“I don't like that equinoctial gale,” said Sara, shyly. “I used to hear so much of its horrors from a friend I have--at sea.”
“Only Charles Geddes. Did I never speak of him? Very likely not--because I was so vexed at his leaving college and running off to sea. It was a foolish thing. But don't mention him to papa or the boys.” And Sara blushed--a real, good, honest blush.
Olive did the same--perhaps from sympathy. She continued very thoughtful for a long time; longer even than Sara. They were not many days in making out between them the charming secret for which in their hearts they had been longing. Both were thirsting to taste--or at least to see each other taste--of that enchanting love-stream, the stream of life or of death, at whose verge they had now arrived.
And so, it somehow chanced that, however the conversation began, it usually glided into the subject of Charles Geddes. Sara acknowledged that he and she had always liked one another very much, though she allowed that he was fonder of her than she was of him; that, when they parted, he had seemed much agitated--and she had cried--but they were mere boy and girl then. It was nothing--nothing at all.
Olive did not think so; and, contrasting all this with similar circumstances in her pet poems and novels, she wove a very nice romance round Charles Geddes and her beloved Sara, whom she now began to look upon with greater interest and reverence than ever. This did not prevent her reading Sara a great many lectures on constancy, and giving her own opinions on what true love ought to be--opinions which were a little too ethereal for Miss Derwent's comprehension, but which she liked very much, nevertheless.
Olive took quite an affectionate interest in her friend's lover--for lover she had decided that he must be. Not a day passed that she did not eagerly consult the _Times'_ “shipping intelligence;” and when at last she saw the name of Charles Geddes' vessel, as “arrived,” her heart beat, and tears sprang to her eyes. When she showed it to Sara, Olive could hardly speak for joy. Little simpleton! she counted her friend's happiness as if it were her own. She kept the secret even from her mother; that is, in the only manner Olive would conceal aught from any one so beloved, by saying, “Please, mamma, do not ask me anything.” And Mrs. Rothesay, who, always guided by some one, was now in a fair way to be entirely guided by her daughter, made no inquiries, but depended entirely upon Olive's wisdom and tenderness.