“Ay, in a foolish affection which was all in vain.”
“Affection is never in vain. I have thought sometimes that as to give is better than to receive, they who love are happier than they who are loved.”
Harold was silent. He remained so until they stood at Miss Rothesay's door. Then bidding her good-bye, he took her two hands, saying, as if inquiringly, “Olive?”
“Yes,” she answered, trembling a little—but not much—for her dream of happiness was fading slowly away, and she was sinking back into her old patient, hopeless self. That olden self alone spoke as she added, “Is there anything you would say to me?”
“No, no—nothing—only good night.” And he hastily walked away.
An hour after, Olive closed her heavy eyes, that burned with long weeping, and lay down to sleep, thinking there was no blessing like the oblivion of night, after every weary day! She lay down, little knowing what mystery of fate that quiet night was bearing in its bosom.
From her first sleep she started in the vague terror of one who has been suddenly awakened. There was a great noise—knocking—crashing—a sound of mingled voices—and, above all, her name called. Anywhere, waking or sleeping, she would have known that voice, for it was Harold Gwynne's. At first, she thought she must still be dreaming some horrible dream; but consciousness came quick, as it often does at such a time. Before the next outcry was raised she had guessed its meaning. Upon her had come that most awful waking—the waking in a house on fire.
There are some women who in moments of danger gain an almost miraculous composure and presence of mind. Olive was one of these. Calmly she answered Harold's half-frenzied call to her from without her door.
“I am awake and safe; the fire is not in my room. Tell me, what must I do?”
“Dress quickly—there is time. Think of all you can save, and come,” she heard Harold reply. His passionate cry of “Olive!” had ceased; he was now as self-possessed as she.