“What! are you, always the idlest of the idle, reproving Miss Rothesay for being idle too?” said Christal, somewhat sharply. “No wonder she is dull, and I likewise. You are getting as solemn as Mr. Gwynne himself. I almost wish he would come in your place.”
“Do you? Then 'reap the misery of a granted prayer' for there is a knock It may be my worthy brother-in-law himself.”
“If so, for charity's sake, give me your arm and help me into the next room. I cannot abide his gloomy face.”
“O woman!—changeful—fickle—vain!” laughed the young man, as he performed the duty of supporting the not very fragile form of the fair Christal.
Olive was left alone. Why did she tremble? Why did her pulse sink, slower and slower? She asked herself this question, even in self-disdain. But there was no answer.
Harold entered.
“I am come with a message from my mother,” said he; but added anxiously, “How is this, Miss Rothesay? You look as if you had been ill?”
“Oh, no! only weary with a long morning's work. But will you sit!”
He received, as usual, the quiet smile—the greeting gentle and friendly. He was deceived by them as heretofore.
“Are you better than when last I was at the Parsonage? I have seen nothing of you for a week, you know.”