CHAPTER XXIII. WHEN GOD DREW NEAR AMONG HIS OWN TO CHOOSE. "And is that the word you are going to send back, Olive?" "Yes, sir." "And Roger must go abroad, alone?" "I suppose so, if he goes at all." Mr. Congreve sighed, and Olive began to tap her foot impatiently on the grass. "Uncle Ridley, I couldn't; I should hate him; I should hate myself and my art, too, if I felt that I owed all its success to some one else. He would be miserably unhappy, and so would I. Even if I loved him as he wants me to, I couldn't accept everything from him." "Too proud, Olive, too proud; but then I suppose you are right; indeed, I shouldn't wonder if you were," muttered the old gentleman, walking slowly back and forth with his eyes down. "But I hate to take this word back to the boy, I do indeed." "Well, I'm sure, he's a man, and I really think by this time, that he is quite reconciled to it. At any rate, he'll get over it before long," said Olive complacently. "God bless my soul!" cried Mr. Congreve, pausing before her, with a puzzled wonder in his shrewd eyes. "Do you honestly so little realize what Roger's nature is, or how much the boy loves you, and how he is waiting to hear what word I bring!" "He ought to know by this time that it is the same I gave to him. I told you, no, the day after you gave me the letter; surely, you told him so when you wrote." "But I didn't, though. I thought, like as not, with the prospect of travel, you might change your mind after you'd thought about it more, and I told him that I was giving you time." "You must think I am very weak and uncertain," said Olive with some impatience. "If he really is anxious for an answer, it is unkind to keep him waiting." "Well, well, that's so, I know, but I must confess that I thought the masters and travel would bring you 'round," and Mr. Congreve shook his head, as if in dire perplexity. "I had rather work day and night, and win my own success, be it ever so little, than to owe the widest fame to another. Besides, I don't want to be married, I wouldn't be for anything; I want to belong to myself, and do as I please!" cried Olive, vehemently; then slipped her arm through his, with a little coaxing gesture, such as she sometime used with the crusty old man, and said: "There, Uncle Ridley, it is all settled, so let's not speak of it any more. There come Walter and Bea; we'll walk down to the gate and meet them."