112 ANGLING SKETCHES 



Dear Olive ! how pure, how ardent was my de- 

 votion to her none knows better than you. But 

 Olive had, I will not say a fault, though I suffer 

 from it, but a quality, or rather two qualities, which 

 have completed my misery. Lightly as she floats 

 on the stream of society, the most casual observer, 

 and even the enamoured beholder, can see that Olive 

 Dunne has great pride, and no sense of humour. 

 Her dignity is her idol. What makes her, even 

 for a moment, the possible theme of ridicule is in 

 her eyes an unpardonable sin. This sin, I must 

 with penitence confess, I did indeed commit. 

 Another woman might have forgiven me. I know 

 not how that may be ; I throw myself on the 

 mercy of the court. But, if another could pity and 

 pardon, to Olive this was impossible. I have 

 never seen her since that fatal moment when, paler 

 than her orange blossoms, she swept through the 

 porch of the church, while I, dishevelled, mud- 

 stained, half-drowned — ah ! that memory will tor- 

 ture me if memory at all remains.. And yet, fool, 

 maniac, that I was, I could not resist the wild, mad 

 impulse to laugh which shook the rustic spectators, 



