How surprised Dr. Luttrell would have been if he could have seen the transformation in his patient's appearance--the lean, cadaverous face had lost its fretful look, the melancholy dark eyes had grown bright and vivid, the slow precise voice had waxed animated and even eloquent as he discoursed learnedly on his floral treasures. Flowers, butterflies, and birds were his great hobbies, and his magnificent collections had been gathered from all parts of the world; he had been a great traveller in his early manhood. "I have been everywhere and seen everything," he said once. Towards the end of the afternoon Olivia had been much touched by a little incident; she had asked him a question about a curious cactus. "If you will come with me, my dear," he had answered, "I could show you a better specimen"--and then a dull red had risen to his forehead. "Excuse me, Mrs. Luttrell. I forgot whom I was addressing--and--and--you----" but here he checked himself. "Oh, do finish your sentence!" she said, in her bright persuasive voice. "You were going to say that I remind you of someone?"--and as he met her kind friendly glance, his shy stiffness relaxed. "Yes," he said, simply, and a great sadness came into his eyes, "you remind me of my daughter. That first evening when you spoke to me you reminded me of her then." "And you have lost her! Oh, I am so sorry! Does it pain you to speak of her? I should so like to know her name!" "Her name was Olivia," he returned, slowly, "but we always called her Olive. She was born at Beyrout, under the Syrian sun, and in the land of grey olive-trees." "How strange! What a curious coincidence!" returned young Mrs. Luttrell, softly. "That is my name too, and Marcus often calls me Olive; and I remind you of her?" "Yes, Olive spoke in just that brisk, cheerful manner. She was so full of life and energy. She died of fever at Rome--we were staying there. She was only two-and-twenty, and she was to have been married that summer. Her poor mother never got over the shock; before the autumn she had followed her." "Oh, how sad--how dreadfully sad!" observed Olivia, with tears in her eyes. "What a tragedy to live through. And her poor lover too!" "Oh, yes, Arbuthnot; he was bitterly cut up. He is a judge now, and has a good wife, but I doubt if he has ever forgotten Olive. She was no beauty, but she had a way with her. Stay--I will show you her picture." "Poor man! No wonder he looks melancholy," thought Olivia, as he slowly hobbled away on his crutches. "How strange that I should remind him of her, and that she should be Olive too!" but when Mr. Gaythorne returned and placed a beautiful miniature before her, she could see no resemblance to herself in the dark sweet face of Olive Gaythorne. No, she was not beautiful, but there was something wonderfully attractive and winning in her expression; the eyes, deep-set like her father's, had a frank soft look.