“I shall miss you bitterly,” he said, in a low tone; “but if your health needs change, and this journey is for your good, of course I would not think of myself at all.”
—The very expressions she had herself used to Harold! This coincidence touched her, and she half reproached herself for feeling so coldly to all her kind friends, and chiefly to Lyle Derwent, who evidently regarded her with much affection. But all other affections grew pale before the one great love. Every lesser tie that would fain come in the place of that which was unattainable, smote her with only a keener pain.
Still, half remorsefully, she looked on her old favourite, and wished that she could care for him more. So thinking, her manner became gentler than usual, while that of Lyle grew more earnest and less dreamy.
“I wish you would write to me while you are away, Miss Rothesay; or, at all events, let me write to you.”
“That you may; and I shall be so glad to hear all about Harbury and Farnwood.” Here she paused, half-shaming to confess to herself that for this reason chiefly would she welcome the letters of poor Lyle.
“Is that all? Will you not care to hear about me? Oh, Miss Rothesay,” cried Lyle, “I often wish I was again a little boy in the dear old garden at Oldchurch.”
“Why so?”
“Because—because”—and the quick blood rose in his cheek. “No, no, I cannot tell you now; but perhaps I may, some time.”
“Just as you like,” answered Olive, absently. Her thoughts, wakened by the long-silent name, were travelling over many years; back to her old home, her happy girlhood. She almost wished she had died then, while she was young. But her mother!
“No, I am glad I lived to comfort her.” she mused. “Perhaps it may be true that none ever leave earth until they are no longer needed there. So I will even patiently live on.”