'Love you, dear Allan, and love you dearly,' cried the wilful and impulsive girl, as all her heart went forth to him, and he pressed her to his breast at last.
Doubt, pride, defiance, and petulance had all passed away, and Olive was all softness, love, and joy now; and to the pair time seemed for a term to stand still, and save their caressing words softly murmured, and the twitter of birds among the ivy without, silence appeared to reign in this room; and nothing seemed to disturb them, till Olive suddenly started from Allan's arms.
'What is it, love?' he asked.
'A face at the window!'
'Whose face?'
'I know not,' she replied, with some agitation. 'It has just vanished.'
She thought, nay, she was sure, it had the features of Hawke Holcroft, but she did not say so. If it were he, how much had he overheard, how much overseen!
But she soon forgot the episode, and that night at dinner she looked more radiant than ever, in her suite of Maltese jewellery—gold set with orient pearls.
'It is usual for engaged ladies to have a ring,' Allan had whispered, as he slipped a magnificently jewelled hoop upon her mystic finger.
'Fool that I have been!' thought the girl. 'How near was I estranging one of the best and dearest of men in the world, not for the sake of one immeasurably his inferior, even worthless perhaps, but in a spirit of vanity, pique, and suspicion!'