Mrs. Rothesay was sitting out of doors, in her garden chair. A beautiful picture she made, leaning back with-a mild sweetness, scarce a smile hovering on her lips. Her pale little hands were folded on her black dress; her soft braids of hair, already silver-grey, and her complexion, lovely as that of a young girl, showing delicately in contrast with her crimson garden-hood, the triumph of her daughter's skilful fingers.
Olive crossed the grass with a quick and noiseless step,—Harold following. “Mamma, darling!”
A light, bright as a sunburst, shone over Mrs. Rothesay's face—“My child! how long you have been away. Did Mrs. Gwynne”—
“Hush, darling!”—in a whisper—“I have been at the Parsonage, and Mr. Gwynne has kindly brought me home. He is here now.”
Harold stood at a distance and bowed.
Olive came to him, saying, in a low tone, “Take her hand, she cannot see you, she is blind.”
He started with surprise. “I did not know—my mother told me nothing.”—And then, advancing to Mrs. Rothesay, he pressed her hand in both his, with such an air of reverent tenderness and gentle compassion, that it made his face grow softened—beautiful, divine!
Olive Rothesay, turning, beheld that look. It never afterwards faded from her memory.
Mrs. Rothesay arose, and said in her own sweet manner, “I am happy to meet Mr. Gwynne, and to thank him for taking care of my child.” They talked for a few minutes, and then Olive persuaded her mother to return to the house.
“You will come, Mr. Gwynne?” said Mrs. Rothesay. He answered, hesitating, that the afternoon would close soon, and he must go on to Farnwood Hall. Mrs. Rothesay rose from her chair with the touching, helpless movement of one who is blind.