“Is it so long? I did not note the time.” He “did not note the time.” And she had told every day by hours—every hour by minutes!
“I should have come before,” he continued, “but I have had so many things to occupy me. Besides, I am such poor company. I should only trouble you.”
“You never trouble me.”
“It is kind of you to say so. Well, let that pass. Will you now return with me and spend the day? My mother is longing to see you.”
“I will come,” said Olive, cheerfully. There was a little demur about Christars being left alone, but it was soon terminated by the incursion of a tribe of the young lady's “friends,” whom she had made at Farnwood Hall.
Soon Olive was walking with Mr. Gwynne along the well-known road. The sunshine of the morning seemed to gather and float around her. She remembered no more the pain—the doubt—the weary waiting. She was satisfied now!
Gradually they fell into their old way of conversing. “How beautiful all seems,” said Harold, as he stood still, bared his head, and drank in, with a long sighing breath, the sunshine and the soft air. “Would that I could be happy in this happy world!”
“It is God's world, and as He made it—good; but I often doubt whether He meant it to be altogether happy.”
“Why so?”
“Because life is our time of education—our school-days. Our holidays, I fancy, are to come. We should be thankful,” she added, smiling, “when we get our brief play-hours—our pleasant Saturday afternoons—as now. Do you not think so?”