Olive instinctively hinted some excuse. She was ever prone to do so, when any shadow of blame fell on Harold.
“You are always good, my dear. But still he might have come, even for the sake of proper courtesy to you.”
Courtesy!
Mrs. Gwynne entreated Olive to call at the Parsonage on her journey next morning. It would not hinder her a minute. Little Ailie was longing for one good-bye, and perhaps she might likewise see Harold. Miss Rothesay assented. It would have been hard to go away without one more look at him—one more clasp of his hand.
Yet both seemed denied her. When Olive reached the Parsonage, he was not there. He had gone out riding, little Ailie thought; no one else knew anything about him.
“It was very wrong and unkind,” said Mrs. Gwynne in real annoyance.
“Oh, no, not at all,” was all that Olive murmured. She took Ailie on her knee, and hid her face upon the child's curls.
“Ah, dear Miss Rothesay, you must come back soon,” whispered the little girl. “We can't do without you. We have all been much happier since you came to Harbury; papa said so, last night.”
“Did he?”
“Yes; when I was crying at the thought of your going away, and he came to my little bed, and comforted me, and kissed me. Oh, you don't know how sweet papa's kisses are! Now, I get so many of them. Before he rode out this morning he gave me half-a-dozen here, upon my eyes, and said I must learn all you taught me, and grow up a good woman, just like you. What! are you crying? Then I will cry too.”