“No one, except Sara.”
“Poor child!” was the half involuntary sigh; and Mrs. Rothesay drew her daughter to her with deep tenderness.
It was a strange fate, that made the once slighted child almost the only thing in the world to which Sybilla Rothesay now clung. And yet, so rich, so full had grown the springs of maternal love, long hidden in her nature, that she would not have exchanged their sweetness to be again the petted, wilful, beautiful darling of society, as she was at Stirling. The neglected wife—the often-ailing mother—dependent on her daughter's tenderness, was happier and nearer to heaven than she had ever been in her life.
Mrs. Rothesay regarded Olive earnestly. “You look as ill as if you had been up all night; and yet you came to bed tolerably early, and I thought you slept, you lay so quiet. Was it so, darling?”
“Not quite; I was thinking,” said Olive, truthfully, though her face flushed, for she would fain have kept her bitter thoughts from her mother. Just then, Mrs. Rothesay started at the sound of the hall-bell.
“Is that your father come home? He said he might, today or to-morrow.”
Olive went down-stairs. It was only a letter, to say Captain Rothesay would return that day, and would bring—most rare circumstance!—some guests to visit them. Olive seemed to shrink painfully at this news.
“What, my child, are you not pleased?—It will make the house less dull for you.”
“No, no—I do not wish; oh, mamma! if I could only shut myself up, and never see any one but you”—— And Olive turned very pale. At last, resolutely trying to speak without any show of trouble, she continued—“I have found out something that I never knew—at least, never thought of before—that I am different from other girls. Oh, mother! am I really deformed?”
She spoke with much agitation. Mrs. Rothesay burst into tears.