorsefully, she looked on her old favourite, and wished that she could care for him more. So thinking, her manner became gentler than usual, while that of Lyle grew more earnest and less dreamy.

“I wish you would write to me while you are away, Miss Rothesay; or, at all events, let me write to you.”

“That you may; and I shall be so glad to hear all about Harbury and Farnwood.” Here she paused, half-shaming to confess to herself that for this reason chiefly would she welcome the letters of poor Lyle.

“Is that all? Will you not care to hear about me? Oh, Miss Rothesay,” cried Lyle, “I often wish I was again a little boy in the dear old garden at Oldchurch.”

“Why so?”

“Because—because”—and the quick blood rose in his cheek. “No, no, I cannot tell you now; but perhaps I may, some time.”

“Just as you like,” answered Olive, absently. Her thoughts, wakened by the long-silent name, were travelling over many years; back to her old home, her happy girlhood. She almost wished she had died then, while she was young. But her mother!

“No, I am glad I lived to comfort her.” she mused. “Perhaps it may be true that none ever leave earth until they are no longer needed there. So I will even patiently live on.”

Unable to talk more with Lyle, Olive re-entered the Parsonage. Harold sat reading.

“Have you long come in?” she asked in a somewhat trembling voice.

He answered, “About an hour.”

“I did not see you enter.”

“It was not likely; you were engaged with my brother-in-law. Therefore I would not disturb you, but took my book.”

He spoke in the abrupt, cold manner he sometimes used. Olive thought something had happened to annoy him. She sat down and talked with him until the cloud passed away.

Many times during the evening Lyle renewed his lamentations over Miss Rothesay's journey; but Harold never uttered one word of regret. When Olive departed, however, he offered to accompany her home.

“Nay—it is such a rainy night—perhaps”——

“Very well, since you choose it so,” and he sat down again. But Olive saw she had wounded his pride, only his pride; she said this to her heart, to keep down its unconscious thrill. She replied, hesitatingly:

“Still, as we shall not have many more walks together, if”——

“I will come,” he said, smiling.

And he came. Moreover, he contrived to keep her beside him. Lyle, poor fellow, went whistling in solitude down the other side of the road, until at the Dell he said goodnight, and vanished.

Harold had talked all the way on indifferent subjects, never once alluding to Olive's departure. He did so now, however, but carelessly, as if with an accidental thought.

“I wonder whether you will return before I leave Har-bury—that is, if I should really go. I should like to see you once again. Well, chance must decide.”

Chance! when she would have controlled all accidents, provided against all hindrances, woven together all purposes, to be with him for one single day!

At once the thought broke through the happy spell which, for the time, his kindness had laid upon her. She felt that it was only kindness; and as such he meant it, no more! In his feelings was not the faintest echo of her own. A sense of womanly pride arose, and with it a cruel pang of womanly shame. These lasted while she bade him good-night, somewhat coldly; then both sank at once, and there remained to her nothing but helpless sorrow.

She listened for the last sound of his footsteps down the road. But she heard them not; and thought, half-sighing, how quickly he must have walked away!

A very few days intervened between Miss Rothesay's final decision and her departure. During this time, she only once saw Harold Gwynne. She thought he might have met her a little oftener, seeing they were so soon to part. But he did not; and the pain it gave warned her that all was happening for the best. Her health failing, her cheerful spirit broken, even her temper growing embittered with this mournful struggle, she saw that in some way or other it must be ended. She was thankful that all things had arranged themselves so plainly before her.

There was planned no farewell meeting at the Parsonage; but Mrs. Gwynne spent at the Dell the evening before Olive's departure. Harold would have come, his mother said, but he had some important matters to arrange; he would, however, appear some time that evening. However, it grew late, and still his welcome knock was not heard. At last one came; it was only Lyle, who called to bid Miss Rothesay good-bye. He did so dolorously enough, but Olive scarcely felt any pain.

“It is of no use waiting,” said Mrs. Gwynne. “I think I will go home with Lyle—that is, if he will take my son's place for the occasion. It is not quite right of Harold; he does not usually forget his mother.”

Olive instinctively hinted some excuse. She was ever prone to do so, when any shadow of blame fell on Harold.

“You are always good, my dear. But still he might have come, even for the sake of proper courtesy to you.”

Courtesy!

Mrs. Gwynne entreated Olive to call at the Parsonage on her journey next morning. It would not hinder her a minute. Little Ailie was longing for one good-bye, and perhaps she might likewise see Harold. Miss Rothesay assented. It would have been hard to go away without one more look at him—one more clasp of his hand.

Yet both seemed denied her. When Olive reached the Parsonage, he was not there. He had gone out riding, little Ailie thought; no one else knew anything about him.

“It was very wrong and unkind,” said Mrs. Gwynne in real annoyance.

“Oh, no, not at all,” was all that Olive murmured. She took Ailie on her knee, and hid her face upon the child's curls.

“Ah, dear Miss Rothesay, you must come back soon,” whispered the little girl. “We can't do without you. We have all been much happier since you came to Harbury; papa said so, last night.”

“Did he?”

“Yes; when I was crying at the thought of your going away, and he came to my little bed, and comforted me, and kissed me. Oh, you don't know how sweet papa's kisses are! Now, I get so many of them. Before he rode out this morning he gave me half-a-dozen here, upon my eyes, and said I must learn all you taught me, and grow up a good woman, just like you. What! are you crying? Then I will cry too.”

Olive laid her thin cheek to the rosy one of Harold's daughter; she wept, but could not speak.

“What kisses you are giving me, dear Miss Rothesay, and just where papa gives me them, too. How kind! Ah, I love you—I love you dearly.”

“God bless and take care of you, my dear child—almost as dear as though you had been born my own,” was Mrs. Gwynne's farewell, as she bestowed on Olive one of her rare embraces. And then the parting was over.

Closing her eyes—her heart;—striving to make her thoughts a blank, and to shut out everything save the welcome sense of blind exhaustion that was creeping over her, Olive lay back in the carriage, and was whirled from Harbury.

She had a long way to go across the forest-country until she reached the nearest railway-station. When she arrived, it was already late, and she had barely time to take her seat ere the carriages started. That moment her quick ear caught the ringing of a horse's hoofs, and as the rider leaped on the platform she saw it was Harold Gwynne. He looked round eagerly—more eagerly than she had ever seen him look before. The train was already moving, but they momently recognised each other, and Harold smiled—his own frank affectionate smile. It fell like a sunburst upon Olive Rothesay.

Her last sight of him was as he stood with folded arms, intently watching the winding northward line. Then, feeling that this had taken away half her pain, she was borne upon her solitary journey.