"Mama? You are up?"
"Yes, dear; are you sick? What is the matter?"
"Nothing. I only want to tell you something;" and Olive pushed the stool up as she spoke, and sat down.
"I meant to tell you before, but somehow I never did. Will you listen now?"
"Certainly, dear;" for well enough she knew that something weighed on Olive's mind to bring her there at that time. So Olive told her story, without a blush or hesitancy, from the beginning down to the receipt of the letter; and as Mrs. Dering watched her face in the pale light, so clearly expressing its dislike to any lover, and its rapt devotion to her art, she knew well enough what the decision would be.
"And I'm going to say no," finished Olive, at last. "Have I done right, mama?"
"Perfectly, Olive. I am surprised, and yet not wholly so, for something of the kind occurred to me when he was here. Never marry where you do not love, dear. No possible advantage, influence, or station, that can be gained by a loveless marriage, will ever be sufficient recompense for the galling misery of two hearts, grinding their life out, for want of sympathy and mutual love to oil the way. I admire and think a great deal of Roger Congreve, and you have won the love of a good man, dear, which if true, will bide its time patiently, and when you are older it may seem different to you."
Olive looked up in mute amazement. Even mother said that to her.
"No," she said obstinately, in a moment. "I don't think it will be so. I know it will not. I'm sorry that he loves me, because it will always keep us from being friends. Mama, surely you would not have me do such a thing as get married, and drop my work, as I would have to do, more or less, with so many new duties?"
"No, dear, no; I am only too glad that your heart is still free, for you are too young to think of marriage. I would not consent to it. Besides you are quite right; with the duties and responsibilities of a wife, you could not devote your whole time and love to your art, and I should feel very sorry to think that anything is going to interfere with perfecting the talent which God has given you. But sooner or later, Olive, there comes to every woman, who stands alone, a yearning for love and home; a desire to feel that there is some one whom she can claim as her own, and to whom she is dearer than aught else. Love your art, dear, work faithfully in it, and if it should always satisfy your heart, I will be quite content, for then you will always be my own. If the other feeling ever comes, God will take care of it. Now go, dear; don't let this keep you awake longer, for we want all fresh faces to-morrow. Good night."