She told him so when he came in. He seemed much pleased; and said, with more than his usual frankness,
“I should like you to know aunt Flora. You see, I call her my aunt Flora, too, for she is of some distant kin, and I have dearly loved her ever since I was a boy.”
It was something to be going to one whom Harold “dearly loved.” Olive felt a little comfort in her proposed journey.
“Besides, she knows you quite well already, my dear,” observed Mrs. Gwynne. “She tells me Harold used often to talk about you during his visit with her this summer.”
“I had a reason,” said Harold, his dark cheek changing a little. “I wished her to know and love her niece, and I was sure her niece would soon learn to love her.”
“Why, that is kind, and like yourself, my son. How thoughtfully you have been planning everything for Olive.”
“Olive will not be angry with me for that?” he said, and stopped. It was the first time she had ever heard him utter her Christian name. At the sound her heart leaped wildly, but only for an instant. The next, Harold had corrected himself, and said, “Miss Rothesay” in a distinct, cold, and formal tone. Very soon afterwards he went away.
Mrs. Gwynne persuaded Olive to spend the day at the Parsonage. They two were alone together, for Harold did not return. But in the afternoon their quietness was broken by the sudden appearance of Lyle Derwent.
“So soon back from Brighton! Who would have thought it!” said Mrs. Gwynne, smiling.
Lyle put on his favourite sentimental air, and muttered something about “not liking gaiety, and never being happy away from Farnwood.”