The Irish standard. [volume] (Minneapolis, Minn. ;) 1886-1920, 1892-03-05

had won. And then he finished with
the usual wishes for her future happi-
ness, and that was all.
Olive read the letter, standing by
Uncle Wakes side, held fast by his
kind arm. She put it back into his
hand and said that she did not wish to
see it again.
''And now must face my life said
the girl to herself .
But this facing life that was SO ut
terly changed was no easy task. If
you who read these pages have ever
tried to go on living after the uprooting
of a great hope, you will know how hard
it was.
CHAPTER XII
'.RoUND OUR REsTLEssNEss. HIS REST
Day after day went by, and Olive
fought with all her might against that
Indifference to all outward things
which is the bane of sick soul. Day
after day voice within was always re-
peating the dirge-ike words: "You do
not care for anything, and You never
will care any more"
Uncle Wake proposed holiday In
the country; his wife had some re1a-
tions living in a Surrey village, and
Olive was sent to stay with them for a
few days. They were kind, the air
was sweet, and woods and fields were
beautiful as of old, but comfort did
not come to the sorelytried heart. The
voice of peace did not speak to her
here: she could hear only the echoes OF
the past, and think only of $'the touch
of the banished hand" 1t did not
gladden. her now to stand looking over
the stiles down the long meadows;
there was no hope in the sunbeams, ne
promise in the whisper of the grass.
Michael, the traitor, did not dwell in
her mind; he was banished by the mem
DRY Of Michael the young lover. She
thought of him, in spite Of all reason, as
the hero she had first believed him to
be, and mourned for the ideal that she
had loved SO long.
It was relief to go back to the life
in London and take up her work just
where she had laid it down. At home
she was very quiet, grateful for all the
slant heartache; but those who watched
her could see plainly that her soul re.
fused comfort, and knew that the heal.
ing hour had not yet come.
October was gliding away; but it was
a gentle, sunny October, and autumn
faded slowly. And at last there came
Sunday morning, SO bal1ny and soft
that it seemed to have wandered back
from the bygone summer. Olive went
out alone that morning, sad as ever but
with vague desire for the sight of
something green to rest the eyes; and
she walked on, scarcely caring whittier
The steeple of St. Mary lie Strand rose
day, and the great thoroughfare was
bright with tranquil sunshine. All al
once it occurred to Olive that she would
go to the Thames embankment and
look at the river; it would be pleasanter
walking there than III these busy ways.
And, with this thought in her weary
head, she turned suddenly into street
on her right hand--a narrow, stony lit
tie street which she had never entered
before.
She was still SO much of a rustic that.
most of the hooks and byways of the
Strand were unknown to her; and il
was with sense of surprise that she
found herself at the open gates of q
sunshiny churchyard. Within, there
were gray tombstones shaded by plane
trees; the dark gray tower of the an
cient church was touched with. the
quiet light of the autumn morning;
yellow leaves fell here and there;
ground-ash dropped its long branches
over the soft turf. What resting
place was this for tired eyes, weary OF
watching the ceaseless cone and go Of
London crowds Olive stood spell
bound at the gate until her sight grew
dim with tears.
She was not thinking of herself only
as she stood there. She thought of the
many homeless wanderers who had
paused on this very spot, hardly able to
bear the throng of images that started
up around that peaceful sanctuary.
Gray walls and fresh grass and trees,
they make the background of memory'a
hottest pictures. The phantoms of old
happy days went trooping along those
quiet paths and vanished within the
gloom of the low-browed door; fathers
and mothers who had gone to rest long
ago in Gods acre; little children who
had grown up to be careworn men and
women; boys and girls who had loved
each other once with the fresh, un-
love of youth--these were the
shadows that passed slowly through
the green old churchyard every day.
The sorrows of one human heart are
the sorrows Of all; the longings of one
human soul after its lost paradise are
the longings of all, and it is through
these common sorrows and common
longings that the lost sheep are brought
back to the fold and the wandering spir-
it's are drawn softly home to God.
Ideas came to her very slowly that
day, and she had fingered for some
minutes by the gate before she realized
that this little gray church with the
quaint low belfry was the Savoy Chapel
Royal. In that old churchyard, and on
the ground now occupied by all the
buildings, the famous