“Good-night, good-night, Allan, and Charlie, and James. We must have another merry walk soon,” was her gay adieu as the boys departed, leaving her in the garden-walk, where Mrs. Flora's tall hollyhocks cast a heavy shadow up to the hall-door.
“You seem very happy, Miss Rothesay.” The voice came from some one standing close by. The next instant her hand was taken in that of Harold Gwynne.
But the pressure was very cold. Olive's heart, which had leaped up within her, sank down heavily, so heavily, that her greeting was only the chilling words,
“I did not expect to see you here!”
“Possibly not; but I—I had business in Edinburgh. However, it will not, I think, detain me long.” He said this sharply even bitterly.
Olive, startled by the suddenness of this meeting, could make no answer, but as they stood beneath the lamp she glanced at the face, whose every change she knew so well. She saw that something troubled him. Forgetful of all besides, her heart turned to him in sympathy and tenderness.
“There is nothing wrong, surely! Tell me, are you quite well, quite happy? You do not know how glad I am to see you, my dear friend.”
And her hand alighted softly on his arm like a bird of peace. Harold pressed it and kept it there, as he often did; they were used to that kind of friendly familiarity.
“You are very good, Miss Rothesay. Yes, all is well at Harbury. Pray, be quite easy on that account But I thought, hearing how merry you were at the garden-gate, that amidst your pleasures here you scarcely remembered us at all.”
His somewhat vexed tone went to Olive's heart. But she only answered,