Without speaking, lest Olive should guess her thoughts, she laid the mantle aside, only she whispered in bidding adieu, “Dear, if you see other girls prettier, or more admired, more noticed than yourself, never mind! Olive is mamma's own pet--always.”
Oh, blessed adversity! oh, sweetness, taught by suffering! How marvellous was the change wrought in Sybilla's heart.
Olive had never in her life before been at a “private ball,” with chalked floors, rout seats, and a regular band. She was quite dazzled by the transformation thus effected in the Derwents' large, rarely-used, dining-room, where she had had many a merry game with little Robert and Lyle. It was perfect fairyland. The young damsels of Oldchurch--haughty boarding-school belles, whom she had always rather feared, when Sara's hospitality brought her in contact with them--were now grown into perfect court beauties. She was quite alarmed by their dignity, and they scarcely noticed poor little Olive at all. Sara, sweeping across the room, appeared to the eyes of her little friend a perfect queen of beauty. But the vision came and vanished. Never was there a belle so much in request as the lively Sara.
Only once, Olive looked at her, and remembered the sailor-boy, who was, perhaps, tossing in some awful night-storm, or lying on the lonely deck, in the midst of the wide Atlantic. And she thought, that when her time came to love and be loved, she would not take everything quite so easily as Sara.
“How pleasant quadrilles must be!” said Olive, as she sat with her favourite Lyle, watching the dancers. Lyle had crept to her, sliding his hand in hers, and looking up to her with a most adoring gaze, as indeed he often did. He had even communicated his intention of marrying her when he grew a man--a determination which greatly excited the ridicule of his elder brother.
“I like far better to sit here quietly with you,” murmured the faithful little cavalier.
“Thank you, Lyle; still, they all look so merry, I almost wish some one had asked me to dance.”
“You dance, Miss Rothesay! What fun! Why nobody would ever dance with you,” cried rude Bob.
Lyle looked imploringly at his brother: “Hush! you naughty boy! Please, Miss Rothesay, I will dance with you at any time, that is, if you think I am tall enough.”