The letter went, and an answer arrived in due form, not to Mrs., but to Miss Rothesay:
“Madam,—I thank you for your letter, and have pleasure in
cancelling a portion of my claim. I would fain cancel the
whole of it, but I must not sacrifice my own household to
that of strangers.
“Allow me to express my deep respect for a child so
honourably jealous over a father's memory, and to subscribe
myself,
“Your very obedient,
“Harold Gwynne.”
“He is not so stony-hearted after all, mamma,” said Olive, smiling. “Shall I put this letter with the other; we had better keep them both?”
“Certainly, my dear.”
“Look, the envelope is edged and sealed with black.”
“Is it? Oh, perhaps he has lost his mother. I think I once heard your poor papa say he knew her once. She must be now an old woman; still her loss has probably been a grief to her son.”
“Most likely,” said Olive, hastily. She never could bear to hear of any one's mother dying; it made her feel compassionately even towards Mr. Gwynne; and then she quickly changed the subject.
The two letters were put by in her desk; and thus, for a season at least, the Harbury correspondence closed.