'This is where she comes on Sunday afternoons; she keeps it a secret from the others; none of them have discovered it,' thought Mildred, grieved at having disturbed the girl's sacred privacy, and she was quietly retracing her steps, when Olive suddenly raised her head from the book she was reading. As their eyes met, there was a start and a sudden rush of sensitive colour to the girl's face.
'I did not know; I am so sorry to disturb you, my love,' began Mildred, apologetically.
'It does not disturb me—at least, not much,' was the truthful answer. 'I don't like the others to know I come here—because—oh, I have reasons—but this is your first visit, Aunt Milly,' divining Mildred's sympathy by some unerring instinct.
'Yes—may I stay for a moment? thank you, my dear,' as Olive willingly made room for her. 'How beautiful and simple; just the words she loved,' and Mildred read the inscription and chosen text—'His banner over me is love.'
'Do you like it? Mamma chose it herself; she said it was so true of her life.'
'Happy Betha!' and in a lower voice, 'Happy Olive!'
'Why, Aunt Milly?'
'To have had such a mother, though it be only to lose her. Think of the dear bright smiles with which she will welcome you all home.'
Olive's eyes glistened, but she made no answer. Mildred was struck with the quiet repose of her manner; the anxious careworn look had disappeared for the time, and the soft intelligence of her face bore the stamp of some lofty thought.
'Do you always come here, Olive? At this time I mean.'