shutting out all but the small blue rift of sky above. Even the sun seems slow to peep in, as if his brightness were not needed by those who walk in the light of their own hearts. And the little birds warble and the little burnie runs, as if neither knew there was a weary world outside, where many a heart, pure as either, grows dumb amidst its singing, and freezes slowly as it flows.
Olive walked along by Harold's side in a happy dream. He looked so cheerful, so “good”—a word she had often used, and he had smiled at—meaning those times when, beneath her influence, the bitterness melted from him. Such times there were—else she could never have learned to love him as she did. Then, as now, his eyes were wont to lighten, and his lips to smile, and there came an almost angelic beauty over his face.
“I think,” he said, “that my spirit is changing within me. I feel as if I had never known life until now. In vain I say unto myself that this must be a mere fantasy of mine; I, who am marked with the 'frost of eild,' who will soon be—let me see—seven-and-thirty years old. What think you of that age?”
His eyes, bent on her, spoke more than mere curiosity; but Olive, unaware, looked up and smiled.
“Why, I am getting elderly myself; but I heed it not. One need mind nothing if one's heart does not grow old.”
“Does yours?”
“I hope not. I would like to lead a life like Aunt Flora's—a quiet stream that goes on singing to the end.”
“Look me in the face, Olive Rothesay,” said Harold, abruptly. “Nay—pardon me, but I speak like one athirst, who would fain know if any other human thirst is ever satisfied. Tell me, do you look back on your life with content, and forward with hope? Are you happy?”
Olive's eyes sank on the ground.
“Do not question me so.” she said trembling. “In life there is nothing perfect; but I have peace, great peace. And for you there might be not only peace, but happiness.”