“That is well. All is well now. Little Olive, kiss me.”
Olive bent down and kissed her. With that last kiss she received her mother's soul.
Then she suffered the old servant to lead her from the room. She never wept; it would have appeared sacrilege to weep. She went to the open door, and stood, looking to the east, where the sun was rising. Through the golden clouds she almost seemed to behold, ascending, the freed spirit upon whom had just dawned the everlasting morning.
An hour after, when she was all alone in the little parlour, lying on the sofa with her eyes closed, she heard entering a well-known step. It was Harold Gwynne's. He looked much agitated; at first he drew back, as though fearing to approach; then he came up, and took her hand very tenderly.
“Alas, Miss Rothesay, what can I say to you?”
She shed a few tears, less for her own sorrow than because she was touched by his kindness.
“I would have been here yesterday,” continued he, “but I was away from Harbury. Yet, what help, what comfort, could you have received from me?”
Olive turned to him her face, in whose pale serenity yet lingered the light which had guided her through the valley of the shadow of death.
“God,” she whispered, “has helped me. He has taken from me the desire of my eyes, and yet I have peace—perfect peace!”
Harold looked at her with astonishment.