That night, as on the one so long ago, when Mr. Congreve made his first visit to them, two persons found it hard to sleep, even after silence and slumber had long held the others. To-night, as on that other, Mrs. Dering sat alone in her room, only now she sat by the window, instead of the dying fire. Now, as then, Jean slept soundly, only now her childish face wore the rosy flush of health instead of feebleness and pallor, and the little form was straight and perfect, instead of crooked and crippled. Who, but a mother, can appreciate a mother's thoughts, when she stands on the threshold of the first separation; the first giving up of her own into another's love and keeping "for better, for worse, until death should them part." The pale young moon climbed slowly up above the tree-top, and just as its slanting rays reached the window-sill, and fell in across the floor, the door opened carefully, and Olive's voice spoke: "Mama? You are up?" "Yes, dear; are you sick? What is the matter?" "Nothing. I only want to tell you something;" and Olive pushed the stool up as she spoke, and sat down. "I meant to tell you before, but somehow I never did. Will you listen now?" "Certainly, dear;" for well enough she knew that something weighed on Olive's mind to bring her there at that time. So Olive told her story, without a blush or hesitancy, from the beginning down to the receipt of the letter; and as Mrs. Dering watched her face in the pale light, so clearly expressing its dislike to any lover, and its rapt devotion to her art, she knew well enough what the decision would be. "And I'm going to say no," finished Olive, at last. "Have I done right, mama?" "Perfectly, Olive. I am surprised, and yet not wholly so, for something of the kind occurred to me when he was here. Never marry where you do not love, dear. No possible advantage, influence, or station, that can be gained by a loveless marriage, will ever be sufficient recompense for the galling misery of two hearts, grinding their life out, for want of sympathy and mutual love to oil the way. I admire and think a great deal of Roger Congreve, and you have won the love of a good man, dear, which if true, will bide its time patiently, and when you are older it may seem different to you." Olive looked up in mute amazement. Even mother said that to her. "No," she said obstinately, in a moment. "I don't think it will be so. I know it will not. I'm sorry that he loves me, because it will always keep us from being friends. Mama, surely you would not have me do such a thing as get married, and drop my work, as I would have to do, more or less, with so many new duties?"