"That's rather idle. I'm not really sure yet what
your name is, and I don't care. Let's imagine that we
haven't any names,-I'm sure my name isn't of any
use, and I'll be glad to go nameless all my days if
only-"
"If only-" she repeated idly, opening and closing
her fan. It was a frail blue trifle, painted in golden
butterflies.
"There are so many 'if onlies' that I hesitate to
choose; but I will venture one. If only you will come
back to St. Agatha's! Not to-morrow, or the next day,
but, say, with the first bluebirds. I believe they are
the harbingers up there."
Her very ease was a balm to my spirit; she was now
a veritable daughter of repose. One arm in its long
white sheath lay quiet in her lap; her right hand held
the golden butterflies against the soft curve of her cheek.
A collar of pearls clasped her throat and accented the
clear girlish lines of her profile. I felt the appeal of
her youth and purity. It was like a cry in my heart,
and I forgot the dreary house by the lake, and Pickering
and the weeks within the stone walls of my prison.
"The friends who know me best never expect me to
promise to be anywhere at a given time. I can't tell;
perhaps I shall follow the bluebirds to Indiana; but
why should I, when I can't play being Olivia any
more?"
"No! I am very dull. That note of apology you
wrote from the school really fooled me. But I have
seen the real Olivia now. I don't want you to go too
far-not where I can't follow-this flight I shall hardly
dare repeat."
Her lips closed-like a rose that had gone back to be
a bud again-and she pondered a moment, slowly freeing
and imprisoning the golden butterflies.
"You have risked a fortune, Mr. Glenarm, very, very
foolishly,-and more-if you are found here. Why,
Olivia must have recognized you! She must have seen
you often across the wall."
"But I don't care-I'm not staying at that ruin up
there for money. My grandfather meant more to me
than that-"
"Yes; I believe that is so. He was a dear old gentleman;
and he liked me because I thought his jokes adorable.
My father and he had known each other. But
there was-no expectation-no wish to profit by his
friendship. My name in his will is a great embarrassment,
a source of real annoyance. The newspapers
have printed dreadful pictures of me. That is why I
say to you, quite frankly, that I wouldn't accept a cent
of Mr. Glenarm's money if it were offered me; and
that is why,"-and her smile was a flash of spring,-"I
want you to obey the terms of the will and earn your
fortune."