Such were the tendencies of this child's mind—ever toward the melancholy and the beautiful united. Quietly pensive as her disposition was, she had no young companions to rouse her into mirth. But there was a serenity even in her sadness; and no one could have looked in her face without feeling that her nature was formed to suit her apparent fate, and that if less fitted to enjoy, she was the more fitted for the solemnity of that destiny, to endure.
She had lived twelve years without knowing sorrow, and it was time that the first lesson, bitter, yet afterwards sweet, should be learned by the child. The shaft came to her through Elspie's faithful bosom, where she had rested all her life, and did rest now, with the unconscious security of youth, which believes all it loves to be immortal. That Elspie should grow old seemed a thing of doubtful future; that she should be ill or die was a thing that never crossed her imagination.
And when at last, one year in the fall of the leaf, the hearty and vigorous old woman sickened, and for two or three days did not quit her room, still Olive, though grieving for the moment, never dreamed of any serious affliction. She tended her nurse lovingly and cheerfully, made herself quite a little woman for her sake, and really half enjoyed the stillness of the sickroom. It was a gay time—the house was full of visitors—and Elspie and her charge, always much left to one another's society, were now alone in their nursery, night and day. No one thought the nurse was ailing, except with the natural infirmity of old age, and Elspie herself uttered no word of complaint. Once or twice, while Olive was doing her utmost to enliven the sick-chamber, she saw her nurse watch her with eager love, and then sink into a grave reverie, from which it took more than one embrace to rouse her.
One night, or rather morning, Olive was roused by the sight of a white figure standing at her bedside. She would have been startled, but that Elspie, sleeping in the same room, had many a time come to look on her darling, even in the middle of the night. She had apparently done so now.
“Go to your bed again, dear nurse,” anxiously cried Olive. “You should not walk about. Nay, you are not worse?”
“Ay, ay, maybe; but dinna fear, dearie, we'll bide till the morn,” said Elspie, faintly, as she tried to move away, supporting herself by the bed. Soon she sank back dizzily. “I canna walk. My sweet lassie, will ye help your puir auld nurse?”
Olive sprang up, and guided her back to her bed. When she reached it, Elspie said, thoughtfully, “It's strange, unco strange. My strength is a' gane.”
“Never mind, Elspie dear, you are weak with being ill; but you will get better soon. Oh, yes, very soon!”
“It's no that;” and Elspie took her child's hands and looked wistfully in her face. “Olive, gin ye were to tine your puir auld nurse? Gin I were to gang awa?”
“Where?”