"Because it's the truth; I like him very much indeed, but I don't want any lovers, I'm too young, and something else to think about," exclaimed Olive with unmistakable aversion to the thought. "Heighty-tighty! your mother was married at eighteen," cried the old gentleman briskly. "I can't help it, sir. I never want, or expect to marry. My work is all I want." "Yes, but your work will fail you some time, child; a one-sided love on a single altar soon burns itself out for want of fuel. There must be "'The happiness thrown on from kindred flames to sustain A spark of devotion for a lifeless love.' "The time will come when you may be alone in the world, and I'm much mistaken if your art alone will satisfy the cravings of your woman's heart." Olive listened in some amaze to such a lengthy speech from the usually short spoken gentleman; and though she felt no less certain of lifelong satisfaction with her art, she asked meekly. "What would you have me do, Uncle Ridley? I don't love him." "But are you sure you don't, my child? I knew he loved you all along, and it made my old heart glad; but I never knew how very dear you were to him, until he came back from here, and told me what you had said. You think marriage would interfere with your work, but it will not; why, Roger is as proud and anxious for your success as ever you could be for yourself. He told me that if you would only let him share your work and efforts, that he would take you abroad, that you should see the finest paintings the world holds, and that you should study with the finest masters. You--" but here he paused, for Olive gave a gasp, and turned white as a ghost in the moonlight. _Abroad, masters!_ The words struck her like a flash of lightning, and made her tremble with a great rush of delicious longing. She clung to the old gentleman's arm for a moment, and wondered if she was dreaming; but his next words brought her back; though she heard them but dimly. "Here is a letter for you; he wanted me to bring it, and Olive, don't make up your mind too quickly. Both you and Roger are very dear to me, and I would like to see you both happy before I die--as I suppose I must before many years, and--and--confound it! where's my snuff?--I hope you will send a different word back to him." Olive took the letter and put it in her pocket, still in that dazed wonder, and when they reached home, she longed to go off up stairs, and think it over alone, but it would be unkind on Bea's last evening; so she followed Mr. Congreve into the sitting-room, where a chorus of questions met them. "God bless my soul, what curiosity!" cried the old gentleman, crustily. "She went down town and I went after her, let that do." So no one asked another question, except Jean, who got on to his lap with the freedom of one who knew that nothing she did would receive reproof; and she whispered something in his ear, that made him smile good-naturedly, and immediately take an immense pinch of snuff.