Meantime, they sought to keep her occupied with thoughts of her coming adventure in the East with Nick.  There were many preparations to be made, and Muriel tackled them with a steady energy that could not fail to excite Olga’s interest.  She even roused herself to assist, though Dr. Jim would not permit her to do much, and would often rise and take the work out of her hands when her eyes began to droop.

She had her hours of great depression also, when life was nothing but a burden and she would weep without knowing why.  On these occasions Nick was invaluable.  He had a wonderful knack of banishing those tears, and in his cheery presence the burden was never insupportable.

It was on Nick’s wiry strength that she leaned when she tottered forth for her first walk in the garden.  She would probably have wept over her weakness if he had not made her laugh at it instead.  It was a morning of soft misty sunshine in the early autumn, and a robin trilled his gay greeting to them as they slowly crept along.

“Jolly little beggar!” said Nick.  “Robins always appeal tome.  They know how to be cheerful in adversity.  Care to go down to the glen, sweetheart?  I’ll haul you back again.”

Yes, Olga would go to the glen.  It was a favourite haunt with both of them.  The sun glinted on the narrow pathway as they went.  The twinkle of the stream was like fairy laughter, with every now and then a secret gurgle as of a laugh suppressed.

They halted on the mossy bank, Nick’s arm affording active support.  Olga looked down thoughtfully into the running water.

“The last time I was here,” she said slowly, “was on the day I went to the Priory to—­ask—­Violet—­to come and stay with me.  That must be ages ago.”

“Oh, ages!” said Nick.

She turned to him with a puzzled air.  “I wonder Violet hasn’t been to see me, Nick.  Where is she?”

His flickering eyes were searching the stream.  “She’s gone away,” he said.

“Oh!  Where has she gone?”

“Haven’t a notion,” he said indifferently.

“I wonder I haven’t heard,” mused Olga.  “I suppose she hasn’t written?”

“Not to my knowledge,” said Nick.  His attention was obviously still fixed upon the babbling water.

“Oh, well, she hardly ever does write,” commented Olga.  “And you don’t know where she is gone?”

“I do not,” said Nick.

At this point his preoccupation seemed to strike her.  “What are you looking at?” she asked.

He nodded towards a clump of ferns that fringed the bank.  “I thought I saw my friend the scarlet butterfly.  There is a beauty lives hereabouts.  Yes; by Jove, there he is!  See him, Olga?”

Even as he spoke the scarlet butterfly emerged from its hiding place and fluttered down the stream.

Olga uttered a sharp cry that brought Nick’s eyes to her face.  “What’s the matter, kiddie?  What is it?”