It was an exciting evening. Mr. Lambert was overjoyed at seeing his son again, though much shocked at the still visible evidences of past suffering. Polly was warmly welcomed with a fatherly blessing, and he was so much occupied with the young pair, that Mildred was at liberty to devote herself to Olive.

She followed her into her room ostensibly to assist in unpacking, but they soon fell into one of their old talks.

'Dear Olive,' she said, kissing her, 'you don't know how good it is to see you again. I never believed I could miss you so much.'

'You have not missed me half so much as I have you,' returned Olive, blushing with surprised pleasure. 'I always feel so lost without you, Aunt Milly. When I wanted you very badly—more than usual, I mean—I used to go into your room and think over all the comforting talks we have had together, and then try and fancy what you would tell me to do in such and such cases.'

'Dear child, that was drawing from a very shallow well. I remember I told you to fold up all your perplexities in your letters, and I would try and unravel them for you; but I see you were afraid of troubling me.'

'That was one reason, certainly; but I had another as well. I could not forget what you told me once about the bracing effects of self-decision in most circumstances, and how you once laughingly compared me to Mr. Ready-to-Halt, and advised me to throw away my crutches.'

'In other words, solving your own difficulties; certainly I meant what I said. Grown-up persons are so fond of thinking for young people, instead of training them to think for themselves, and then they are surprised that the brain struggles so slowly from the swaddling-bands that they themselves have wrapped round them.'

'It was easier than I thought,' returned Olive, slowly; 'at first I tormented myself in my old way, and was tempted to renew my arguments about conflicting duties, till I remembered there must be a right and wrong in everything, or at least by comparison a better way.'

'Why, you have grown quite a philosopher, Olive; I shall be proud of my pupil,' and Mildred looked affectionately at her niece. What a noble-looking woman Olive would be, she thought. True, the face was colourless, and the features far too strongly marked for beauty; but the mild, dark eyes and shadowy hair redeemed it from plainness, and the speaking, yet subdued, intelligence that lingered behind the hesitating speech produced a pleasing impression; yet Mildred, who knew the face so well, fancied a shadow of past or present sadness tinged the even gravity that was its prevailing expression.

Olive's thoughts unfolded slowly like flowers—they always needed the sunshine of sympathy; a keen breath, the light mockery of incredulity, killed them on the spot. Now of her own accord she began to speak of the young lovers.