Chapter Four.

Chapter Four.Life at Kirklands.But all the days in Kirklands were not sunny days. The pleasant harvest time went over, and the days grew short and rainy. Not with the pleasant summer rain, coming in sudden gusts to leave the earth more fresh and beautiful when the sunshine came again, but with a dull, continuous drizzle, dimming the window-panes, and hiding in close, impenetrable mist the outline of the nearest summits. The pleasant rambles among hills and glens, and the pleasanter restings by the burn-side, were all at an end now. The swollen waters of the burn hid the stone seat where the children had loved to sit, and the sere leaves of the rowan-tree lay scattered in the glen. Even when a blink of sunshine came, they could not venture out among the dripping heather, but were fain to content themselves with sitting on the turf seat at the house-end.For all Aunt Janet’s prophecy had not come true, thus far. There were no roses blooming on Archie’s cheeks yet; and sometimes, when Lilias watched his pale face, as he sat gazing out into the mist, she was painfully reminded of the time when he used to watch the shadow of the spire coming slowly round to the yew-tree by the kirk-yard gate.But there were no days now so long and sad as those days had been. The memory of their last great grief was often present with them; but the sense of orphanhood grew less bitter, day by day, as time went on. Archie was not quite strong and well yet, but he was far better than he had been for many a long month; and Lilias’ feeling of anxiety on his account began to wear away. Gradually they found for themselves new employments and amusements, and their life fell into a quiet and pleasant routine again.A new source of interest and enjoyment was opened to them in the return of Mrs Blair’s scholars after the harvest-holidays were over. There were between fifteen and twenty girls, and a few boys, whose ages varied from six to twelve or fourteen. They were taught reading, writing, and the catechism; and some of the elder girls were taught to knit and sew.Archie used sometimes to be weary of the hum of voices and the unvaried routine of the lessons; but Lilias never was. To her it was a constant pleasure to assist her aunt. Indeed, after a time some of the classes were entirely given up to her care. She had never been much with other children, but her gentle tones and quiet womanly ways gave her a control over them; and even the roughest and most unruly of the village children learnt to yield her a ready obedience.Mrs Blair had striven to do faithfully the work she had undertaken of instructing these ignorant children; but at her age the formation of new habits was by no means easy. The constant attention to trifles which the occupation required was at times inexpressibly irksome to her; and the relief which the assistance of Lilias gave her was proportionally great.“I’m sure I know not how I ever got on without my lassie,” she said, one day, after watching with wonder and delight the patience with which she arranged the little girls’ work,—a task for which patience was greatly needed. “I shall grow to be a useless body if I let you do all that is to be done in this way. Are you not weary with your day’s work, Lilias, my dear?”“Weary!” said Lilias, laughing. “I don’t need to be weary, for all I have done. It’s only play to hear the bairns read and spell. I like it very much.”“But it’s not play to take out and put into shape, and to sew as you have been doing for the last hour. I fear I put too much upon you, Lilias.”“Oh, now you are surely laughing at me. I wish I could do ten times as much. Do I really help you, Aunt Janet?”“Ay, more than you know, my darling. But put by your work for a night, and run down the brae, and freshen the roses that are just beginning to bloom on your cheeks. We mustn’t let them grow white again, if we can help it.”But the best time of all was when the children had gone home,—when, with the door close shut against the wintry blast, they sat together around the pleasant firelight, talking, or reading, or musing, as each felt most inclined. From her father’s well-chosen library Mrs Blair had preserved a few books, that were books indeed,—books of which every page contained more real material for thought than many a much-praised modern volume. Read by themselves, the quaint diction of some of these old writers must have been unintelligible to the children; but with the grave and simple comments of their aunt to assist their understanding, a new world of thought and feeling was opened to them. Many a grave discussion did they have on subjects whose names would convey no idea to the minds of most children of their age. There was often a mingling of folly and wisdom in their opinions and theories, that amused and surprised their aunt. Archie’s lively imagination sometimes ventured on flights from which the grave expostulations of Lilias could not always draw him.“To the law and to the testimony, Archie, lad,” was his aunt’s never-failing suggestion; and then his eager, puzzled face would be bent over the Bible, till his wild imaginings vanished of themselves, without waiting to be reasoned away.But the history of their country was the chief delight of those long winter evenings. One read aloud; but the eyes of both rested on the page with an eagerness that did not pass away after the first perusal. The times and events that most interested them were gone over and over, till they were ready to forget that they of whom they read had long since passed away: Murray and Douglas, John Knox and Rutherford, and Mary, lived and laboured, and sinned and suffered, still in their excited feelings. It is true, their interest and sympathy vacillated between the contending parties. They did not always abide by their principles in the praise or blame awarded. Their feelings were generally on the side of the sufferers, whoever they might be; and if their eyes sparkled with delight at the triumphant energy of Knox, their tears for poor Queen Mary were none the less sincere.But it was the history of the later times that stirred their hearts to their inmost depths,—the times...“When in muirland and valley the standard of Zion,All bloody and torn, ’mong the heather was lying.”...When Charles strove to put in shackles the Scottish mind, and quench in the Scottish heart that love for the pure and simple truth for which the best and noblest have died. About these times and these men they were never weary of reading and speaking.“There will never more be such times in Scotland,” said Archie, as Lilias shut the history, and took down the Bible and psalm-books for their evening worship.“Thank God, no!” said his aunt, hastily; “though one might think, from your face, that it is no matter of thankfulness to you.”“I don’t wish those times to come back,” said the boy musingly; “but I wish I had lived then. It must have been worth a man’s while to live in those days.”“And why is it not as much worth a man’s while to live in the days that are to come as in the days that are past?” asked his aunt, with a smile.Archie looked up quickly.“I know what you are thinking, aunt:—that a poor cripple lad could have done as little then as he can do now.” And Archie sighed.“No: I was thinking that it needs as much courage and patience, and as much of God’s grace, for a poor cripple lad to bear (as He would have him bear) the trouble He sends, as would have stood a man in good stead before the face of Claverhouse himself. The heroes of history are not always the greatest heroes, after all, Archie, my laddie.”“Maybe not, aunt; but, then, it’s only a sore leg I have to bear; and who is the better whether I bear it well or ill?”“Archie, man, you are speaking foolishly,” returned, his aunt, gravely. “It matters much to yourself whether you bear your trouble well or ill. It was sent to you for discipline, and that you might be better fitted for the honouring of His name; and He who sent it can make it answer these ends in you as well as though He had cast your lot in those troublous times, and made you a buckler of strength against His foes and the foes of His people.”“But, aunt,” said Lilias, “it’s surely not wrong to wish to be placed where we can do much for Him? I don’t wonder Archie should wish to have lived in those days.”“No, love: such a wish is not wrong, provided it doesn’t act as a temptation to neglect present opportunities. We are all by nature self-seekers, and in no small danger of giving ourselves credit for wishing to serve the Lord, when, maybe, He sees it is ourselves we wish to serve. The best evidence we can give that we would honour Him in a larger sphere is, that we strive to honour Him in the sphere in which He has placed us.”“But after all, aunt, it would be grand to be able to do as much for God’s cause as some of those men did. I can’t think that any one, to say nothing of a poor cripple lad, has an opportunity to do as much now as those men had.”“To do is a great thing in the sight of men. But I am thinking that, in His sight who sees further than men can see,to suffermay be greater thanto do. But have patience, Archie, lad. He who has given you to suffer now, may give you to do before you die. You may have to fight the battles of the Lord in high places. Who knows?”“That would be near as well as to fight with the dragoons: would it not, Archie?” said Lilias, laughing. “I’m sure it would be far easier.”“Maybe not, my lassie,” said her aunt, gravely. “There may be battles fierce and sore that are bloodless battles; and Scotland may not be through all her warfare yet. But take the books, bairns, and let us be thankful that, whatever may befall us or our land, we have always the same word to guide us.”There was one drawback to the happiness of the children, this winter; and it was felt for a time to be no slight one. They could not go to the kirk at Dunmoor, their father’s kirk. The winter rains had made the way over the hills impassable; and the distance by the high-road was too great for them. They learnt in a little while to love the kindly voice of the minister of Kirklands parish, and they soon got many a kindly greeting from the neighbours at the kirk door. But it was not the same to Lilias as sitting in her father’s seat, and listening to the voice of her father’s friend; and the getting back to the dear old kirk at Dunmoor was always told over as one of the pleasant things which the spring would bring back again.At Christmas-time there came a new scholar to the school, and no small stir did her coming make there. For the first nine years of her life, Elsie Ray had been the neglected child of a careless and indolent mother. At her death, Elsie had come to the neighbourhood of Kirklands, to live with her grandfather and her aunt. She thus passed from one extreme of misfortune to the other. From roaming at large in whatever place and in whatever company she chose, she became at once the in-door drudge of her aunt and the out-door drudge of her grandfather. The father and daughter agreed perfectly in one respect. Their ruling passion was the same,—the love of money. It was believed in the neighbourhood that they had laid by a considerable sum; but nothing could be more wretched than their usual mode of life. Their business was the keeping of cows and poultry; and they found an efficient assistant in the strong and energetic Elsie. The life of constant occupation which she was obliged to live with them was less dangerous to an active-minded child than the idle, sauntering existence she had passed with her mother. But it left her no time for improvement; and she seemed likely to grow up in ignorance. The chance visit of an uncle saved her from this sad fate. Her grandfather so far attended to his remonstrances as to send her, during three or four of the least busy months, to Mrs Blair’s school.It would be difficult to imagine a more unpromising pupil than Elsie appeared to be when Lilias first took her in hand; for to Lilias’ special care was she committed. Wonder unspeakable to the children in the school was the sight of a girl of Elsie’s age who could not say the catechism, which every Scotch child begins to learn almost in infancy. But this was by no means the greatest defect in the education of the new-comer; for it soon appeared that “great A” and “crooked S” were as utter mysteries to her as any sentence in the catechism. And their wonder was by no means silent wonder. More than once during the first week was Elsie’s ready hand raised to resent the mockery of her tormentors. It needed constant watchfulness on the part of Lilias to keep the peace; and nothing but her earnest and gentle encouragement would have prevented the girl from giving up, in disgust, the attempt to learn to read.This was only for a short time, however. Her rapid improvement in reading, as well as sewing, was a constant source of wonder and delight to her young teacher; and soon the mocking of the children was silenced.Nor was it in these things alone that improvement appeared. Incited partly by the precept and partly by the example of Lilias, a great change soon became visible in her appearance and manners. There was a decided attempt at neatness in her rather shabby garments; and a look from Lilias, or even the remembrance of her, had power to stay the utterance of the rude or angry word ere it passed her lips. Her naturally affectionate disposition had been chilled by the life she had been leading for the last few years, and her heart opened gratefully to the kindness of Lilias. Under her influence, her good qualities were rapidly developed; and she soon became a great favourite with them all.“It has made a great difference, Elsie’s being here,” Lilias often said; and when one morning Elsie came with swollen eyes to say that she could come no more, Lilias felt inclined to weep with her. She comforted her, however, telling her she would often come with Archie to see her while she was feeding her cows on the hills, and that when the winter came again her grandfather would let her come back to the school. So Elsie dried her eyes, and promised to let no day pass without trying to read at least one whole chapter in the little Testament that Lilias gave her at parting.There was no lack of incidents to break the monotony of their life during the winter. Among the most frequent and by no means the least interesting of these were the visits of Mrs Stirling. She never passed to or from Kirklands—where all her little purchases were made—without calling; and a wonderful interest she seemed to take in all that concerned the children, especially Lilias; and she always met with a welcome. Not that her visits were usually very cheerful affairs. The conversation generally turned upon the troubles of life—great and small, and especially her own—those she had experienced and those she dreaded.Mrs Blair was often greatly amused by the earnest and grave attempts of Lilias to make the world look brighter to poor Nancy. Sometimes these attempts took the form of sympathy, sometimes of expostulation; and more than once there was something like gentle rebuke in the child’s words and tones. She could not boast of success, however. If Mrs Stirling could not reply in words, she never failed to enter a protest against the cheerful philosophy of Lilias, by a groan, or a shake of the head, expressive of utter incredulousness. She was never angry, however, as Mrs Blair was sometimes afraid she might be. Indeed, she seemed greatly to enjoy the little girl’s conversation; and sometimes her visits were rather unreasonably lengthened. Archie she never addressed but in terms of the deepest commiseration. At every visit she saw, or seemed to see, that he was changing for the worse; and “poor, helpless bairn!” or “poor pining laddie!” were the most cheerful names she gave him. Her melancholy anecdotes of similar cases, and her oft-repeated fears that “he would never see the month of June,” vexed and troubled Lilias greatly. At first they troubled Archie too; but he soon came not to heed them; and one day, when she was in a more than usually doleful mood, wondering what Lilias would do without him, and whether it would save his life if his leg were cut off, he quite offended her by laughing in her face.“To think of me wasting good breath sympathising with you!” she exclaimed. “No, no! You’re not so near heaven as I thought you. You’re none too good to bide in this world a while yet. To think of the laddie laughing at me!”

But all the days in Kirklands were not sunny days. The pleasant harvest time went over, and the days grew short and rainy. Not with the pleasant summer rain, coming in sudden gusts to leave the earth more fresh and beautiful when the sunshine came again, but with a dull, continuous drizzle, dimming the window-panes, and hiding in close, impenetrable mist the outline of the nearest summits. The pleasant rambles among hills and glens, and the pleasanter restings by the burn-side, were all at an end now. The swollen waters of the burn hid the stone seat where the children had loved to sit, and the sere leaves of the rowan-tree lay scattered in the glen. Even when a blink of sunshine came, they could not venture out among the dripping heather, but were fain to content themselves with sitting on the turf seat at the house-end.

For all Aunt Janet’s prophecy had not come true, thus far. There were no roses blooming on Archie’s cheeks yet; and sometimes, when Lilias watched his pale face, as he sat gazing out into the mist, she was painfully reminded of the time when he used to watch the shadow of the spire coming slowly round to the yew-tree by the kirk-yard gate.

But there were no days now so long and sad as those days had been. The memory of their last great grief was often present with them; but the sense of orphanhood grew less bitter, day by day, as time went on. Archie was not quite strong and well yet, but he was far better than he had been for many a long month; and Lilias’ feeling of anxiety on his account began to wear away. Gradually they found for themselves new employments and amusements, and their life fell into a quiet and pleasant routine again.

A new source of interest and enjoyment was opened to them in the return of Mrs Blair’s scholars after the harvest-holidays were over. There were between fifteen and twenty girls, and a few boys, whose ages varied from six to twelve or fourteen. They were taught reading, writing, and the catechism; and some of the elder girls were taught to knit and sew.

Archie used sometimes to be weary of the hum of voices and the unvaried routine of the lessons; but Lilias never was. To her it was a constant pleasure to assist her aunt. Indeed, after a time some of the classes were entirely given up to her care. She had never been much with other children, but her gentle tones and quiet womanly ways gave her a control over them; and even the roughest and most unruly of the village children learnt to yield her a ready obedience.

Mrs Blair had striven to do faithfully the work she had undertaken of instructing these ignorant children; but at her age the formation of new habits was by no means easy. The constant attention to trifles which the occupation required was at times inexpressibly irksome to her; and the relief which the assistance of Lilias gave her was proportionally great.

“I’m sure I know not how I ever got on without my lassie,” she said, one day, after watching with wonder and delight the patience with which she arranged the little girls’ work,—a task for which patience was greatly needed. “I shall grow to be a useless body if I let you do all that is to be done in this way. Are you not weary with your day’s work, Lilias, my dear?”

“Weary!” said Lilias, laughing. “I don’t need to be weary, for all I have done. It’s only play to hear the bairns read and spell. I like it very much.”

“But it’s not play to take out and put into shape, and to sew as you have been doing for the last hour. I fear I put too much upon you, Lilias.”

“Oh, now you are surely laughing at me. I wish I could do ten times as much. Do I really help you, Aunt Janet?”

“Ay, more than you know, my darling. But put by your work for a night, and run down the brae, and freshen the roses that are just beginning to bloom on your cheeks. We mustn’t let them grow white again, if we can help it.”

But the best time of all was when the children had gone home,—when, with the door close shut against the wintry blast, they sat together around the pleasant firelight, talking, or reading, or musing, as each felt most inclined. From her father’s well-chosen library Mrs Blair had preserved a few books, that were books indeed,—books of which every page contained more real material for thought than many a much-praised modern volume. Read by themselves, the quaint diction of some of these old writers must have been unintelligible to the children; but with the grave and simple comments of their aunt to assist their understanding, a new world of thought and feeling was opened to them. Many a grave discussion did they have on subjects whose names would convey no idea to the minds of most children of their age. There was often a mingling of folly and wisdom in their opinions and theories, that amused and surprised their aunt. Archie’s lively imagination sometimes ventured on flights from which the grave expostulations of Lilias could not always draw him.

“To the law and to the testimony, Archie, lad,” was his aunt’s never-failing suggestion; and then his eager, puzzled face would be bent over the Bible, till his wild imaginings vanished of themselves, without waiting to be reasoned away.

But the history of their country was the chief delight of those long winter evenings. One read aloud; but the eyes of both rested on the page with an eagerness that did not pass away after the first perusal. The times and events that most interested them were gone over and over, till they were ready to forget that they of whom they read had long since passed away: Murray and Douglas, John Knox and Rutherford, and Mary, lived and laboured, and sinned and suffered, still in their excited feelings. It is true, their interest and sympathy vacillated between the contending parties. They did not always abide by their principles in the praise or blame awarded. Their feelings were generally on the side of the sufferers, whoever they might be; and if their eyes sparkled with delight at the triumphant energy of Knox, their tears for poor Queen Mary were none the less sincere.

But it was the history of the later times that stirred their hearts to their inmost depths,—the times...

“When in muirland and valley the standard of Zion,All bloody and torn, ’mong the heather was lying.”

“When in muirland and valley the standard of Zion,All bloody and torn, ’mong the heather was lying.”

...When Charles strove to put in shackles the Scottish mind, and quench in the Scottish heart that love for the pure and simple truth for which the best and noblest have died. About these times and these men they were never weary of reading and speaking.

“There will never more be such times in Scotland,” said Archie, as Lilias shut the history, and took down the Bible and psalm-books for their evening worship.

“Thank God, no!” said his aunt, hastily; “though one might think, from your face, that it is no matter of thankfulness to you.”

“I don’t wish those times to come back,” said the boy musingly; “but I wish I had lived then. It must have been worth a man’s while to live in those days.”

“And why is it not as much worth a man’s while to live in the days that are to come as in the days that are past?” asked his aunt, with a smile.

Archie looked up quickly.

“I know what you are thinking, aunt:—that a poor cripple lad could have done as little then as he can do now.” And Archie sighed.

“No: I was thinking that it needs as much courage and patience, and as much of God’s grace, for a poor cripple lad to bear (as He would have him bear) the trouble He sends, as would have stood a man in good stead before the face of Claverhouse himself. The heroes of history are not always the greatest heroes, after all, Archie, my laddie.”

“Maybe not, aunt; but, then, it’s only a sore leg I have to bear; and who is the better whether I bear it well or ill?”

“Archie, man, you are speaking foolishly,” returned, his aunt, gravely. “It matters much to yourself whether you bear your trouble well or ill. It was sent to you for discipline, and that you might be better fitted for the honouring of His name; and He who sent it can make it answer these ends in you as well as though He had cast your lot in those troublous times, and made you a buckler of strength against His foes and the foes of His people.”

“But, aunt,” said Lilias, “it’s surely not wrong to wish to be placed where we can do much for Him? I don’t wonder Archie should wish to have lived in those days.”

“No, love: such a wish is not wrong, provided it doesn’t act as a temptation to neglect present opportunities. We are all by nature self-seekers, and in no small danger of giving ourselves credit for wishing to serve the Lord, when, maybe, He sees it is ourselves we wish to serve. The best evidence we can give that we would honour Him in a larger sphere is, that we strive to honour Him in the sphere in which He has placed us.”

“But after all, aunt, it would be grand to be able to do as much for God’s cause as some of those men did. I can’t think that any one, to say nothing of a poor cripple lad, has an opportunity to do as much now as those men had.”

“To do is a great thing in the sight of men. But I am thinking that, in His sight who sees further than men can see,to suffermay be greater thanto do. But have patience, Archie, lad. He who has given you to suffer now, may give you to do before you die. You may have to fight the battles of the Lord in high places. Who knows?”

“That would be near as well as to fight with the dragoons: would it not, Archie?” said Lilias, laughing. “I’m sure it would be far easier.”

“Maybe not, my lassie,” said her aunt, gravely. “There may be battles fierce and sore that are bloodless battles; and Scotland may not be through all her warfare yet. But take the books, bairns, and let us be thankful that, whatever may befall us or our land, we have always the same word to guide us.”

There was one drawback to the happiness of the children, this winter; and it was felt for a time to be no slight one. They could not go to the kirk at Dunmoor, their father’s kirk. The winter rains had made the way over the hills impassable; and the distance by the high-road was too great for them. They learnt in a little while to love the kindly voice of the minister of Kirklands parish, and they soon got many a kindly greeting from the neighbours at the kirk door. But it was not the same to Lilias as sitting in her father’s seat, and listening to the voice of her father’s friend; and the getting back to the dear old kirk at Dunmoor was always told over as one of the pleasant things which the spring would bring back again.

At Christmas-time there came a new scholar to the school, and no small stir did her coming make there. For the first nine years of her life, Elsie Ray had been the neglected child of a careless and indolent mother. At her death, Elsie had come to the neighbourhood of Kirklands, to live with her grandfather and her aunt. She thus passed from one extreme of misfortune to the other. From roaming at large in whatever place and in whatever company she chose, she became at once the in-door drudge of her aunt and the out-door drudge of her grandfather. The father and daughter agreed perfectly in one respect. Their ruling passion was the same,—the love of money. It was believed in the neighbourhood that they had laid by a considerable sum; but nothing could be more wretched than their usual mode of life. Their business was the keeping of cows and poultry; and they found an efficient assistant in the strong and energetic Elsie. The life of constant occupation which she was obliged to live with them was less dangerous to an active-minded child than the idle, sauntering existence she had passed with her mother. But it left her no time for improvement; and she seemed likely to grow up in ignorance. The chance visit of an uncle saved her from this sad fate. Her grandfather so far attended to his remonstrances as to send her, during three or four of the least busy months, to Mrs Blair’s school.

It would be difficult to imagine a more unpromising pupil than Elsie appeared to be when Lilias first took her in hand; for to Lilias’ special care was she committed. Wonder unspeakable to the children in the school was the sight of a girl of Elsie’s age who could not say the catechism, which every Scotch child begins to learn almost in infancy. But this was by no means the greatest defect in the education of the new-comer; for it soon appeared that “great A” and “crooked S” were as utter mysteries to her as any sentence in the catechism. And their wonder was by no means silent wonder. More than once during the first week was Elsie’s ready hand raised to resent the mockery of her tormentors. It needed constant watchfulness on the part of Lilias to keep the peace; and nothing but her earnest and gentle encouragement would have prevented the girl from giving up, in disgust, the attempt to learn to read.

This was only for a short time, however. Her rapid improvement in reading, as well as sewing, was a constant source of wonder and delight to her young teacher; and soon the mocking of the children was silenced.

Nor was it in these things alone that improvement appeared. Incited partly by the precept and partly by the example of Lilias, a great change soon became visible in her appearance and manners. There was a decided attempt at neatness in her rather shabby garments; and a look from Lilias, or even the remembrance of her, had power to stay the utterance of the rude or angry word ere it passed her lips. Her naturally affectionate disposition had been chilled by the life she had been leading for the last few years, and her heart opened gratefully to the kindness of Lilias. Under her influence, her good qualities were rapidly developed; and she soon became a great favourite with them all.

“It has made a great difference, Elsie’s being here,” Lilias often said; and when one morning Elsie came with swollen eyes to say that she could come no more, Lilias felt inclined to weep with her. She comforted her, however, telling her she would often come with Archie to see her while she was feeding her cows on the hills, and that when the winter came again her grandfather would let her come back to the school. So Elsie dried her eyes, and promised to let no day pass without trying to read at least one whole chapter in the little Testament that Lilias gave her at parting.

There was no lack of incidents to break the monotony of their life during the winter. Among the most frequent and by no means the least interesting of these were the visits of Mrs Stirling. She never passed to or from Kirklands—where all her little purchases were made—without calling; and a wonderful interest she seemed to take in all that concerned the children, especially Lilias; and she always met with a welcome. Not that her visits were usually very cheerful affairs. The conversation generally turned upon the troubles of life—great and small, and especially her own—those she had experienced and those she dreaded.

Mrs Blair was often greatly amused by the earnest and grave attempts of Lilias to make the world look brighter to poor Nancy. Sometimes these attempts took the form of sympathy, sometimes of expostulation; and more than once there was something like gentle rebuke in the child’s words and tones. She could not boast of success, however. If Mrs Stirling could not reply in words, she never failed to enter a protest against the cheerful philosophy of Lilias, by a groan, or a shake of the head, expressive of utter incredulousness. She was never angry, however, as Mrs Blair was sometimes afraid she might be. Indeed, she seemed greatly to enjoy the little girl’s conversation; and sometimes her visits were rather unreasonably lengthened. Archie she never addressed but in terms of the deepest commiseration. At every visit she saw, or seemed to see, that he was changing for the worse; and “poor, helpless bairn!” or “poor pining laddie!” were the most cheerful names she gave him. Her melancholy anecdotes of similar cases, and her oft-repeated fears that “he would never see the month of June,” vexed and troubled Lilias greatly. At first they troubled Archie too; but he soon came not to heed them; and one day, when she was in a more than usually doleful mood, wondering what Lilias would do without him, and whether it would save his life if his leg were cut off, he quite offended her by laughing in her face.

“To think of me wasting good breath sympathising with you!” she exclaimed. “No, no! You’re not so near heaven as I thought you. You’re none too good to bide in this world a while yet. To think of the laddie laughing at me!”

Chapter Five.Summer Days at Kirklands.And so the winter passed away, and the spring came again,—the sunshine and showers of April, more than renewing the delight of the children’s first weeks in Kirklands. They had never been in the country in the early spring before; and even “bonny Glen Elder,” in the prime of summer, had no wonders such as revealed themselves day by day to their unaccustomed eyes. The catkins on the willows, the gradual swelling of the hawthorn-buds, the graceful tassels of the silver birch, were to them a beauty and a mystery. The gradual change of brown fields to a living green, as the tender blades of the new-sown grain sprang up, was wondrous too. The tiny mosses on the rocks, the ferns hidden away from other eyes, were searched for and rejoiced over. No wild flower by the wayside, no bird or butterfly, no new development of life in any form, but won from them a joyful greeting.And so there were again the pleasant wanderings among hills and glens, and the pleasanter restings by the burn-side. But they were not so frequent now, for Lilias’ life was a very busy one, and she could not, even if she had wished, have laid aside the duties she had taken upon herself. But her freedom was all the sweeter when her duties were done; and seldom a day passed without an hour or two of bright sunshine and fresh air, and never before had the world seemed half so beautiful.And Lilias had another source of happiness, better than birds or flowers or sunshine: Archie was growing strong again. Before May was out, his crutches occupied a permanent place behind the cottage-door, and he was away on the hill without them, drinking in life and health with every breath of balmy air. He was no longer the little cripple, painfully following the footsteps of his sister, slackened to suit his lagging pace. Lame he was still, and always might be, and a slender “willow-wand of a laddie,” as Mrs Stirling still declared; but there was a tinge of healthy colour on cheek and lip, and instead of the look that reminded Lilias of the shadow creeping round to the gate of the kirk-yard, there came back to his face and blithe look of earlier days. His very voice and smile seemed changed; and his laughter, so seldom heard for many a weary month, was music to his sister’s ear.Her joy in his returning health was altogether unmingled. Sometimes, when weary of the noise and confinement of school, it quite rested and refreshed her to remember that he was out in the air and sunshine. She never murmured that he enjoyed it all without her; and when he came home at night, telling, triumphantly, of the miles and miles he had walked and the new sights he had seen among the hills, her delight was quite as great as his.At first Archie had no other interest in his wanderings than that which pleasant sights and sounds and a consciousness of returning strength gave him. It was happiness enough to lie down in some quiet valley, with only his beloved book as his companion, or, seated on some hill-side, to gaze on a landscape whose loveliness has been the theme of many a poet’s song.But pleasant sights and sounds, and even his beloved book, did not always suffice him for companionship; and he soon found his way to more than one shieling among the hills; and more than one solitary shepherd soon learnt to look for the coming of the lad, “so old-fashioned, yet so gladsome.” Sometimes he read to them from his favourite books; but oftener they talked, and Archie heard many a legend of the countryside from the lips that could tell them best.His father and grandfather were well remembered by many whom they had befriended in time of need; and the lad listened with delight to their praises, and with equal delight repeated them to his aunt and Lilias when he came home.But there were other things, which Archie spoke of in whispers to his sister when they were away together among the hills,—mysterious hints of their cousin Hugh Blair, and of his mother’s troubles with him before he went away. Not that he had much to tell about him, for there was little said; but that little was enough to excite the curiosity and interest of the children with regard to him; and they were never weary of wondering why he went away, and where he was now, and whether he would ever come home again.“I wonder whether Aunt Janet thinks much about him? I wonder why she never names him to us?” said Archie, one day, after they had been speaking about him.Lilias was looking very grave.“I’m sure she often thinks of him. And I don’t wonder that she seldom speaks about him, when she can have little that is good to say.”“Maybe she thinks him dead,” said Archie.“No: I don’t think that,” said Lilias, sadly. And after a moment she added, “Last night the sound of her voice wakened me. She was praying for him; and it minded me of the ‘groanings that cannot be uttered.’ I am afraid Aunt Janet has troubles we know nothing about.”Yes, Mrs Blair had troubles which the children did not know of, which they could hardly have comprehended had they known; and, of late, fears for Archie had mingled with them. The remembrance of her utter failure in guiding and governing her own son was ever present with her, filling her with anxiety with regard to Archie’s future. She had no fears for Lilias, nor when her brother was a cripple had she fears for him. But now that he was strong and well,—now that he must necessarily be exposed to other influences, some of which could not but be evil, her heart grew sick with a feeling of self-distrust as to her own power to guide him.It was this which made her listen with something like regret when Archie told of new friends made among the hills. His frank, open nature made him altogether unsuspicious of evil in others; and, knowing him to be easily influenced, she could not but fear that he might be led astray. Night after night, when Archie came home, she listened earnestly to hear the names of those with whom he had met; and, though she never heard anything from the boy’s lips or saw anything in his actions to make her fear that he was changing for the worse, she could not feel quite at ease concerning him. For there ever came back to her the thought of her son,—her wandering but still beloved Hugh; and many and earnest were the prayers that ascended both for the guileless child and the erring, sinful man, that through all the snares and temptations of life they might be brought safe home at last.She could not speak of her fears to Lilias. She could not find it in her heart to lay the burden of this dread upon the child. She was so full of the new happiness of seeing her brother strong and well again, that she could not bear to let the shadow of this cloud fall upon her. It would do no good; and she had really nothing but her fears to tell. So in silence she prayed, night and day, that God would disappoint her fears for Archie, and more than realise his sister’s hope for him.Mrs Stirling’s visits to the cottage did not become less frequent as the summer advanced, and her interest in Lilias seemed to increase with every visit. Not that she had ceased to torment the child with her discontented repinings for the past, or her melancholy forebodings for the future. There was always some subject for comment ready; and Nancy never let pass unimproved an opportunity to say something depressing. But Lilias was learning not to mind her; and this was all the easier to do, now that Archie’s ill-health could no longer be her theme.“Oh, ay! he’s looking not so ill,” said she, one day, while she stood with Lilias at the gate, watching Archie, as he dug in the little garden; “and he’s not very lame. If you could only be sure that it wouldn’t break out again. Eh me! but he’s growing to look awful like his cousin Hugh. It’s to be hoped that he won’t turn out as he has done.”Lilias gave a startled look towards the house-end, where her aunt was sitting, as she answered, hurriedly:“Archie’s like my father.”“You needna be feared that I’ll speak that name loud enough for her to hear,” said Nancy, answering Lilias’ look rather than her words. “I have more respect for her than that. Poor body! she must carry a sore heart about with her, for all she looks so quiet and contented like.”Lilias sighed. The same thought had come into her own mind many and many a time within the last few months.“Did my cousin Hugh do anything so very bad?” she asked, looking anxiously into Mrs Stirling’s face.“I dare say the folk that blame him most have done far worse things than anything they can lay to his charge,” said Nancy; “but there’s little doubt he did what made him fear to look on his mother’s face again, or wherefore should he not have come back? His name has never, to my knowledge, passed her lips from that day till this.”“But Donald Ross, up among the hills, told Archie that folk thought he had ’listed for a soldier, and that he couldna come back again.”“Well, maybe not,” said Nancy. “Far be it from me to seek to make worse what is bad enough already. It’s not unlikely. But, as I was saying, Archie’s growing awfu’ like him, and it is to be hoped he will not take to ill ways. You should have an eye upon him, Lilias, my woman, that he doesn’t take up with folk that ‘call evil good, and good evil.’ It was that was the ruin of Hugh Blair,—poor laddie!”“Archie sees no one among the hills that can do him harm,” said Lilias, hastily,—“only Donald Ross and the Muirlands shepherds, and now and then a herd-laddie from Alliston. He ay tells us, when he comes home, who he has seen.”“Eh, woman! I didn’t mean to anger you,” exclaimed Nancy. “I declare, your eyes are glancing like two coals. But, if your aunt is wise, she’ll put him to some kind of work before long. Laddies like him must ay be about something; and if they are doing no good it’s likely they’ll be doing evil. Your aunt should know that well enough, without the like of me to tell her.”“But Archie is such a mere child,” remonstrated Lilias, forgetting for the moment that it was Mrs Stirling, the grumbler for the countryside, that was speaking. “What ill can he get among the hills? And, besides, what work could he do? It’s health for him to wander about among the hills. It makes him strong.”“You’re a child yourself for that matter,” said Nancy; “and I’m thinking what with those children’s catechism and work, and one thing and another, you do the most part of a woman’s work. And what’s to hinder your brother more than you? It would keep him out of harm’s way.”Lilias suffered this conversation to make her uncomfortable for a few days, and then she wisely put it from her. She would not speak to Archie. She would not even seem to distrust him. And still the boy came and went at his pleasure, enjoying his rambles and his intercourse with his new friends, glad to go forth, and glad to come home again, where the sight of his face always made sunshine for his sister. And Mrs Blair still went about with outward calm, but carrying within her a heavy and anxious heart, as by the sighs and prayers of many a sleepless night, Lilias well knew.This was the child’s one sorrow. Sometimes she longed to speak to her aunt about her cousin, and comfort her by weeping with her; but she never had courage to broach the subject. The wanderer’s name had never been mentioned between them; and Lilias had something like a feeling of guilt upon her in hearing, as she could not but hear, the midnight mourning of the stricken mother.“And to think that this trouble has been upon her for so many years!” she thought to herself, one night, as she lay listening to her aunt’s sighs and murmured prayers. “It must be ten years at least; for I have no recollection of my cousin Hugh. And she has carried about this great grief all that time alone, and has sought comfort from no one. Oh, if I could but comfort her!” for Lilias did not know that there are some sorrows to which sympathy adds only bitterness.Summer brought another pleasure to them all. Their Sabbath journeys over the hills to the kirk of Dunmoor were renewed; and, sitting in her father’s seat, and listening to the words of salvation from the lips of her father’s friend, Lilias grew more and more into the knowledge of “the peace of God that passeth all understanding.” Although but a child in years, early sorrow had taught her some lessons that childhood seldom learns. The heaviest of their sorrows did not press—upon them now. There was not the poverty, the ceaseless toil, the constant and sometimes vain struggle for bread. She could speak of her father and mother calmly now, and Archie was strong and well again. And so the look of patience which her face had worn when her aunt first saw it lying on Archie’s pillow in the dim attic room, was changing into a look of quiet content. Yet she was still unlike other children in many respects, though the difference was rather to be felt than seen.Good James Muir did not speak to her as he did to the manse children or to Archie, but wisely and gravely, as he might have spoken to her aunt. Annie Graham, though a full year the elder, much to her own surprise, and to the surprise of all who knew her self-reliance, found herself deferring to the opinions of Lilias Elder. Not but that she enjoyed, as much as any of them, the simple pleasures that were within their reach; even little Jessie’s never-absent laughter was not more full of heartfelt mirth than hers.But as they came to know Lilias better, they all felt that there was “something beyond.” Even little Jessie said “she was like one that was standing on a sure place, and was not afraid;” and so she was.One Sabbath morning, in the kirk, Lilias was startled by the sight of familiar faces in the minister’s seat, faces associated in her mind with a bright parlour, and kind words spoken to her there. The quick smile and whisper exchanged by the two lads told her that the Gordon boys had recognised her too.“That’s my father’s ‘bonny Lily,’” said Robert Gordon to young John Graham, who was looking gravely at the boys carrying on a whispered conference notwithstanding the reading of the psalm.And, when the sermon was over, and Lilias, with her aunt and her brother, stood in the kirk-yard, the boys pressed eagerly forward to shake hands with her, and express their joy at seeing her again.“They are Dr Gordon’s sons, aunt,” said Lilias, in answer to Mrs Blair’s look of surprise. “I saw them that night.” And the vivid remembrance of “that night” made her cheek grow pale.“I hardly knew you,—you have grown so bonny,” said Robert, gravely. Lilias laughed.“Come into the manse, and you will see your young friends without interruption,” said kind Mrs Graham. “Come, Archie.”And so they passed a pleasant hour in the manse garden. The Gordons had come to pass their summer holidays with their cousins; and they would often come over the hills to see her, they said. They had a very pleasant time sitting on the grass in the shadow of the fir-trees. Even young John Graham, as he paced up and down the walk with a book in his hand, condescended to show a little curiosity as to the subject of their conversation, so earnest did their tones become at last; and John Graham was a college student, and a miracle of wisdom in his sister’s eyes. He wondered if it was all “Sabbath talk” that engrossed them so much; and his wonder changed to serious doubts, as his little sister Jessie’s voice rose above the voices of all the rest.But wise John was mistaken this time. The subject that engrossed them so much was at the same moment engrossing good James Muir and his brother elders on the other side of the kirk-yard wall. It was the sermon and the minister they were discussing.Jessie was eloquent on the subject. Of course there never was such a preacher as her grandfather,—not even the great Dr Chalmers himself, the child declared; and all the rest agreed. Even Robert Gordon, whose taste, if the truth must be told, did not lie at all in the direction of sermons, declared that he had not been very weary that day in the kirk. Jessie looked a good deal scandalised at this faint praise; but it was much from Master Robert, if she had but known all.Then the question was started whether John would ever preach as well; and John had to pay the usual penalty of listeners, for all agreed that this was not to be thought of, at least, not for a long time to come.This was the beginning of more frequent intercourse between Lilias and Archie and the manse children. Lilias was not often with them at first, for the “harvest-play” of the village children did not come so soon as the town-boys’ holidays, and she could seldom be prevailed upon to leave her aunt alone in the school. But Archie’s company soon became indispensable to the lads in their daily rambles among the hills. He had explored the country to some purpose; and not even the manse boys knew so many places of interest as he did, and he was often their leader in their long excursions.It was a point of honour with Archie never to confess that he was tired while he could stand; and it was only a fortunate chance that prevented these long-continued wanderings from being an injury to him. They went one day to the top of the highest hill in the neighbourhood. Archie, as usual, led the way; and they had got well on their return, when he was obliged to confess to himself (though not to his companions) that he could go no farther.They had just left the hills, and stood on the turnpike-road between Dunmoor and Kirklands, the other lads to go to the manse, and Archie to go home, a good two miles away yet. It seemed to him that he never could go so far; and, only waiting till the other lads were out of sight, he threw himself down on the grass at the roadside, utterly exhausted. The sound of wheels startled him in a little time, and soon John Graham, in the manse gig, made his appearance. He drew up at the sight of Archie, and, in some surprise, asked him what ailed him.“Nothing,” said Archie, rising painfully. “We have been at the head of the Colla Hill; and I’m afraid I’m tired: that’s all.”“And that’s enough, I think,” said John; for the lad’s limbs were trembling under him. “Really, these lads are very inconsiderate. You should not have let them lead you such a chase.”“It was me that led them,” said Archie,—not exactly liking Master John’s tone. “And I’ll soon be rested again.”But the horse’s head was already turned, and John’s strong arm lifted the weary boy to the seat at his side, and he was soon safely set down at the cottage-door. But it was some time before Archie appeared among the boys again, so long that John, after taking his brother Davie severely to task for his thoughtlessness, one fine morning walked over the hills to see if Archie were really ill.“Ill? No! What should make me ill?” But Archie looked pale and weary, in spite of his denial. He was upon the turf seat at the end of the house; and, sitting down beside him, John took up the book he had been reading. It was a volume of Flavel.“Have you read much of this?” John asked, wondering at his taste. “Do you like it?”“I haven’t read much of it to-day; but Lilias and I read it last winter to my aunt, and I liked it well, not so well to read to myself, though, as some others.”“What others?” asked John.“Oh, the History of Scotland, and the Tales of the Covenanters, and some books of poetry that my aunt has got. But I like Flavel too. Don’t you?”“Oh, yes,” replied John, smiling, and a little confused. “To tell the truth, I have not read much of him. Tell me what you think of him. Of this, for instance.”And he read the quaint heading of a chapter in the book he held in his hand.It never came into Archie’s mind that young John Graham was “just trying him,” as boys say; and, in perfect simplicity and good faith, he gave an abstract of the chapter, with comments of his aunt’s, and some of his own upon it. It was not very clear or very complete, it is true; but it was enough to change considerably the expression of John’s face as he listened.This was the beginning of a long conversation. John Graham had laid out for himself three hours of hard reading after his bracing tramp over the hills; but it was past noon when he went in to see Mrs Blair before he went away. He did not think the morning wasted; though in general, like all hard students, he was a miser respecting his time. When he was going away, he offered Archie any of his books, and said he would help him to understand them while he stayed at home.“That won’t be long now, however,” he added. “But why don’t you go to school?”“I should like to go to Dunmoor parish school with Davie; but my aunt thinks it’s too far.”“Well, I think, after your scramble to Colla’s Head, and the ten good miles besides, that you walked the other day, you might be able to walk to Dunmoor school. It is not far, if you were only stronger.”Oh, Archie was strong; quite strong enough for that, if only his aunt and Lilias thought so; and maybe they might, if John would speak to them about it.And so it was arranged; and when John went back to college and the Gordon boys went home, Archie found himself at David Graham’s side, under the firm and not ungentle rule of the Dunmoor parish schoolmaster. Lilias’ joy was scarcely less than his own; and the delight of welcoming him home at night quite repaid her for his absence during the day.As for her, she began again the business of teaching with wonderful cheerfulness, and went on with wonderful success. Mrs Blair’s office of schoolmistress was becoming hers only in name, she declared; for Lilias did all that was to be done, while she sat quietly in her armchair, knitting or sewing, only now and then administering a word of caution or reproof to the little ones about her. The children loved their young teacher dearly. Not one of them but would have travelled miles to do her a pleasure; and over two or three her influence for good was very easily seen.When the summer and autumn work was fairly over, Elsie Ray came back again to the school; and Elsie was a very different girl now from the shy, awkward, ill-clad creature who had come there a stranger last year. Naturally affectionate, as well as bright, she had from the first attached herself to Lilias in a peculiar manner, and, to please her, she had done her utmost to overcome her faults and improve herself in every way. Her clothes, of her own making, were now as neat as they had been before untidy. Her leisure time during the summer’s herding had not been misemployed, and she was fast acquiring the reputation of being the best reader, writer, and sewer in the school; and no small pride did she feel in her acquirements. In short, as Mrs Stirling declared, “she had become a decent, purpose-like lass, and Lilias Elder should have the credit of it.” Of the last fact Elsie was as well persuaded as Nancy was; and her gratitude and devotion to Lilias were in proportion. No sacrifice would she have considered too great to give proof of her gratitude to Lilias; and her goodwill stood her friend in good stead before the winter was over.

And so the winter passed away, and the spring came again,—the sunshine and showers of April, more than renewing the delight of the children’s first weeks in Kirklands. They had never been in the country in the early spring before; and even “bonny Glen Elder,” in the prime of summer, had no wonders such as revealed themselves day by day to their unaccustomed eyes. The catkins on the willows, the gradual swelling of the hawthorn-buds, the graceful tassels of the silver birch, were to them a beauty and a mystery. The gradual change of brown fields to a living green, as the tender blades of the new-sown grain sprang up, was wondrous too. The tiny mosses on the rocks, the ferns hidden away from other eyes, were searched for and rejoiced over. No wild flower by the wayside, no bird or butterfly, no new development of life in any form, but won from them a joyful greeting.

And so there were again the pleasant wanderings among hills and glens, and the pleasanter restings by the burn-side. But they were not so frequent now, for Lilias’ life was a very busy one, and she could not, even if she had wished, have laid aside the duties she had taken upon herself. But her freedom was all the sweeter when her duties were done; and seldom a day passed without an hour or two of bright sunshine and fresh air, and never before had the world seemed half so beautiful.

And Lilias had another source of happiness, better than birds or flowers or sunshine: Archie was growing strong again. Before May was out, his crutches occupied a permanent place behind the cottage-door, and he was away on the hill without them, drinking in life and health with every breath of balmy air. He was no longer the little cripple, painfully following the footsteps of his sister, slackened to suit his lagging pace. Lame he was still, and always might be, and a slender “willow-wand of a laddie,” as Mrs Stirling still declared; but there was a tinge of healthy colour on cheek and lip, and instead of the look that reminded Lilias of the shadow creeping round to the gate of the kirk-yard, there came back to his face and blithe look of earlier days. His very voice and smile seemed changed; and his laughter, so seldom heard for many a weary month, was music to his sister’s ear.

Her joy in his returning health was altogether unmingled. Sometimes, when weary of the noise and confinement of school, it quite rested and refreshed her to remember that he was out in the air and sunshine. She never murmured that he enjoyed it all without her; and when he came home at night, telling, triumphantly, of the miles and miles he had walked and the new sights he had seen among the hills, her delight was quite as great as his.

At first Archie had no other interest in his wanderings than that which pleasant sights and sounds and a consciousness of returning strength gave him. It was happiness enough to lie down in some quiet valley, with only his beloved book as his companion, or, seated on some hill-side, to gaze on a landscape whose loveliness has been the theme of many a poet’s song.

But pleasant sights and sounds, and even his beloved book, did not always suffice him for companionship; and he soon found his way to more than one shieling among the hills; and more than one solitary shepherd soon learnt to look for the coming of the lad, “so old-fashioned, yet so gladsome.” Sometimes he read to them from his favourite books; but oftener they talked, and Archie heard many a legend of the countryside from the lips that could tell them best.

His father and grandfather were well remembered by many whom they had befriended in time of need; and the lad listened with delight to their praises, and with equal delight repeated them to his aunt and Lilias when he came home.

But there were other things, which Archie spoke of in whispers to his sister when they were away together among the hills,—mysterious hints of their cousin Hugh Blair, and of his mother’s troubles with him before he went away. Not that he had much to tell about him, for there was little said; but that little was enough to excite the curiosity and interest of the children with regard to him; and they were never weary of wondering why he went away, and where he was now, and whether he would ever come home again.

“I wonder whether Aunt Janet thinks much about him? I wonder why she never names him to us?” said Archie, one day, after they had been speaking about him.

Lilias was looking very grave.

“I’m sure she often thinks of him. And I don’t wonder that she seldom speaks about him, when she can have little that is good to say.”

“Maybe she thinks him dead,” said Archie.

“No: I don’t think that,” said Lilias, sadly. And after a moment she added, “Last night the sound of her voice wakened me. She was praying for him; and it minded me of the ‘groanings that cannot be uttered.’ I am afraid Aunt Janet has troubles we know nothing about.”

Yes, Mrs Blair had troubles which the children did not know of, which they could hardly have comprehended had they known; and, of late, fears for Archie had mingled with them. The remembrance of her utter failure in guiding and governing her own son was ever present with her, filling her with anxiety with regard to Archie’s future. She had no fears for Lilias, nor when her brother was a cripple had she fears for him. But now that he was strong and well,—now that he must necessarily be exposed to other influences, some of which could not but be evil, her heart grew sick with a feeling of self-distrust as to her own power to guide him.

It was this which made her listen with something like regret when Archie told of new friends made among the hills. His frank, open nature made him altogether unsuspicious of evil in others; and, knowing him to be easily influenced, she could not but fear that he might be led astray. Night after night, when Archie came home, she listened earnestly to hear the names of those with whom he had met; and, though she never heard anything from the boy’s lips or saw anything in his actions to make her fear that he was changing for the worse, she could not feel quite at ease concerning him. For there ever came back to her the thought of her son,—her wandering but still beloved Hugh; and many and earnest were the prayers that ascended both for the guileless child and the erring, sinful man, that through all the snares and temptations of life they might be brought safe home at last.

She could not speak of her fears to Lilias. She could not find it in her heart to lay the burden of this dread upon the child. She was so full of the new happiness of seeing her brother strong and well again, that she could not bear to let the shadow of this cloud fall upon her. It would do no good; and she had really nothing but her fears to tell. So in silence she prayed, night and day, that God would disappoint her fears for Archie, and more than realise his sister’s hope for him.

Mrs Stirling’s visits to the cottage did not become less frequent as the summer advanced, and her interest in Lilias seemed to increase with every visit. Not that she had ceased to torment the child with her discontented repinings for the past, or her melancholy forebodings for the future. There was always some subject for comment ready; and Nancy never let pass unimproved an opportunity to say something depressing. But Lilias was learning not to mind her; and this was all the easier to do, now that Archie’s ill-health could no longer be her theme.

“Oh, ay! he’s looking not so ill,” said she, one day, while she stood with Lilias at the gate, watching Archie, as he dug in the little garden; “and he’s not very lame. If you could only be sure that it wouldn’t break out again. Eh me! but he’s growing to look awful like his cousin Hugh. It’s to be hoped that he won’t turn out as he has done.”

Lilias gave a startled look towards the house-end, where her aunt was sitting, as she answered, hurriedly:

“Archie’s like my father.”

“You needna be feared that I’ll speak that name loud enough for her to hear,” said Nancy, answering Lilias’ look rather than her words. “I have more respect for her than that. Poor body! she must carry a sore heart about with her, for all she looks so quiet and contented like.”

Lilias sighed. The same thought had come into her own mind many and many a time within the last few months.

“Did my cousin Hugh do anything so very bad?” she asked, looking anxiously into Mrs Stirling’s face.

“I dare say the folk that blame him most have done far worse things than anything they can lay to his charge,” said Nancy; “but there’s little doubt he did what made him fear to look on his mother’s face again, or wherefore should he not have come back? His name has never, to my knowledge, passed her lips from that day till this.”

“But Donald Ross, up among the hills, told Archie that folk thought he had ’listed for a soldier, and that he couldna come back again.”

“Well, maybe not,” said Nancy. “Far be it from me to seek to make worse what is bad enough already. It’s not unlikely. But, as I was saying, Archie’s growing awfu’ like him, and it is to be hoped he will not take to ill ways. You should have an eye upon him, Lilias, my woman, that he doesn’t take up with folk that ‘call evil good, and good evil.’ It was that was the ruin of Hugh Blair,—poor laddie!”

“Archie sees no one among the hills that can do him harm,” said Lilias, hastily,—“only Donald Ross and the Muirlands shepherds, and now and then a herd-laddie from Alliston. He ay tells us, when he comes home, who he has seen.”

“Eh, woman! I didn’t mean to anger you,” exclaimed Nancy. “I declare, your eyes are glancing like two coals. But, if your aunt is wise, she’ll put him to some kind of work before long. Laddies like him must ay be about something; and if they are doing no good it’s likely they’ll be doing evil. Your aunt should know that well enough, without the like of me to tell her.”

“But Archie is such a mere child,” remonstrated Lilias, forgetting for the moment that it was Mrs Stirling, the grumbler for the countryside, that was speaking. “What ill can he get among the hills? And, besides, what work could he do? It’s health for him to wander about among the hills. It makes him strong.”

“You’re a child yourself for that matter,” said Nancy; “and I’m thinking what with those children’s catechism and work, and one thing and another, you do the most part of a woman’s work. And what’s to hinder your brother more than you? It would keep him out of harm’s way.”

Lilias suffered this conversation to make her uncomfortable for a few days, and then she wisely put it from her. She would not speak to Archie. She would not even seem to distrust him. And still the boy came and went at his pleasure, enjoying his rambles and his intercourse with his new friends, glad to go forth, and glad to come home again, where the sight of his face always made sunshine for his sister. And Mrs Blair still went about with outward calm, but carrying within her a heavy and anxious heart, as by the sighs and prayers of many a sleepless night, Lilias well knew.

This was the child’s one sorrow. Sometimes she longed to speak to her aunt about her cousin, and comfort her by weeping with her; but she never had courage to broach the subject. The wanderer’s name had never been mentioned between them; and Lilias had something like a feeling of guilt upon her in hearing, as she could not but hear, the midnight mourning of the stricken mother.

“And to think that this trouble has been upon her for so many years!” she thought to herself, one night, as she lay listening to her aunt’s sighs and murmured prayers. “It must be ten years at least; for I have no recollection of my cousin Hugh. And she has carried about this great grief all that time alone, and has sought comfort from no one. Oh, if I could but comfort her!” for Lilias did not know that there are some sorrows to which sympathy adds only bitterness.

Summer brought another pleasure to them all. Their Sabbath journeys over the hills to the kirk of Dunmoor were renewed; and, sitting in her father’s seat, and listening to the words of salvation from the lips of her father’s friend, Lilias grew more and more into the knowledge of “the peace of God that passeth all understanding.” Although but a child in years, early sorrow had taught her some lessons that childhood seldom learns. The heaviest of their sorrows did not press—upon them now. There was not the poverty, the ceaseless toil, the constant and sometimes vain struggle for bread. She could speak of her father and mother calmly now, and Archie was strong and well again. And so the look of patience which her face had worn when her aunt first saw it lying on Archie’s pillow in the dim attic room, was changing into a look of quiet content. Yet she was still unlike other children in many respects, though the difference was rather to be felt than seen.

Good James Muir did not speak to her as he did to the manse children or to Archie, but wisely and gravely, as he might have spoken to her aunt. Annie Graham, though a full year the elder, much to her own surprise, and to the surprise of all who knew her self-reliance, found herself deferring to the opinions of Lilias Elder. Not but that she enjoyed, as much as any of them, the simple pleasures that were within their reach; even little Jessie’s never-absent laughter was not more full of heartfelt mirth than hers.

But as they came to know Lilias better, they all felt that there was “something beyond.” Even little Jessie said “she was like one that was standing on a sure place, and was not afraid;” and so she was.

One Sabbath morning, in the kirk, Lilias was startled by the sight of familiar faces in the minister’s seat, faces associated in her mind with a bright parlour, and kind words spoken to her there. The quick smile and whisper exchanged by the two lads told her that the Gordon boys had recognised her too.

“That’s my father’s ‘bonny Lily,’” said Robert Gordon to young John Graham, who was looking gravely at the boys carrying on a whispered conference notwithstanding the reading of the psalm.

And, when the sermon was over, and Lilias, with her aunt and her brother, stood in the kirk-yard, the boys pressed eagerly forward to shake hands with her, and express their joy at seeing her again.

“They are Dr Gordon’s sons, aunt,” said Lilias, in answer to Mrs Blair’s look of surprise. “I saw them that night.” And the vivid remembrance of “that night” made her cheek grow pale.

“I hardly knew you,—you have grown so bonny,” said Robert, gravely. Lilias laughed.

“Come into the manse, and you will see your young friends without interruption,” said kind Mrs Graham. “Come, Archie.”

And so they passed a pleasant hour in the manse garden. The Gordons had come to pass their summer holidays with their cousins; and they would often come over the hills to see her, they said. They had a very pleasant time sitting on the grass in the shadow of the fir-trees. Even young John Graham, as he paced up and down the walk with a book in his hand, condescended to show a little curiosity as to the subject of their conversation, so earnest did their tones become at last; and John Graham was a college student, and a miracle of wisdom in his sister’s eyes. He wondered if it was all “Sabbath talk” that engrossed them so much; and his wonder changed to serious doubts, as his little sister Jessie’s voice rose above the voices of all the rest.

But wise John was mistaken this time. The subject that engrossed them so much was at the same moment engrossing good James Muir and his brother elders on the other side of the kirk-yard wall. It was the sermon and the minister they were discussing.

Jessie was eloquent on the subject. Of course there never was such a preacher as her grandfather,—not even the great Dr Chalmers himself, the child declared; and all the rest agreed. Even Robert Gordon, whose taste, if the truth must be told, did not lie at all in the direction of sermons, declared that he had not been very weary that day in the kirk. Jessie looked a good deal scandalised at this faint praise; but it was much from Master Robert, if she had but known all.

Then the question was started whether John would ever preach as well; and John had to pay the usual penalty of listeners, for all agreed that this was not to be thought of, at least, not for a long time to come.

This was the beginning of more frequent intercourse between Lilias and Archie and the manse children. Lilias was not often with them at first, for the “harvest-play” of the village children did not come so soon as the town-boys’ holidays, and she could seldom be prevailed upon to leave her aunt alone in the school. But Archie’s company soon became indispensable to the lads in their daily rambles among the hills. He had explored the country to some purpose; and not even the manse boys knew so many places of interest as he did, and he was often their leader in their long excursions.

It was a point of honour with Archie never to confess that he was tired while he could stand; and it was only a fortunate chance that prevented these long-continued wanderings from being an injury to him. They went one day to the top of the highest hill in the neighbourhood. Archie, as usual, led the way; and they had got well on their return, when he was obliged to confess to himself (though not to his companions) that he could go no farther.

They had just left the hills, and stood on the turnpike-road between Dunmoor and Kirklands, the other lads to go to the manse, and Archie to go home, a good two miles away yet. It seemed to him that he never could go so far; and, only waiting till the other lads were out of sight, he threw himself down on the grass at the roadside, utterly exhausted. The sound of wheels startled him in a little time, and soon John Graham, in the manse gig, made his appearance. He drew up at the sight of Archie, and, in some surprise, asked him what ailed him.

“Nothing,” said Archie, rising painfully. “We have been at the head of the Colla Hill; and I’m afraid I’m tired: that’s all.”

“And that’s enough, I think,” said John; for the lad’s limbs were trembling under him. “Really, these lads are very inconsiderate. You should not have let them lead you such a chase.”

“It was me that led them,” said Archie,—not exactly liking Master John’s tone. “And I’ll soon be rested again.”

But the horse’s head was already turned, and John’s strong arm lifted the weary boy to the seat at his side, and he was soon safely set down at the cottage-door. But it was some time before Archie appeared among the boys again, so long that John, after taking his brother Davie severely to task for his thoughtlessness, one fine morning walked over the hills to see if Archie were really ill.

“Ill? No! What should make me ill?” But Archie looked pale and weary, in spite of his denial. He was upon the turf seat at the end of the house; and, sitting down beside him, John took up the book he had been reading. It was a volume of Flavel.

“Have you read much of this?” John asked, wondering at his taste. “Do you like it?”

“I haven’t read much of it to-day; but Lilias and I read it last winter to my aunt, and I liked it well, not so well to read to myself, though, as some others.”

“What others?” asked John.

“Oh, the History of Scotland, and the Tales of the Covenanters, and some books of poetry that my aunt has got. But I like Flavel too. Don’t you?”

“Oh, yes,” replied John, smiling, and a little confused. “To tell the truth, I have not read much of him. Tell me what you think of him. Of this, for instance.”

And he read the quaint heading of a chapter in the book he held in his hand.

It never came into Archie’s mind that young John Graham was “just trying him,” as boys say; and, in perfect simplicity and good faith, he gave an abstract of the chapter, with comments of his aunt’s, and some of his own upon it. It was not very clear or very complete, it is true; but it was enough to change considerably the expression of John’s face as he listened.

This was the beginning of a long conversation. John Graham had laid out for himself three hours of hard reading after his bracing tramp over the hills; but it was past noon when he went in to see Mrs Blair before he went away. He did not think the morning wasted; though in general, like all hard students, he was a miser respecting his time. When he was going away, he offered Archie any of his books, and said he would help him to understand them while he stayed at home.

“That won’t be long now, however,” he added. “But why don’t you go to school?”

“I should like to go to Dunmoor parish school with Davie; but my aunt thinks it’s too far.”

“Well, I think, after your scramble to Colla’s Head, and the ten good miles besides, that you walked the other day, you might be able to walk to Dunmoor school. It is not far, if you were only stronger.”

Oh, Archie was strong; quite strong enough for that, if only his aunt and Lilias thought so; and maybe they might, if John would speak to them about it.

And so it was arranged; and when John went back to college and the Gordon boys went home, Archie found himself at David Graham’s side, under the firm and not ungentle rule of the Dunmoor parish schoolmaster. Lilias’ joy was scarcely less than his own; and the delight of welcoming him home at night quite repaid her for his absence during the day.

As for her, she began again the business of teaching with wonderful cheerfulness, and went on with wonderful success. Mrs Blair’s office of schoolmistress was becoming hers only in name, she declared; for Lilias did all that was to be done, while she sat quietly in her armchair, knitting or sewing, only now and then administering a word of caution or reproof to the little ones about her. The children loved their young teacher dearly. Not one of them but would have travelled miles to do her a pleasure; and over two or three her influence for good was very easily seen.

When the summer and autumn work was fairly over, Elsie Ray came back again to the school; and Elsie was a very different girl now from the shy, awkward, ill-clad creature who had come there a stranger last year. Naturally affectionate, as well as bright, she had from the first attached herself to Lilias in a peculiar manner, and, to please her, she had done her utmost to overcome her faults and improve herself in every way. Her clothes, of her own making, were now as neat as they had been before untidy. Her leisure time during the summer’s herding had not been misemployed, and she was fast acquiring the reputation of being the best reader, writer, and sewer in the school; and no small pride did she feel in her acquirements. In short, as Mrs Stirling declared, “she had become a decent, purpose-like lass, and Lilias Elder should have the credit of it.” Of the last fact Elsie was as well persuaded as Nancy was; and her gratitude and devotion to Lilias were in proportion. No sacrifice would she have considered too great to give proof of her gratitude to Lilias; and her goodwill stood her friend in good stead before the winter was over.

Chapter Six.Clouds with Silver Linings.Lilias’ troubles were not over yet. Even now a cloud was gathering, little, indeed, at first, and distant, but destined to overshadow her for many a weary month. Indeed, there were two, as Lilias sometimes thought, while she stood watching for her brother’s home-coming beneath the rowan-tree in the glen. The way over the hills was hardly safe in the darkness, and the days were growing short again, and Archie could seldom get home by daylight now. She began to fear that it would be as their aunt had more than once hinted,—that he must stay at home till spring.For herself, Lilias would have liked nothing half so well as a renewal of last winter’s pleasures; but she was by no means sure that Archie would agree with her.“He has got a taste of the school, and nothing else will content him now. And, besides, so clever as the master says he is, it would be such a pity to take him away just as he has well begun.”But how to help it was the question; and Lilias revolved it in her mind so constantly that it quite depressed and wearied her at last, and a feeling akin to despondency began to oppress her. She did not speak to Archie of any change. He went and came, day by day, rejoicing in the new sources of delight that his books and his school afforded, evidently believing that his plans were settled for the winter; and Lilias would not disturb him a day sooner than was necessary, and so she bore her burden alone. In a little while she found that she never need have borne it at all. The disappointment that she dreaded for Archie never came; and this was the way it was averted.It was Saturday afternoon,—a half-holiday in the school. The children had gone home, and there was quietness in the cottage. Lilias had given the last stroke of neatness to the little room. The dinner-table was set, and they were waiting for Archie. Lilias went to the gate and strained her eyes in the direction of the hill-path; and, with a slight sigh of disappointment, she hurried towards the house again. A strange voice close by her side startled her.“You needn’t spoil your eyes looking for Archie to-day, for I have given him leave to go with Davie to the manse, and I dare say Mrs Graham winna let him want his dinner; and I’ll take mine with you. You can get Archie any time, but it’s not often that I am seen in any house but my own. You needn’t look so disappointed.”Lilias’ smile quickly chased the shadow from her face as she cheerfully invited the schoolmaster to come in; and, stooping low, he entered.Mrs Blair had known Peter Butler all his life, and she had often received him in a very different place from the low room into which he passed, but never with a more kindly welcome than she gave him now. She had none of that kind of pride which would make her shrink from a necessary exposure of her poverty to eyes that had seen her prosperity; and it was with no trace of embarrassment that she rose, and offered him the armchair to rest himself in after his long walk; but he declined it with respectful deference.“Many thanks, Mrs Blair, ma’am,” said he, seating himself on the end of a form near the door. Placing his hat beneath it, he took from his pocket a black silk cap, and deliberately settled it on his head.“You’ll excuse me, ma’am: I have used myself to wear this in the school, till it wouldna be safe to go without it. At my time of life, health mustna be trifled with, you ken.”Mrs Blair begged the master to make himself comfortable, and there was a moment’s pause.“I have taken the liberty to give yon laddie Archie a play this afternoon. I would like to have a few words with you concerning him, if you have no objection.”Mrs Blair eagerly assented, and Lilias’ hand was arrested in the act of lifting the dinner from the hearth to the table. And she stood gazing at the master with a look so entreating as slightly to discompose him.“It’s not ill I have to tell of him, lassie. You need not look so like frightened.”Lilias set down the dish in some confusion.“And if you’ll allow me to suggest, ma’am, you’ll take your dinner while it’s in season. My news will keep.”The master had dined before he left home; but, with a delicacy that would have done honour to a man of greater pretension, he accepted Mrs Blair’s invitation as frankly as it was frankly given. A humble meal it was, and the master’s eyes grew dim, remembering other days, as, reverently lifting his cap from his broad, bald brow, he prayed for God’s blessing on the offered mercies.During the meal, Mr Butler talked fluently enough on many subjects; but when the dinner was fairly over, and Mrs Blair and Lilias sat still, evidently waiting to hear what he had to say, he seemed strangely at a loss for words, and broke down several times in making a beginning. At last he said:“Well, Mrs Blair, the short and the long of it is this. I have a favour to ask from you. You see, it’s dull enough down at my house at this time of the year, and I find it long sitting by myself when the bairns have gone home. I have a certain solace in my books, it’s true; but I begin to think there is some sense in the wise man’s declaration, that ‘much study is a weariness to the flesh.’ At any rate, it comes to that at my time of life. So I wish you would spare that laddie of yours to me for awhile, and I’ll promise you that what will be for my good will not be for his ill. That’s what I have to say.”There was a moment’s silence; and then Mrs Blair thanked him for his proposal, and for the manner in which it had been made. It was very kind in him, she said, to put the matter in that way, as though the obligation would be on his side. But it would be a great interruption to the quiet which she knew he valued so much, to have a lad like Archie always coming and going about him, and she doubted whether it would be right to accept his generous offer; though she feared the short days and the distance by the road would keep Archie away from the school for a few weeks at least. The master listened with great attention, and said:“To your first remark, Mrs Blair, ma’am, with all due deference, I must say, I put it in that light because it’s the true light, and I see not well how I could put it in any other. And as for his being an interruption, if I should find him so at any time I would but to bid him hold his peace or go to his bed, or I could send him over to the manse to Davie yonder. He’ll be no interruption to him, I’ll warrant. And as to his biding at home, it must by no means be. He has just got well begun in more things than one, and there is no saying what might be the effect of putting a stop to it all. He might not take to his books so well again. Not that I think that, either; but it would be an awful pity to hinder him. He’ll do himself and me credit yet, if he has the chance.”Lilias smiled at these praises of her brother, and Mrs Blair asked:“Really and truly, Mr Butler, apart from your wish to help him for his father’s sake, do you wish for your own sake to have the boy to bide with you for awhile?”“Really and truly for my own sake. I consider the obligation on my side. But just for the sake of argument, Mrs Blair, ma’am, we’ll suppose it to be otherwise. Do you mind the little house that once stood in Pentlands Park, and how many of my mother’s dark days your presence brightened there? And do you not mind, when I was a reckless laddie, well-nigh worsted in the battle of life, that first your father, and then your brother, took me by the hand and warded off the sore blows of poverty and neglect? And do you think I’m too bold in seeking an opportunity to show that I didn’t forget, though I can never repay? Is it too great a favour for me to ask, Mrs Blair?”The master’s voice had nearly failed him more than once while he was speaking. He was very much in earnest; and to what he had said, Mrs Blair could have only one reply. Turning to Lilias, she said:“Well, my dear, shall it be?”The master had, with a few exceptions, a sort of friendly contempt for all womankind. With regard to “lassie bairns” there wasnoexception; and he was by no means pleased that the answer to his question should be referred to one of these. But Lilias’ answer appeased him.“Oh, yes,—surely, aunt. It will be much for Archie’s good. And, besides,” she added, with a little hesitation, “I don’t wonder that the master wants Archie for his own sake.”“A sensible-like lassie, that,” said the master to himself, looking at her with some such curiosity as he would have looked at a strange beetle in his garden-path, “that is wise like.”“Yes, if the master thought about Archie, as you do,” said Mrs Blair. “But have you counted the cost? It will be a sad lonely winter to you without your brother, Lily.”Lilias considered a moment, and drew a long breath.“But it will be so much better for him; and he will come home sometimes.”“That he shall,” said the master, “at regular times, on which you shall agree between you, and at no other,—that you need not be troubling yourselves needlessly about him. And he shall come in time, too, that there need be no waste of good eyesight watching for him.”And so it was settled. But Archie was by no means so delighted with the arrangement as Lilias had anticipated. He could hardly be persuaded that he could not in the winter walk backwards and forwards over the hills, as he had done in the fine days of summer and autumn. But when he was fairly settled in his little closet in the schoolmaster’s quiet home, with a table full of books, and time to read them, and his friend Davie coming and going at his pleasure, he settled down with great content.He did not miss his sister as she missed him. Poor Lilias! Many and many a time, during the first week of their separation, she asked herself if she had indeed counted the cost. She accused herself of selfishness in regretting a change which was so much for his good, and strove by attention to her duties to quiet the pain at her heart.“I ought to be glad and thankful,” said she to herself, again and again,—“glad and thankful;” but the dull pain ached on, and the days seemed like weeks; and when Saturday afternoon came at last, and Archie rushed in, with a joyful shout, a few minutes before he was expected, she surprised herself and him by a great flood of tears.“Lilias, my child, what ails you?” said her aunt, while Archie stood gazing at her in silent consternation.It was some time before she found her voice to speak.“It’s nothing, aunt; indeed it’s nothing, Archie. I had no thought of crying. But I think my tears have been gathering all the week, and the sight of you made them run over in spite of me.”“Lily,” said Archie, gravely, “I won’t go to the school again. You have been wearying for me, Lily.”It had been something more than “wearying,”—that dull pain that had ached at Lilias’ heart since they parted. It was like the mother’s unappeasable yearning for her lost darling. Her cheek seemed to have grown pale and thin even in these six days. Archie stood with one hand thrown over her neck, while with the other he pushed back the fair hair that had fallen on her face, and his eyes looked lovingly and gravely into hers. The tears still ran fast over her cheeks; but she forced back the sobs that were ready to burst out again; and in a little while she said, with lips that quivered while they smiled:“Nonsense, Archie! You must go to the school. I haven’t wearied much: have I, aunt? Everything has been just the same this week, except that you didn’t come home.”“A woeful exception,” said her aunt to herself; but aloud she said, “Yes; just the same. We have missed you sadly; but we couldn’t think of keeping you at home on that account. How do you like biding with the master?”“Oh, I liked it well, after the first night or two. I have been twice at the manse, and Davie has been with me; and the master has more books than I could read in years and years; and I have had a letter from John Graham. It came with one to Davie.”And soon Lilias was listening to his history of the week’s events with as much interest as he took in giving it. She strove by her cheerfulness to make Archie forget her reception of him. Indeed, it did not require a very great effort to be cheerful now. Her heart had been wonderfully lightened by the shedding of the tears that had been gathering all the week; and she soon laughed heartily over the merry stories he had to tell about his sworn friend Davie Graham and the master.But Archie did not forget. That night, as they stood by the rowan-tree, looking down on the foaming waters beneath, he said:“Lily, I don’t believe Davie Graham’s sisters love him as you love me.”“They wouldn’t need. Davie Graham’s not like you. Besides, they have other brothers, and I have only you.”“Yes; that may make a difference. But I’m sure I’ve been more trouble to you than brothers generally are to their sisters. I wonder you don’t tire of it, Lily.”“That’s what makes me miss you so much. Oh, Archie! I thought the week would never be done.”“It can’t be right for me to bide at Dunmoor, when you miss me so much, Lily. I ought to give up the school for awhile, I think.”But Lilias would not hear of such a thing. Stay from the school for her sake! No, indeed. That would never do, when he needed to go so much, and when she had been wishing for it for his sake so long! And, besides, it would be as much for her good as his, in the end. She would far rather have him a great scholar by-and-by than to have his company now.“If Aunt Janet were only well again!” she added, after a little pause; and a shadow passed over her face as she spoke.This was the cloud that had been gathering and darkening; and it was not very long before that which Lilias had feared came upon her. Her aunt grew worse and worse; and, when Christmas-time came round, she was not able to leave her bed. Privations to which she had been little accustomed during the greater part of her life were beginning to tell on her now. At first she was only feeble and incapable of exertion; but her illness soon assumed a more decided form, and a severe rheumatic attack rendered her, for a time, quite helpless. She was always cheerful, and strove to comfort Lilias by telling her that, though her illness was painful, it was not dangerous, and when the spring came round she might hope to be strong and well again. But months must pass before then, and the heart of Lilias sickened at the thought of all her aunt must suffer. Even Archie’s absence came to seem but a small matter in comparison with this greater trial. By every means in her power she strove to soothe her sufferings; but, alas! it was little she could do, and slowly the winter passed away.“Oh, so differently from the last!” thought Lilias, many a time.It was long a matter of earnest discussion between them whether the school should be kept up through the winter, or not. Mr Blair was fearful that it would be too much for the child; but, hoping day by day to be better, and able to take her accustomed place among them, she yielded to Lilias’ entreaties, and consented that they should come for awhile.Lilias made a new discovery about this time. After her aunt’s illness the housekeeping affairs fell altogether into her hands; and she was startled to find how very small the sum was that must cover their expenses from year’s end to year’s end. The trifle received from the school-children, paltry as it was, seemed quite too precious to be given up. Her aunt’s comforts were few, but they must be fewer still without this. No: the school must be kept up, at any cost of labour and pains to her.“Let me just try it a while, aunt,” she pleaded; “I am sure I can get on with you to advise me; and the days will seem shorter with the bairns coming and going.”And so her aunt yielded, though only half convinced that she did right. There is no better promoter of cheerfulness than constant and earnest occupation; and so Lilias found it. She had no time during the day to think of the troubles that seemed gathering over them, and at night she was too weary to do so. But, though weary in body, her patience and energy never flagged. Indeed, never were so many children so easily taught and governed before. The gentle firmness of their young teacher wrought wonders among them. Her grave looks were punishment enough for the most unruly, and no greater reward of good behaviour could be given than to be permitted to go on an errand or do her some other little favour when school was over.But her chief dependence for help was on Elsie Ray. Her gratitude for Lilias’ kindness when she first came to the school was unbounded; and she could not do too much to prove it. It was Elsie who brought in the water from the well and the fuel from the heap. It was Elsie who went far and near for anything which the varying appetite of the invalid might crave. Lilias quite learnt to depend on her; and the day was darker and longer than usual, that failed to bring Elsie to the school.Mrs Stirling’s visits, too, became more frequent as the winter wore away; and there was seldom a Saturday afternoon, be it raining or shining, that failed to bring her to the cottage. Nor was she by any means unwelcome there. For Nancy could be very helpful, when she willed it; and, by some strange witchcraft or other, Lilias had crept into her murmuring, though not unkind heart. It is true that she always came and went with the same ominous shake of the head, and the same dismal prophecy that, “unless she was much mistaken, Mrs Blair would never set her foot to the ground again;” but she strove in various ways to soothe the pain of the sufferer, and her strong arms accomplished many a task that Lilias in her weakness must have left undone. Once, in Lilias’ absence from the cottage, she collected and carried off the used linen of the family which had been accumulating for weeks, and quite resented the child’s exclamation of surprise and gratitude when she brought them back done up in her very best style. “She had done it to please herself, as the most of folks do favours; and there need be no such ado made about it. If she had thought it a trouble, she would have left it alone.”She was never weary of suggesting new remedies for Mrs Blair’s complaint, and grumbled by the hour if each in turn had not what she called a fair trial. Fortunately, her remedies were not of the “kill or cure” kind. If they could do no good, they could do little harm; and Mrs Blair was generally disposed to submit to a trial of them.In all her intercourse with Lilias there was a singular blending of respectful tenderness with the grumbling sourness that had become habitual to her. The child’s unfailing energy and patience were a source of never-failing admiration to her; yet she always spoke to her as if she thought she needed a great deal of encouragement, and not a little reproof and advice, to keep her in the right way.“You mustn’t grumble, Lilias, my dear, that you have to bear the yoke in your youth. I dare say you need all you’re getting. Many a better woman has had more to bear. We all have our share of trouble at one time or another. Who knows but you may see prosperous days yet,—you and your aunt together? Though indeed that’s more than I think,” she added, with the old ominous shake of the head; “but, grumble here or grumble there, it will make little difference in the end.”Lilias would listen sometimes with a smile, sometimes with tears in her wistful eyes, but always with a respect which was all the more grateful to Nancy that it was not often given by those on whom she bestowed her advice.But notwithstanding the kindness of friends, and (what Lilias valued even more) the weekly visits of Archie, the afternoon walks, and the long evening spent in talking over all that the week had brought to each, the winter passed away slowly and heavily. To the children in the school, Lilias always appeared in all respects the same; as indeed she was during school-hours. But when the little ones had gone home, and her household duties were all over, when there was no immediate call for exertion, her strength and spirits flagged. Sitting in the dim light of the peat fire, her weary eyes would close, and her work would fall upon her lap. It is true, the lowest tone of her aunt’s voice would awaken her again, as indeed it would at any hour of the night; but, waking still weary and unrefreshed, no wonder that the power to step lightly and speak cheerfully was sometimes more than she could command. She was always gentle and mindful of her aunt’s comfort; but as the spring drew near she grew quiet and grave, and her laugh, which had been such pleasant music in the cottage, was seldom heard.“You never sing now, Lily,” said her aunt, one night, as Lilias was busily but silently putting things to rights after the children had gone home.“Don’t I?” said Lilias, standing still.“Well, maybe not, though I had not thought about it. I am waiting for the birds to begin again, I suppose; and that won’t be long now.”But spring seemed long in coming. March passed over, and left matters no better in the cottage. Indeed, it was the worst time of all. The damp days and bleak winds aggravated Mrs Blair’s illness, and increased her suffering. The young lambs and calves at home needed Elsie’s care, and she could seldom come now; and Lilias’ burden grew heavier every day. Two rainy Saturdays in succession had presented Archie’s coming home; and time seemed to move on leaden wings.“You have need of patience, Lily,” said her aunt one night, as the child seated herself on a low stool and laid her head down on the side of the bed.“Have I, aunt?” said she, raising herself quickly, for she thought her aunt’s words were intended to convey reproof.“Yes; and God is giving it to you, my child. It ought to be some comfort to you, love, that you are doing good in the weary life you are leading. You are not living in vain, my child.”“I am quite happy, aunt,” said Lilias, coming near, and speaking in a low, wondering voice.“Blessed with the peaceHegives His own through His dear Son our Saviour: thank God for that!” said her aunt, as she returned her caress.March passed and April too, and May came warm and beautiful, at last. It brought the blessing so earnestly longed for by the weary Lilias,—comparative health to her aunt. Although she was not quite well yet, she was no longer confined to her bed; and, with some assistance, could walk about the house, and even in the little garden, now bright with violets and daisies. “She had aged wonderfully,” Mrs Stirling said; as indeed she had. Lilias could see that, but she had great faith in the “bonny summer days,” and thought that now their troubles were nearly at an end.The return of spring had not made the schoolmaster willing to part with Archie, and he was seldom at home more than once or twice a week. But, though Lilias still missed him, she had long ago persuaded herself that it would be selfishness on her part to wish it otherwise. It was for Archie’s good; and that was more than enough to reconcile her to his continued absence.But the pleasant May days did not make Lilias her old self again. She did not begin to sing with the birds, though she tried sometimes. The old burden was there, and she could not. Often she accused herself of ingratitude, and wondered what ailed her, that she could not be so cheerful as she used to be. The feeling of weariness and depression did not wait now till the children had gone home. Sometimes it came upon her as she sat in the midst of them, and the hum of their voices would die away into a dull murmur, and she would fall into a momentary forgetfulness of time and place. Sometimes it came upon her as an inexpressible longing for rest and quiet, and to get away from it all for a little while.Her spirits were unequal; and it required a daily and unceasing effort to go about quietly, as she used to do. More than once she startled herself and others by sudden and violent bursts of weeping, for which, as she truly said, she could give no reason. In vain she expostulated with herself; in vain she called herself ungrateful and capricious. The weary weight would not be reasoned away.At length the knowledge that she was overtired, and not so well as usual, relieved her heart a little; but not very long. She was ill; and that was the cause of all her wretched feelings. She was not selfish and ungrateful.She would be her old self again when she grew better.Yes; but would she ever grow better? and when? and how? Never in the school. She knew now that she had been doing too much for her strength,—that the longing to get away from the noise and turmoil did not arise from dislike of her work, but from inability to perform it. And yet, what could she do even now? Her aunt was not able to take her old place in the school. Must it be given up? They needed the small sum it brought in as much as ever they had done, and more. Archie was fast outgrowing the clothes so carefully preserved, and where could he get more? And there were other things, comforts which her aunt needed, which must be given up, unless the school could be kept on.She could not go to service now. She could not leave her aunt. If she could only get something to do that could be done at home. Or if she could only be a herd-girl, like Elsie Ray, or keep the sheep of some of the farmers, so that she might come home at night. Then she would soon get strong, and, maybe, have the children again after the harvest. Oh, if she only had some one to tell her what to do! The thought more than once came into her mind to write to Dr Gordon; but she did not. He could not advise her. He could help them in no other way than to send them money. No: something else must be tried first. Oh, if she only knew what to do!It would not have solaced Lilias much to know that the very same thoughts were hourly in the mind of her aunt. None of Mrs Blair’s friends knew the exact amount of her yearly income. None of them knew how small the sum was that the widow’s little family had to maintain them, or imagined the straits to which they were sometimes reduced. Mrs Blair blamed herself for not having done before what now seemed inevitable. She ought to have asked assistance, alms she called it, before it came to this pass with them; and yet she had done what she thought was for the best. She had hoped that her illness would not last long,—that when spring came all would go on as usual again.But this could not be now. She had watched Lilias with great anxiety. She had seen the struggle which it had sometimes cost her to get through the days; and she knew that it could not go on long. Her own strength came back, but slowly. She could not take Lilias’ place; and the children must go. Some change must be made, even if it involved the necessity of Lilias’ leaving her for a while. Indeed, it might have been better, she sometimes thought, if she had never sought to keep the child with her. It would be hard to part from her now.Lilias, in the meantime, had come to the same resolution. The school must be given up and she must tell her aunt and Archie; but first she must think of something else, weeding, or herding, or going out to service. Suddenly a new thought presented itself. It would not have won for her much credit for wisdom in the parish, this idea of hers; but Lilias only wondered that it had not occurred to her before.“I’ll ask Mrs Stirling’s advice. If she’s not down before Saturday, I’ll go up and speak to her. She’ll surely know of something that I can do.”

Lilias’ troubles were not over yet. Even now a cloud was gathering, little, indeed, at first, and distant, but destined to overshadow her for many a weary month. Indeed, there were two, as Lilias sometimes thought, while she stood watching for her brother’s home-coming beneath the rowan-tree in the glen. The way over the hills was hardly safe in the darkness, and the days were growing short again, and Archie could seldom get home by daylight now. She began to fear that it would be as their aunt had more than once hinted,—that he must stay at home till spring.

For herself, Lilias would have liked nothing half so well as a renewal of last winter’s pleasures; but she was by no means sure that Archie would agree with her.

“He has got a taste of the school, and nothing else will content him now. And, besides, so clever as the master says he is, it would be such a pity to take him away just as he has well begun.”

But how to help it was the question; and Lilias revolved it in her mind so constantly that it quite depressed and wearied her at last, and a feeling akin to despondency began to oppress her. She did not speak to Archie of any change. He went and came, day by day, rejoicing in the new sources of delight that his books and his school afforded, evidently believing that his plans were settled for the winter; and Lilias would not disturb him a day sooner than was necessary, and so she bore her burden alone. In a little while she found that she never need have borne it at all. The disappointment that she dreaded for Archie never came; and this was the way it was averted.

It was Saturday afternoon,—a half-holiday in the school. The children had gone home, and there was quietness in the cottage. Lilias had given the last stroke of neatness to the little room. The dinner-table was set, and they were waiting for Archie. Lilias went to the gate and strained her eyes in the direction of the hill-path; and, with a slight sigh of disappointment, she hurried towards the house again. A strange voice close by her side startled her.

“You needn’t spoil your eyes looking for Archie to-day, for I have given him leave to go with Davie to the manse, and I dare say Mrs Graham winna let him want his dinner; and I’ll take mine with you. You can get Archie any time, but it’s not often that I am seen in any house but my own. You needn’t look so disappointed.”

Lilias’ smile quickly chased the shadow from her face as she cheerfully invited the schoolmaster to come in; and, stooping low, he entered.

Mrs Blair had known Peter Butler all his life, and she had often received him in a very different place from the low room into which he passed, but never with a more kindly welcome than she gave him now. She had none of that kind of pride which would make her shrink from a necessary exposure of her poverty to eyes that had seen her prosperity; and it was with no trace of embarrassment that she rose, and offered him the armchair to rest himself in after his long walk; but he declined it with respectful deference.

“Many thanks, Mrs Blair, ma’am,” said he, seating himself on the end of a form near the door. Placing his hat beneath it, he took from his pocket a black silk cap, and deliberately settled it on his head.

“You’ll excuse me, ma’am: I have used myself to wear this in the school, till it wouldna be safe to go without it. At my time of life, health mustna be trifled with, you ken.”

Mrs Blair begged the master to make himself comfortable, and there was a moment’s pause.

“I have taken the liberty to give yon laddie Archie a play this afternoon. I would like to have a few words with you concerning him, if you have no objection.”

Mrs Blair eagerly assented, and Lilias’ hand was arrested in the act of lifting the dinner from the hearth to the table. And she stood gazing at the master with a look so entreating as slightly to discompose him.

“It’s not ill I have to tell of him, lassie. You need not look so like frightened.”

Lilias set down the dish in some confusion.

“And if you’ll allow me to suggest, ma’am, you’ll take your dinner while it’s in season. My news will keep.”

The master had dined before he left home; but, with a delicacy that would have done honour to a man of greater pretension, he accepted Mrs Blair’s invitation as frankly as it was frankly given. A humble meal it was, and the master’s eyes grew dim, remembering other days, as, reverently lifting his cap from his broad, bald brow, he prayed for God’s blessing on the offered mercies.

During the meal, Mr Butler talked fluently enough on many subjects; but when the dinner was fairly over, and Mrs Blair and Lilias sat still, evidently waiting to hear what he had to say, he seemed strangely at a loss for words, and broke down several times in making a beginning. At last he said:

“Well, Mrs Blair, the short and the long of it is this. I have a favour to ask from you. You see, it’s dull enough down at my house at this time of the year, and I find it long sitting by myself when the bairns have gone home. I have a certain solace in my books, it’s true; but I begin to think there is some sense in the wise man’s declaration, that ‘much study is a weariness to the flesh.’ At any rate, it comes to that at my time of life. So I wish you would spare that laddie of yours to me for awhile, and I’ll promise you that what will be for my good will not be for his ill. That’s what I have to say.”

There was a moment’s silence; and then Mrs Blair thanked him for his proposal, and for the manner in which it had been made. It was very kind in him, she said, to put the matter in that way, as though the obligation would be on his side. But it would be a great interruption to the quiet which she knew he valued so much, to have a lad like Archie always coming and going about him, and she doubted whether it would be right to accept his generous offer; though she feared the short days and the distance by the road would keep Archie away from the school for a few weeks at least. The master listened with great attention, and said:

“To your first remark, Mrs Blair, ma’am, with all due deference, I must say, I put it in that light because it’s the true light, and I see not well how I could put it in any other. And as for his being an interruption, if I should find him so at any time I would but to bid him hold his peace or go to his bed, or I could send him over to the manse to Davie yonder. He’ll be no interruption to him, I’ll warrant. And as to his biding at home, it must by no means be. He has just got well begun in more things than one, and there is no saying what might be the effect of putting a stop to it all. He might not take to his books so well again. Not that I think that, either; but it would be an awful pity to hinder him. He’ll do himself and me credit yet, if he has the chance.”

Lilias smiled at these praises of her brother, and Mrs Blair asked:

“Really and truly, Mr Butler, apart from your wish to help him for his father’s sake, do you wish for your own sake to have the boy to bide with you for awhile?”

“Really and truly for my own sake. I consider the obligation on my side. But just for the sake of argument, Mrs Blair, ma’am, we’ll suppose it to be otherwise. Do you mind the little house that once stood in Pentlands Park, and how many of my mother’s dark days your presence brightened there? And do you not mind, when I was a reckless laddie, well-nigh worsted in the battle of life, that first your father, and then your brother, took me by the hand and warded off the sore blows of poverty and neglect? And do you think I’m too bold in seeking an opportunity to show that I didn’t forget, though I can never repay? Is it too great a favour for me to ask, Mrs Blair?”

The master’s voice had nearly failed him more than once while he was speaking. He was very much in earnest; and to what he had said, Mrs Blair could have only one reply. Turning to Lilias, she said:

“Well, my dear, shall it be?”

The master had, with a few exceptions, a sort of friendly contempt for all womankind. With regard to “lassie bairns” there wasnoexception; and he was by no means pleased that the answer to his question should be referred to one of these. But Lilias’ answer appeased him.

“Oh, yes,—surely, aunt. It will be much for Archie’s good. And, besides,” she added, with a little hesitation, “I don’t wonder that the master wants Archie for his own sake.”

“A sensible-like lassie, that,” said the master to himself, looking at her with some such curiosity as he would have looked at a strange beetle in his garden-path, “that is wise like.”

“Yes, if the master thought about Archie, as you do,” said Mrs Blair. “But have you counted the cost? It will be a sad lonely winter to you without your brother, Lily.”

Lilias considered a moment, and drew a long breath.

“But it will be so much better for him; and he will come home sometimes.”

“That he shall,” said the master, “at regular times, on which you shall agree between you, and at no other,—that you need not be troubling yourselves needlessly about him. And he shall come in time, too, that there need be no waste of good eyesight watching for him.”

And so it was settled. But Archie was by no means so delighted with the arrangement as Lilias had anticipated. He could hardly be persuaded that he could not in the winter walk backwards and forwards over the hills, as he had done in the fine days of summer and autumn. But when he was fairly settled in his little closet in the schoolmaster’s quiet home, with a table full of books, and time to read them, and his friend Davie coming and going at his pleasure, he settled down with great content.

He did not miss his sister as she missed him. Poor Lilias! Many and many a time, during the first week of their separation, she asked herself if she had indeed counted the cost. She accused herself of selfishness in regretting a change which was so much for his good, and strove by attention to her duties to quiet the pain at her heart.

“I ought to be glad and thankful,” said she to herself, again and again,—“glad and thankful;” but the dull pain ached on, and the days seemed like weeks; and when Saturday afternoon came at last, and Archie rushed in, with a joyful shout, a few minutes before he was expected, she surprised herself and him by a great flood of tears.

“Lilias, my child, what ails you?” said her aunt, while Archie stood gazing at her in silent consternation.

It was some time before she found her voice to speak.

“It’s nothing, aunt; indeed it’s nothing, Archie. I had no thought of crying. But I think my tears have been gathering all the week, and the sight of you made them run over in spite of me.”

“Lily,” said Archie, gravely, “I won’t go to the school again. You have been wearying for me, Lily.”

It had been something more than “wearying,”—that dull pain that had ached at Lilias’ heart since they parted. It was like the mother’s unappeasable yearning for her lost darling. Her cheek seemed to have grown pale and thin even in these six days. Archie stood with one hand thrown over her neck, while with the other he pushed back the fair hair that had fallen on her face, and his eyes looked lovingly and gravely into hers. The tears still ran fast over her cheeks; but she forced back the sobs that were ready to burst out again; and in a little while she said, with lips that quivered while they smiled:

“Nonsense, Archie! You must go to the school. I haven’t wearied much: have I, aunt? Everything has been just the same this week, except that you didn’t come home.”

“A woeful exception,” said her aunt to herself; but aloud she said, “Yes; just the same. We have missed you sadly; but we couldn’t think of keeping you at home on that account. How do you like biding with the master?”

“Oh, I liked it well, after the first night or two. I have been twice at the manse, and Davie has been with me; and the master has more books than I could read in years and years; and I have had a letter from John Graham. It came with one to Davie.”

And soon Lilias was listening to his history of the week’s events with as much interest as he took in giving it. She strove by her cheerfulness to make Archie forget her reception of him. Indeed, it did not require a very great effort to be cheerful now. Her heart had been wonderfully lightened by the shedding of the tears that had been gathering all the week; and she soon laughed heartily over the merry stories he had to tell about his sworn friend Davie Graham and the master.

But Archie did not forget. That night, as they stood by the rowan-tree, looking down on the foaming waters beneath, he said:

“Lily, I don’t believe Davie Graham’s sisters love him as you love me.”

“They wouldn’t need. Davie Graham’s not like you. Besides, they have other brothers, and I have only you.”

“Yes; that may make a difference. But I’m sure I’ve been more trouble to you than brothers generally are to their sisters. I wonder you don’t tire of it, Lily.”

“That’s what makes me miss you so much. Oh, Archie! I thought the week would never be done.”

“It can’t be right for me to bide at Dunmoor, when you miss me so much, Lily. I ought to give up the school for awhile, I think.”

But Lilias would not hear of such a thing. Stay from the school for her sake! No, indeed. That would never do, when he needed to go so much, and when she had been wishing for it for his sake so long! And, besides, it would be as much for her good as his, in the end. She would far rather have him a great scholar by-and-by than to have his company now.

“If Aunt Janet were only well again!” she added, after a little pause; and a shadow passed over her face as she spoke.

This was the cloud that had been gathering and darkening; and it was not very long before that which Lilias had feared came upon her. Her aunt grew worse and worse; and, when Christmas-time came round, she was not able to leave her bed. Privations to which she had been little accustomed during the greater part of her life were beginning to tell on her now. At first she was only feeble and incapable of exertion; but her illness soon assumed a more decided form, and a severe rheumatic attack rendered her, for a time, quite helpless. She was always cheerful, and strove to comfort Lilias by telling her that, though her illness was painful, it was not dangerous, and when the spring came round she might hope to be strong and well again. But months must pass before then, and the heart of Lilias sickened at the thought of all her aunt must suffer. Even Archie’s absence came to seem but a small matter in comparison with this greater trial. By every means in her power she strove to soothe her sufferings; but, alas! it was little she could do, and slowly the winter passed away.

“Oh, so differently from the last!” thought Lilias, many a time.

It was long a matter of earnest discussion between them whether the school should be kept up through the winter, or not. Mr Blair was fearful that it would be too much for the child; but, hoping day by day to be better, and able to take her accustomed place among them, she yielded to Lilias’ entreaties, and consented that they should come for awhile.

Lilias made a new discovery about this time. After her aunt’s illness the housekeeping affairs fell altogether into her hands; and she was startled to find how very small the sum was that must cover their expenses from year’s end to year’s end. The trifle received from the school-children, paltry as it was, seemed quite too precious to be given up. Her aunt’s comforts were few, but they must be fewer still without this. No: the school must be kept up, at any cost of labour and pains to her.

“Let me just try it a while, aunt,” she pleaded; “I am sure I can get on with you to advise me; and the days will seem shorter with the bairns coming and going.”

And so her aunt yielded, though only half convinced that she did right. There is no better promoter of cheerfulness than constant and earnest occupation; and so Lilias found it. She had no time during the day to think of the troubles that seemed gathering over them, and at night she was too weary to do so. But, though weary in body, her patience and energy never flagged. Indeed, never were so many children so easily taught and governed before. The gentle firmness of their young teacher wrought wonders among them. Her grave looks were punishment enough for the most unruly, and no greater reward of good behaviour could be given than to be permitted to go on an errand or do her some other little favour when school was over.

But her chief dependence for help was on Elsie Ray. Her gratitude for Lilias’ kindness when she first came to the school was unbounded; and she could not do too much to prove it. It was Elsie who brought in the water from the well and the fuel from the heap. It was Elsie who went far and near for anything which the varying appetite of the invalid might crave. Lilias quite learnt to depend on her; and the day was darker and longer than usual, that failed to bring Elsie to the school.

Mrs Stirling’s visits, too, became more frequent as the winter wore away; and there was seldom a Saturday afternoon, be it raining or shining, that failed to bring her to the cottage. Nor was she by any means unwelcome there. For Nancy could be very helpful, when she willed it; and, by some strange witchcraft or other, Lilias had crept into her murmuring, though not unkind heart. It is true that she always came and went with the same ominous shake of the head, and the same dismal prophecy that, “unless she was much mistaken, Mrs Blair would never set her foot to the ground again;” but she strove in various ways to soothe the pain of the sufferer, and her strong arms accomplished many a task that Lilias in her weakness must have left undone. Once, in Lilias’ absence from the cottage, she collected and carried off the used linen of the family which had been accumulating for weeks, and quite resented the child’s exclamation of surprise and gratitude when she brought them back done up in her very best style. “She had done it to please herself, as the most of folks do favours; and there need be no such ado made about it. If she had thought it a trouble, she would have left it alone.”

She was never weary of suggesting new remedies for Mrs Blair’s complaint, and grumbled by the hour if each in turn had not what she called a fair trial. Fortunately, her remedies were not of the “kill or cure” kind. If they could do no good, they could do little harm; and Mrs Blair was generally disposed to submit to a trial of them.

In all her intercourse with Lilias there was a singular blending of respectful tenderness with the grumbling sourness that had become habitual to her. The child’s unfailing energy and patience were a source of never-failing admiration to her; yet she always spoke to her as if she thought she needed a great deal of encouragement, and not a little reproof and advice, to keep her in the right way.

“You mustn’t grumble, Lilias, my dear, that you have to bear the yoke in your youth. I dare say you need all you’re getting. Many a better woman has had more to bear. We all have our share of trouble at one time or another. Who knows but you may see prosperous days yet,—you and your aunt together? Though indeed that’s more than I think,” she added, with the old ominous shake of the head; “but, grumble here or grumble there, it will make little difference in the end.”

Lilias would listen sometimes with a smile, sometimes with tears in her wistful eyes, but always with a respect which was all the more grateful to Nancy that it was not often given by those on whom she bestowed her advice.

But notwithstanding the kindness of friends, and (what Lilias valued even more) the weekly visits of Archie, the afternoon walks, and the long evening spent in talking over all that the week had brought to each, the winter passed away slowly and heavily. To the children in the school, Lilias always appeared in all respects the same; as indeed she was during school-hours. But when the little ones had gone home, and her household duties were all over, when there was no immediate call for exertion, her strength and spirits flagged. Sitting in the dim light of the peat fire, her weary eyes would close, and her work would fall upon her lap. It is true, the lowest tone of her aunt’s voice would awaken her again, as indeed it would at any hour of the night; but, waking still weary and unrefreshed, no wonder that the power to step lightly and speak cheerfully was sometimes more than she could command. She was always gentle and mindful of her aunt’s comfort; but as the spring drew near she grew quiet and grave, and her laugh, which had been such pleasant music in the cottage, was seldom heard.

“You never sing now, Lily,” said her aunt, one night, as Lilias was busily but silently putting things to rights after the children had gone home.

“Don’t I?” said Lilias, standing still.

“Well, maybe not, though I had not thought about it. I am waiting for the birds to begin again, I suppose; and that won’t be long now.”

But spring seemed long in coming. March passed over, and left matters no better in the cottage. Indeed, it was the worst time of all. The damp days and bleak winds aggravated Mrs Blair’s illness, and increased her suffering. The young lambs and calves at home needed Elsie’s care, and she could seldom come now; and Lilias’ burden grew heavier every day. Two rainy Saturdays in succession had presented Archie’s coming home; and time seemed to move on leaden wings.

“You have need of patience, Lily,” said her aunt one night, as the child seated herself on a low stool and laid her head down on the side of the bed.

“Have I, aunt?” said she, raising herself quickly, for she thought her aunt’s words were intended to convey reproof.

“Yes; and God is giving it to you, my child. It ought to be some comfort to you, love, that you are doing good in the weary life you are leading. You are not living in vain, my child.”

“I am quite happy, aunt,” said Lilias, coming near, and speaking in a low, wondering voice.

“Blessed with the peaceHegives His own through His dear Son our Saviour: thank God for that!” said her aunt, as she returned her caress.

March passed and April too, and May came warm and beautiful, at last. It brought the blessing so earnestly longed for by the weary Lilias,—comparative health to her aunt. Although she was not quite well yet, she was no longer confined to her bed; and, with some assistance, could walk about the house, and even in the little garden, now bright with violets and daisies. “She had aged wonderfully,” Mrs Stirling said; as indeed she had. Lilias could see that, but she had great faith in the “bonny summer days,” and thought that now their troubles were nearly at an end.

The return of spring had not made the schoolmaster willing to part with Archie, and he was seldom at home more than once or twice a week. But, though Lilias still missed him, she had long ago persuaded herself that it would be selfishness on her part to wish it otherwise. It was for Archie’s good; and that was more than enough to reconcile her to his continued absence.

But the pleasant May days did not make Lilias her old self again. She did not begin to sing with the birds, though she tried sometimes. The old burden was there, and she could not. Often she accused herself of ingratitude, and wondered what ailed her, that she could not be so cheerful as she used to be. The feeling of weariness and depression did not wait now till the children had gone home. Sometimes it came upon her as she sat in the midst of them, and the hum of their voices would die away into a dull murmur, and she would fall into a momentary forgetfulness of time and place. Sometimes it came upon her as an inexpressible longing for rest and quiet, and to get away from it all for a little while.

Her spirits were unequal; and it required a daily and unceasing effort to go about quietly, as she used to do. More than once she startled herself and others by sudden and violent bursts of weeping, for which, as she truly said, she could give no reason. In vain she expostulated with herself; in vain she called herself ungrateful and capricious. The weary weight would not be reasoned away.

At length the knowledge that she was overtired, and not so well as usual, relieved her heart a little; but not very long. She was ill; and that was the cause of all her wretched feelings. She was not selfish and ungrateful.

She would be her old self again when she grew better.

Yes; but would she ever grow better? and when? and how? Never in the school. She knew now that she had been doing too much for her strength,—that the longing to get away from the noise and turmoil did not arise from dislike of her work, but from inability to perform it. And yet, what could she do even now? Her aunt was not able to take her old place in the school. Must it be given up? They needed the small sum it brought in as much as ever they had done, and more. Archie was fast outgrowing the clothes so carefully preserved, and where could he get more? And there were other things, comforts which her aunt needed, which must be given up, unless the school could be kept on.

She could not go to service now. She could not leave her aunt. If she could only get something to do that could be done at home. Or if she could only be a herd-girl, like Elsie Ray, or keep the sheep of some of the farmers, so that she might come home at night. Then she would soon get strong, and, maybe, have the children again after the harvest. Oh, if she only had some one to tell her what to do! The thought more than once came into her mind to write to Dr Gordon; but she did not. He could not advise her. He could help them in no other way than to send them money. No: something else must be tried first. Oh, if she only knew what to do!

It would not have solaced Lilias much to know that the very same thoughts were hourly in the mind of her aunt. None of Mrs Blair’s friends knew the exact amount of her yearly income. None of them knew how small the sum was that the widow’s little family had to maintain them, or imagined the straits to which they were sometimes reduced. Mrs Blair blamed herself for not having done before what now seemed inevitable. She ought to have asked assistance, alms she called it, before it came to this pass with them; and yet she had done what she thought was for the best. She had hoped that her illness would not last long,—that when spring came all would go on as usual again.

But this could not be now. She had watched Lilias with great anxiety. She had seen the struggle which it had sometimes cost her to get through the days; and she knew that it could not go on long. Her own strength came back, but slowly. She could not take Lilias’ place; and the children must go. Some change must be made, even if it involved the necessity of Lilias’ leaving her for a while. Indeed, it might have been better, she sometimes thought, if she had never sought to keep the child with her. It would be hard to part from her now.

Lilias, in the meantime, had come to the same resolution. The school must be given up and she must tell her aunt and Archie; but first she must think of something else, weeding, or herding, or going out to service. Suddenly a new thought presented itself. It would not have won for her much credit for wisdom in the parish, this idea of hers; but Lilias only wondered that it had not occurred to her before.

“I’ll ask Mrs Stirling’s advice. If she’s not down before Saturday, I’ll go up and speak to her. She’ll surely know of something that I can do.”

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