“And what answer did you make to him?” asked Mrs. Easterfield, her voice trembling.

“I did not make him any.  It would not have been fair to the others or to myself to do that.  I shall not swerve from my purpose, but I shall not be rash.”

Mrs. Easterfield rose suddenly and stepped to the open window; she could not sit still a moment longer; she needed air.  “Olive,” she said, “this is mad and wicked folly in you, and it is impertinent in him, no matter how much you encouraged him.  I would like to send him back to his desk this minute.  He has no right to come to his employer’s house and behave in this manner.”

Olive did not get angry.  “He is not impertinent,” said she.  “He knows nothing in this world but that I once loved him, and that now he loves me.  Employer and employee are nothing to him.  I don’t believe he would go if you told him to, even if you could do such a thing, which I don’t believe you would, for, of course, you would think of me as well as of him.”

“Olive Asher,” cried Mrs. Easterfield in a voice which was almost a wail, “do you mean to say that you are to be considered in this matter, that for a moment you think of marrying this man?”

“Yes,” said Olive; “I do think of it, and the more I think of it the better I think of it.  He is a good man; you have told me that yourself; and I can feel that he is good.  I know he loves me.  There can be no mistake about his words and his eyes.  I feel as I never felt toward any other man, that I might become attached to him.  And in my opinion a real attachment is the foundation of love, and you must never forget that I once loved him.”  The girl now stepped close to Mrs. Easterfield.  “I am sorry to see those tears,” she said; “I did not come here to make you unhappy.”

“But you have made me very unhappy,” said the elder lady, “and I do not think I can talk any more about this now.”

When Olive had gone Mrs. Easterfield hurried down-stairs in search of Lancaster.  She did not care what any one might think of her unconventional eagerness; she wanted to find him, and she soon succeeded.  He was sitting in the shade with a book, which, when she approached him, she did not believe he was reading.

“Yes,” said she, as he started to his feet in evident concern, “I have been crying, and there is no use in trying to conceal it.  Of course, it is about Olive, but I can not confide in you now, and I do not know that I have any right to do so, anyway.  But I came here to beg you most earnestly not to propose to Miss Asher, no matter how good an opportunity you may have, no matter how much you want to do so, no matter how much hope may spring up in your heart.”

“Do you mean,” said Dick, “that I must never speak to her?  Am I too late?  Is she lost to me?”

“Not at all,” said she, “you are not too late, but you may be too early.  She is not lost to anybody, but if you should speak to her before I tell you to she will certainly be lost to you.”