“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.