Perhaps Mildred was to blame for this; in spite of her appreciation of Dr. Heriot, she had never broken through her habit of shy reserve, which was a second nature with her—the old girlish Mildred was hidden out of sight. Dr. Heriot only saw in his friend's sister a gentle, soft-eyed woman, seeming older than she really was, and with tender, old-fashioned ways, always habited in sober grays and with a certain staidness of mien and quiet precision of speech, which, with all its restfulness, took away the impression of youth.
Yes, good and womanly as he thought her, Dr. Heriot was ignorant of the real Mildred. Aunt Milly alone with her boys, blushing and dimpling under their saucy praise, would have shattered all his ideas of primness; just as those fits of wise eloquence, while Olive and Polly lingered near her in the dark, the sweet impulse of words that stirred them to their hearts' core, would have roused his latent enthusiasm to the utmost.
Dr. Heriot's true ideal of womanly beauty and goodness passed his door daily, disguised in Quaker grays and the large shady black hat that was for use and not for ornament, but he did not know it; when he looked out it was to note how fresh and piquant Polly looked in her white dress and blue ribbons as she tripped beside Mildred, or how the Spanish hat with its long black feather suited Olive's sombre complexion.
Olive had greatly improved since her illness; she was still irredeemably plain in her own eyes, but few were ready to endorse this opinion; her figure had rounded and filled out into almost majestic proportions, her shoulders had lost their ungainly stoop, and her slow movements were not without grace.
Her complexion would always be sallow, but the dark abundant hair was now arranged to some advantage, and the large earnest eyes were her redeeming features, while a settled but soft seriousness had replaced the old absorbing melancholy.
Olive would never look on the brighter side of life as a happier and more sanguine temperament would; she still took life seriously, almost solemnly, though she had ceased to repine that length of days had been given her; with her, conscientiousness was still a fault, and she would ever be given to weigh herself carefully and be found wanting; but there were times when even Olive owned herself happy, when the grave face would relax into smiles and the dark eyes grow bright and soft.
And there were reasons for this; Olive no longer suffered the pangs of passionate and unrequited love, and her heart was at rest concerning Richard.
For two years the sad groping after truth, the mute search for vocation, the conflict between duty and inclination, had continued, and still the grave, stern face, kindly but impressive, has given no clue to his future plans. 'I will tell you when I know myself, father,' was his parting speech more than once. 'I trust you, Cardie, and I am content to wait,' was ever his father's answer.
But deliverance came at last, when the fetters fell off the noble young soul, when every word in the letter that reached Mr. Lambert spoke of the new-born gladness that filled his son's heart; there was no reticence.
'You trusted me and you were content to wait then; how often I have repeated these words to myself, dear father; you have waited, and now your patience shall be rewarded.