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 was no exception; 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 peace He gives 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."



CHAPTER SEVEN.

A FRIEND IN NEED.

Mrs Stirling's cottage stood not far from the high-road that leads to Dunmoor, at the distance of a mile and a half from Kirklands. It was Nancy's own, and though humble and small, it was yet a very comfortable abode; for her reputation for neatness and order was as well established as her reputation for grumbling. There were no evidences of a refined taste about the place; but perfect order prevailed. There was not a weed in the garden without, nor a speck in the house within. Every article made of wood was as white as soap and sand or as bright as turpentine and wax and much rubbing could make it; and every piece of metal was dazzling to behold.

There were some relics of former grandeur, too; for Mrs Stirling had not always lived in so humble a home. Her husband had been prosperous in a small way, but the property he left had been sadly mismanaged after his death, or there would have been a larger portion for his widow. But she had enough to supply her simple wants; and there were those among her neighbours so uncharitable as to say that she enjoyed the opportunity for murmuring which its loss afforded, more than she could have enjoyed the possession of twice her means.

"Mrs Stirling might be as happy as the day is long, with nobody to trouble her from one year's end to the other," was the frequent remark of many a toil-worn mother, fighting with poverty and cares, in the midst of many children. Yet none of them would have changed her life of care for Nancy's solitary comfort. Not that Nancy did not enjoy life in her way. She enjoyed greatly putting things to rights and keeping things in order. She enjoyed her garden and her neighbours' good-natured envy on account of its superiority to their own. And, much more than people supposed, she enjoyed doing a good turn to any one who really needed it. It is true that her favours were, as a general thing, conferred ungraciously; but even those who had the least patience with her infirmities of temper availed themselves of her good offices, acknowledging that, after all, "her bark was worse than her bite."

During the last few months of their intercourse, Lilias had seen comparatively little of Mrs Stirling's characteristic ungraciousness, and she felt very grateful to her for her many kindnesses during the winter. Unconsciously to herself, in seeking her advice she was making the return which her friend could best appreciate.

Mrs Stirling was standing at the door, with her water-bucket in her hand, as Lilias came in sight that Saturday afternoon.

"Eh! yon's Lilias Elder coming up the hill. What can bring her here? I don't know the day when I have seen her so far from home. Eh, but she's a bonny, genteel little lassie! There's no doubt of that."

It could not have been her apparel that called forth Mrs Stirling's audible acknowledgment of Lilias' gentility; for her black frock was faded and scant, and far too short, though the last tuck had been let down in the skirt; and her little straw bonnet was not of this nor of last year's fashion. But Nancy's declaration was not a mistake, for all these disadvantages. Her greeting was characteristic.

"What made you come up the hill at that pace, you thoughtless lassie? Anybody to see you might think you had breath enough and to spare; and, if I'm not mistaken, you need it all."

Lilias laughed as she shook hands, and then sat down wearily on the door-step.

"Ah, sit down and rest yourself. You'll be going to meet your brother, or, maybe, to take your tea at the manse?" said Mrs Stirling, inquiringly.

"No: Archie's not coming home till the evening. He's going to Broyra with Davie Graham. I'm going no farther to-day. I came to see you, Mrs Stirling. I want you to advise me."

Nancy would not acknowledge to herself, and certainly she would not acknowledge to Lilias, that she was a good deal surprised and flattered by this announcement; and she merely said:

"Well, sit still and rest yourself first. I'm going down to the burn to get a drop of soft water to make my tea. It makes it best. Sit still and rest; for you look weary."

Weary she was, too weary even to take in the lovely scene before her, the hills and valleys in their fresh May garments. Far away on the dusty highway a traveller was approaching; and her eyes fastened themselves mechanically upon him. Sometimes he lingered and looked back over the way he had come, and then hurried on, as though his business would not brook delay. Still watching him as he advanced, Lilias idly wondered whence he came, and whither he was going, and whether it was hope or fear that urged him to such speed.

Then she thought of the many travellers on the highway of life, weary and ready to faint with the journey; and, closing her eyes, she strove to send a thought over her own uncertain future. She could see only a little way before her. The school must be given up; but what was to come after, she could not tell. She could think of no plan to bring about what she most wished—the power to do something and yet stay at home with her aunt. Change and separation must come, and she could not look beyond these; and then she sighed, as she had done many a time before.

"Oh, if I were only strong and well again!" So occupied was she with her thoughts that she had not noticed the return of Mrs Stirling from the brook, and was only made aware of it when she put a cut-glass goblet filled with water in her hand. A very beautiful goblet it was, no doubt equal to the one for which the Roman emperor, in the story, paid a small fortune; and you may be sure it was a great occasion in Mrs Stirling's eyes that brought it from the cupboard in the corner. No lips save those of the minister had touched the brim for many a month.

But Lilias was too much occupied with her own thoughts to notice the unwonted honour; and, strange to say, the slight was not resented. Placing the glass in Lilias's hand, Mrs Stirling went into the house again.

As Lilias raised it to her lips, her eyes fell again upon the approaching stranger toiling along the dusty road, and her hand was arrested. He had again slackened his pace, and his face was turned full upon Lilias as he drew near. Upon it care or grief, or it might be crime, had left deep traces. Now it wore a wild and anxious look that startled Lilias, as, instead of passing along the high-road, he rapidly came up the garden-path towards her.

"Can you tell me if I am on the high-road to Kirklands?" he asked, as he drew near.

"Yes; go straight on. It is not much more than a mile from this place."

He did not turn to go when she had answered him, but gazed for a moment earnestly into her face, and then said:

"Perhaps you can tell me—But no: I will not ask. I shall know the worst soon enough."

The look of pain deepened in his face, and his very lips grew pale as he spoke.

"You are ill!" exclaimed Lilias, eagerly offering him the water she held in her hand. He drank a little, and, giving back the glass, thanked her and went away. But before he had gone far he turned again, and, coming to Lilias, said in a low, hoarse voice:

"Child, I see the look of heaven's peace on your face. Your wish must bring good to one like me. Bid me God-speed."

"God speed you!" said Lilias, reverently, and wondering much. "And God avert the evil that you dread!"

She watched while he continued in sight, forgetting, for the time, her own troubles in pity for his.

"There are so many troubles in life," she thought; "and each one's own seems worst to bear. When will it all end?"

Poor, drooping Lily! She had sat so long in the shadow of care that she was in danger of forgetting that there were lightsome places on the earth; and "When will it end?" came often to her lips now. Not that she was growing impatient under it; but she felt herself so weak to do or to endure.

"If I only were strong and well again! If God would only make me well again, and show me what to do!"

Mrs Stirling's voice startled her at last.

"Come into the house, Lilias, my dear. There's a cold wind creeping round the hill, and the ground is damp yet. You mustn't sit longer there."

She placed a seat for her in the bright little kitchen.

"I won't put you into the parlour, for a fire's pleasant yet, May though it be. Sit down here, and I'll be through with my baking in a few minutes."

The kettle was already singing on the hearth, and fresh cakes were toasting at the fire. After the usual Saturday tidying-up, the room was "like a new pin;" and Lilias's eyes expressed her admiration as she looked, about her. Nancy hastened her work and finished it, and, as she seated herself on the other side of the hearth, she said:

"Well, my dear, what were you thinking to ask me?"

In a few words Lilias told her all her trouble: how, though the spring had come, her aunt was by no means well yet, nor able to take charge of the school again; how she sometimes felt she was growing ill herself, at least she was sometimes so weary that she feared she could not go on long. Indeed, she tried not to be weary, but she could not help it. The feeling would come upon her, and then she grew dazed and stupid among the children; and she must try and get something else to do. This was what she wanted to be advised about.

By a strong effort, in her capacity of adviser, Nancy was able to keep back the words that came to the tip of her tongue:—"I knew it. Anybody might have seen the upshot. To put a lassie like that to do the work of a strong woman! What could one expect?"

She did not speak aloud, however, but rose and mended the fire under the tea-kettle, asking, as she sat down again:

"And what are you thinking of doing, my dear?"

"It's not that I'm really ill," continued Lilias, eagerly. "I think it's because I have been within doors so much. If I could get something to do in the open air, I should soon be as well as ever again. I can't go to service now, because I must stop at home with my aunt at night. She can't be left. But I thought if I could be a herd-girl like Elsie Ray, or get weeding to do, or light field-work, or something—" And she looked so eagerly and so wistfully that Nancy was fain to betake herself to mending the fire again. For there was a strange, remorseful feeling stirring not unkindly at Nancy's heart. To use her own words, she "had taken just wonderfully to this old-fashioned child." Her patience, her energy, her unselfishness, her devotion to her aunt, had ever excited her admiration and respect. But that there was "a good thick layer of pride" for all these good qualities to rest upon, Nancy never doubted.

"And why not? Who has better right? The lassie is bonny and wise, and has good blood and a good name. Few have so much to be proud of. And if Mrs Blair thinks it's more becoming in her brother's daughter to teach children the catechism than to go out to common service, who can blame her that mind her youth and middle age?"

Indeed, it had always been a matter of congratulation to Mrs Stirling that this "leaven of pride" prevented Lilias's absolute perfection; but now, to see "that delicate lassie, so bonny and gentle, more fit for the manse parlour or the drawing-room at Pentlands than any other place,"— to see her so utterly unmindful of pride or station, wishing so eagerly, for the sake of those she loved, to become a herd-girl or a field-labourer, quite disarranged all Nancy's ideas. By another great effort, she checked the expression of her feelings, and asked:

"And what does your aunt say to all this?"

"Oh, I have said nothing to her yet. It would only trouble her; and if I can get nothing else to do, I must keep the children till the 'harvest-play' comes. That won't be so very long now."

"But, dear me, lassie! it must be that you have awful little to live on, if the few pence you could earn would make a difference," said Nancy, forgetting, in her excitement, her resolution to say nothing rashly. "Surely it's not needful that you should slave yourself that way."

"My aunt would not like me to speak about it. But I ought to do all I can; and I would like herding best."

Nancy's patience was ebbing fast.

"Well, lass, you've sought advice from me, and you shall get it. You're just as fit for herding as you are for breaking stones. Now, just be quiet, my dear. What do you ken about herding, but what you have learnt beneath Elsie Ray's plaid on a summer's afternoon? And what good could you do your aunt,—away before four in the morning, and not home till dark at night, as you would need to be?"

The last stroke told.

"I could do little, indeed," thought Lilias; but she could not speak, and soon Nancy said:

"As for light field-labour, if such a thing was to be found in the countryside, which is not my thought, your aunt would never hear of such a thing. Field-labourers canna choose their company; and they are but a rough set at best. Weeding might do better. If you could have got into the Pentlands gardens, now. But, dear me! It just shows that there's none exempt from trouble, be they high or be they low. Folk say the Laird o' Pentlands is in sore trouble, and the sins of the father are to be visited on the children. The Lady of Pentlands and her bairns are going to foreign parts, where they needn't think shame to be kenned as puir folk. There will be little done in the Pentlands gardens this while, I doubt. There's Broyra, but that is a good five miles away: you could never go there and come back at night."

"But surely there's something that I can do?" said Lilias, entreatingly.

"Yes, there's just one thing you can do. You can have patience, and sit still, and see what will come out of this. If I were you, and you were me, you could, I don't doubt, give me many a fine precept and promise from the Scriptures to that effect. So just take them to yourself, and bide still a while, till you see."

"I'll have to go on with the school yet," said Lilias, quietly.

"No, no, my lass: you'll do no such thing as that, unless you're tired of your life. You have been at that work over-long already, or I'm mistaken. Go into the house and look in the glass. Your face will never be paler than it is at this moment, Lilias Elder, my dear."

"I'm tired," said Lilias, faintly, her courage quite forsaking her, and the tears, long kept back, finding their way down her cheeks.

"Tired! I'll warrant you're tired; and me, like an old fool, talking away here, when the tea should have been ready long since." And Nancy dashed into her preparations with great energy. The tea was made in the little black teapot, as usual; but it was the best tray, and Nancy's exquisite china, that were laid on the mahogany stand brought from the parlour for the occasion; for Nancy seemed determined to do her great honour. By a strong effort, Lilias checked her tears after the first gush, and sat watching the movements and listening to the rather unconnected remarks of her hostess.

"It's not often they're taken down, except to wash," she said, as with a snowy napkin she dusted the fairy-like cream-pot. "There's but few folk of consideration coming to see the like of me. Young Mr Crawford doesn't seem to think that I belong to him,—maybe because I go so often to Dunmoor kirk. He hasn't darkened my door but once yet, and he's not like to do it now. They say he's to be married to one of Fivie's daughters; and I mind Fivie a poor herd-laddie. Eh me! but the Lord brings down one and puts up another! To think of the Lady of Pentlands having to leave yon bonny place! Who would have thought it? This is truly a changeful scene. Folk must have their share of trouble at one time or other of their lives. There was never a truer word said than that."

"Yes," said Lilias, softly: "it is called a pilgrimage,—a race,—a warfare."

Nancy caught the words.

"Ay, that's a good child, applying the Scripture, as you ought to do. But you can do that at your leisure, you know. Sit by the table and take your tea. I dare say you need it."

And indeed Lilias, faint and weary, did need it. She thought she could not swallow a crumb; but she was mistaken. The tea was delicious; for Mrs Stirling was a judge of tea, and would tolerate no inferior beverage.

"I'm willing to pay for the best; and the best I must have," was the remark that generally followed her brief but emphatic grace before meat; and it was not omitted this time. "It will do you good, Lilias, my dear."

And it did do her good. The honey and cakes were beyond praise, and Lilias ate and was refreshed. When the tea was over, Mrs Stirling rather abruptly introduced the former subject of conversation.

"And what were you going to do with your brother when you made your fine plans for the summer?" she asked.

"Archie's at the school, you know," answered Lilias, shrinking rather from Nancy's tone and manner than from her words.

"Yes; he's at the school just now. But he wasn't going to stop at the school, surely, when you went to the herding?"

"Oh yes; he is far better at the school."

"Ay, he's better at the school than playing. But wherefore should not he go to the weeding or the herding as well as you?"

"Archie! Why, he's but a child! What could he do?"

"And what are you but a child?" asked Nancy, smiling. "I'm thinking there is little over the twelve months between you."

"But Archie never was strong. It would never do to expose him to all kinds of weather or to fatigue. Don't you mind such a cripple as he was when we came here? You used to think he wouldn't live long. Don't you mind?"

"Yes, I mind; but he did live, and thrive too; and he's the most life-like of the two to-day, I'm thinking. Fatigue, indeed! and he ranging over the hills with that daft laddie Davie Graham, and playing at the ball by the hour together! What should ail him, I wonder?"

"But even if Archie were strong and well, and could gain far more than I can, it would yet be far better for him to be at the school. A man can do so little in the world if he has no education; and now is Archie's time to get it."

"Well, it may be. And when's your time coming?" asked Nancy, drily.

"Oh, it is quite different with me," said Lilias, with a feeble attempt at a laugh. "A woman can slip through the world quietly, you know. I shan't need learning as Archie will. And, besides, I can do a great many things; and I can learn though I don't go to the school."

"Learn, indeed! and slip through the world quietly!" exclaimed Mrs Stirling, with an expression of mingled pity and contempt. "These may be your doctrines, but they're not mine. But it's easy seen what will be the upshot of this. It's just your aunt and your father over again. She would have laid her head beneath Alex Elder's feet, if it would have pleasured him; and you are none behind her. Such ways are neither for your good nor his. There are plenty of folk that'll say to-day that your father would have been a stronger man if he hadn't been so much spared as a laddie."

"If Archie grows up to be such a man as my father was, I shall have no more to wish for him!" exclaimed Lilias, rising, with more of spirit in her voice and manner than Mrs Stirling had ever witnessed there before.

"Eh, sirs! did you ever hear the like of that in all your born days?" (lifting her hands as if appealing to an invisible audience). "As though I would say a word to make light of her father! It's well-known there were few left like him in the countryside when he went away. And for her to put herself in such a passion! Not that I'm caring, Lilias, my dear. I think it has done you good. I haven't seen you with such a colour in your face this good while. But it ill becomes you to be offended with the like of me."

"I'm not angry. I didn't mean to be angry," said Lilias, meekly enough now; "but I can't bear to think you should suppose I would do anything that is not for Archie's good. I'm sure I wish to do what is right."

"I'm as sure of that as you are," said Nancy; "but Lilias, my dear, you must mind that it's not the sapling that has the closest shelter that grows to be the strongest tree. With you always to think and do for him, your brother would never learn to think and do for himself. It is not real kindness to think first of him. You must let him bear his share of the burden."

"But he's such a child," said Lilias; "and he was never strong, besides."

"Now, only hear her!" exclaimed Nancy, again appealing to an invisible audience. "You would think, to hear her speak, she was three-score at least. Lilias Elder, hear what I'm saying to you. You are just taking the best way to ruin this brother of yours, with your petting. All the care that you are lavishing on him now, he'll claim as his right before long, and think himself well worthy of it, too. Do you not wonder sometimes, that he is so blithe-like, when you have so much to make you weary? I doubt the laddie is overfull of himself."

"You are wrong, Mrs Stirling!" exclaimed Lilias, the indignant colour again flushing her face. "Archie is not full of himself. He would do anything for my aunt or me. And why should he not be blithe? I'm blithe, too, when he is at home; and, besides, he doesna know all."

The thought of what that "all" was—the struggle, the exhaustion, the forced cheerfulness—made her cheek grow pale; and she sat down again, saying to herself that Nancy was right, and that, for a while at least, she must rest.

"No; and he'll never ken as much as is for his good, if it depends on you. But he'll hear something ere he's many days older."

"Mrs Stirling," said Lilias, rising, and speaking very quietly now, "you must not meddle between me and my brother. He is all I have got; and I know him best. He never was meant for a herd-boy or a field-labourer. He must bide at the school; and he'll soon be fit for something better; and can you not see that will be as much for my good as his? I must just have patience and wait; and you are not to think ill of Archie."

"Me think ill of him! No, no; I think he's a fine laddie, as his father was before him, and that makes it all the more a pity that he should be spoiled. But if you'll promise to be a good bairn, and have patience till you are rested and quite strong again, and say no more about your fine plans till then, I'll neither make nor meddle between you. Must you go? Well, wait till I cover the fire with a wet peat, and I'll go down the brae with you. I dare say you are all right; your aunt will be wearying for you."

As Nancy went bustling about, Lilias seated herself again upon the door-step. The scene was changed since she sat there before; but it was not less lovely with the long shadows upon it than it was beneath the bright sunshine. It was very sweet and peaceful. The never-silent brook babbled on closely by, but all other sounds seemed to come from a distance. The delicate fringes of young birches waved to and fro with a gentle, beckoning motion; but not a rustle nor a sigh was heard.

Yes, it was very sweet and peaceful; and as she let her eyes wander over the scene, Lilias had a vague feeling of guilt upon her in being so out of tune with it all. Even in the days when she and Archie used to sit waiting, waiting for their weary mother it had not been so bad. She wondered why everything seemed so changed to her.

"I suppose it is because I'm not very well. I mind how weary and restless Archie used to be. I must have patience till I grow stronger. And maybe something will happen that I'm not thinking about, just as Aunt Janet came to us then. There are plenty of ways beyond my planning; and the Lord has not forgotten us, I'm sure of that. I must just wait. There is nothing else I can do. There! I won't let another tear come to-night, if I can help it."

She did her best to help it, for Mrs Stirling came bustling out again, and they set off down the brae. She had leisure to help it, too; for from the moment the great door-key was hidden in the thatch, till they paused beside the stepping-stones, she did not need to speak a word. Nancy had all the talk to herself, and rambled on from one thing to another, never pausing for an answer, till they stood beside the brook. Here Nancy was to turn back.

"And now, Lilias, my dear, you'll mind what I have been saying to you, and that you have promised to have patience? It winna be easy. You have ay been doing for your aunt and your brother; and the more you had to do the better you liked it. But it's one thing to do, and it's another thing to sit with your hands tied and see them needing the help you canna give. I doubt you may have a sorer heart to carry about with you than you have kenned of yet. No, that I'm feared for you in the end. And, though it's no pleasant thing to ask favours, I have that faith in you that I would come to you, and wouldna fear to be denied. I ken you would have more pleasure in giving than in withholding; and I would take a gift from you as freely as I ken it would be freely given."

She paused a moment, and Lilias tried to say that indeed she might trust her, for it would give her more pleasure than she had words to tell, to be able to do anything for so kind a friend.

"As to that, we'll say nothing," said Nancy, drily. But suddenly, changing her tone and manner, she added, "What I have to say is this. You'll not refuse to me what I wouldna refuse to you, you that are far wiser and better than I am, or ever expect to be? What's the use of having friends if you canna offer them a helping hand in their time of need? And mind, I'm no giving it," she added, opening her hands and showing three golden sovereigns. "There's no fear but I'll get them back with interest. There's nine-and-twenty more where these came from, in the china teapot in the press; though that's neither here nor there. And, Lilias, my dear, no soul need ever know." The last words were spoken beseechingly.

Lilias did not refuse the gift in words. She had no words at her command. But she shut Nancy's fingers back upon the gold, and, as she did so, she stooped and touched the brown wrinkled hand with her lips.

"Indeed, it is not pride," she said, at last. "You must not think it's pride. But I am only a child; and it is my aunt who must accept and thank you for your kindness."

Nancy's face was a sight to see. At first she could have been angry; but her look changed and softened strangely at the touch of Lilias's lips upon her hand.

"My dear," said she gently, "it's easy to say 'my aunt,' but it is you who have borne the burden for her this while, poor helpless body!"

"Yes," said Lilias, eagerly. "Just because she is helpless, we must consider her the more; and she might not be pleased at my speaking to you first. But if we really need it, we will come to you; for you are a true friend. And you won't be angry?" she added, wistfully, as she held out her hand for good-bye.

"Angry with you! My little gentle lammie!"

Her tones, so unlike Nancy's usually sharp accents, brought back the child's tears with a rush, and she turned and ran away. Nancy stood watching her as she went over the stepping-stones and up the bank, and she tried to walk quietly on. But as soon as she was out of sight she ran swiftly away, that she might find a hiding-place where she could cry her tears out without danger of being seen.

"It's the clearing-shower, I think; and I must get it over before I go home. If Archie were to see me crying, I should have to tell him all; and I'm sure I don't know what would happen then."

As the thought passed through her mind, a footstep sounded on the rocky pathway, and her heart leaped up at the sound of her brother's voice. In a moment he was close beside her. She might have touched him with her outstretched hand. But the last drops of the clearing-shower were still falling.

"And I'm not going to spoil his pleasant Sabbath with my tears," she said to herself. So she lay still on the brown heather, quite unseen in the deepening gloaming.

"Lily!" cried Archie, pausing to listen—"Lily!" He grasped a branch of the rowan-tree, and swung himself down into the torrent's bed. "Lily! Are you here, Lily?"

She listened till the sound of his footsteps died away, and then swung herself down as he had done. Dipping her handkerchief into the water of the burn, she said to herself, as she wiped the tear-stains from her face, "I'll be all the brighter to-morrow for this summer shower." And she laughed softly to herself as she followed the sound of her brother's voice echoing back through the glen.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN.

"I have stayed too late. They'll be wondering what has kept me," said Archie to himself, as he saw the firelight gleaming from the cottage-window. "I wonder where Lily can be, that she didn't come to meet me? I wonder if anything has happened?"

Something had happened. He paused a moment at the door to listen, as a strange voice reached his ear. It was a man's voice. Going in softly, he saw his aunt in her accustomed seat, and close beside her, with his head bowed down on his hands, sat a stranger. There was a strange look, too, on his aunt's face, the boy thought, and the tears were running down over her cheeks. Wondering and anxious, he silently approached her.

"Archie, are you come home?" said she, holding out her hand to him as he drew near. "Hugh, this is your uncle's son. Archie, this is your cousin Hugh come home again."

With a cry Archie sprang forward—not to take his cousin's offered hand, but to clasp him round the neck; and, trembling like a leaf, the returned wanderer held him in a close embrace.

"I knew you would come back," said Archie at last through his tears. "I always told Lilias you would be sure to come back again.—Oh, Aunt Janet, are you not glad?—And you'll never go away again? Oh, I was sure you would come home soon!"

Even his mother had not received her prodigal without some questioning, and the sudden clasping of Archie's arms about his neck, the perfect trust of the child's heart, was like balm to the remorseful tortures of Hugh Blair, and great drops from the man's eyes mingled with the boy's happy tears.

"Archie," said his aunt after a little time, "who spoke to you of your cousin Hugh?"

"Oh, many a one," answered Archie, as he gently stroked his cousin's hair. "Donald Ross, and the Muirlands shepherds, and Mrs Stirling." And then he added, in a hushed voice, "Lilias heard you speak his name in your prayers often, when you thought her sleeping."

Hugh Blair groaned in bitterness of spirit. The thought of his mother's sleepless nights of prayer for him revealed more of the agony of all those years of waiting than her lips could ever utter. He thought of this night and that in his career of reckless folly, and said to himself: "It may have been then or there that my name was on her lips. O God, judge me not in Thine anger!"

The words did not pass his lips, but the look he turned to his mother's face was a prayer for pardon, and she strove to smile as she said hopefully, "It is all past now, my son. God did not forget us—blessed be His name!"

"And Lily!" exclaimed Archie, starting up at last. "Lily! where are you? Oh, will she not be glad?"

"I am here, Archie. What has happened?" said Lilias at the door.

"Cousin Hugh has come home again," he whispered, drawing her forward; and then she saw the stranger who had taken the water from her hand. He knew her, too, as the child who had bidden him "God-speed!"

"Ah! is this the wee white Lily of Glen Elder?" he said softly.

Lilias's greeting was very quiet.

"I am glad you are come home again, Cousin Hugh," said she, as she gave him her hand; and then she looked at her aunt.

"God has been better to me than my fears. He has given me the desire of my heart—blessed be His name!" whispered Mrs Blair, as Lilias bent over her.

All that it is needful to give here of Hugh Blair's story may be given in a few words. He had not enlisted as a soldier, as had been at first believed. But, in an hour of great misery and shame, he had gone away from home, leaving behind him debt and dishonour, fully resolved never to set foot in his native land again till he had retrieved his fortunes and redeemed his good name.

To redeem one's good name is easily resolved upon, but not so easily accomplished. He took with him, to the faraway land to which he had exiled himself, the same hatred of restraint, the same love of sinful pleasures, that had been his bane at home. It is true he left the companions who had led him astray and encouraged him in his foolish course; but, alas! there are in all lands evil-doers enough to hinder the well-doing of those who have need to mend their ways. He sinned much, and suffered much, before he found a foothold for himself in the land of strangers.

Many a mother's prayers have followed a son into just such scenes of vice and misery as he passed through before God's messenger, in the shape of sore sickness, found him. Alone in a strange land, he lay for weeks dependent on the unwilling charity of strangers. The horrors of that fearful illness, the dreariness of that slow convalescence, could not be told. Helpless, homeless, friendless, with no memories of the past which his follies had not embittered, no hopes for the future which he dared to cherish, it was no wonder that he stood on the brink of despair.

But he was not forsaken utterly. When he was ready to perish, a countryman of his own found him, and, for his country's sake, befriended him. He took him from the poisoned air of a tropical city away to the country, amid whose hills and slopes reigns perpetual spring; and here, under the influences of a well-ordered home, he regained health both of body and of mind, and found also in his countryman and benefactor a firm and faithful friend.

Now, indeed, he began life anew. Bound by many ties of gratitude to his employer and friend, he strove to do his duty, and to honour the trust reposed in him; and he did not strive in vain. During the years that followed, he became known as an honourable and a successful man; and when at last, partly for purposes of business and partly with a view to the re-establishment of his health, he determined to return home for a time, he was comparatively a man of means.

He had all this time been doing one wrong and foolish thing, however. He had kept silence towards his mother. He had not forgotten her. He made many a plan, and dreamed many a dream, of the time when, with all stains wiped from his name and his life, he would return to make her forget all that was painful in the past. He had never thought of her all these years but as the honoured and prosperous mistress of Glen Elder. It had never come into his mind that, amid the chances and changes of life, she might have to leave the place which had been the home of her youth and her middle age.

When he returned, to find a stranger in his mother's place, it was a terrible shock. All that he could learn concerning her was that she had had no choice but to give up the farm, and that on leaving it she had found a humble but welcome shelter in a neighbouring county; but whether she was there still, or whether she was even alive, they could not tell him.

As he stood before the closed door of what had once been his home, it seemed to him that a mark more fearful than that of Cain was upon him. Heart-sick with remorse, he turned away. Not daring to make further inquiries, lest he might learn the worst, he went on, past familiar places, with averted eyes, feeling in his misery that the guilt of his mother's death must rest upon his sinful soul unless he might hear her living lips pronounce the pardon of which he knew himself to be unworthy.

God was merciful to him. He opened the door of the humble cottage by the common, to inquire his way; and there, in the old armchair so well remembered, sat his mother, with her Bible on her knee. She did not know him, but she gave him kindly welcome, bidding him sit and rest, as he seemed weary. She did not know him till she felt his hot tears dropping on her hands, and heard him praying for pardon at her feet.

It would do no good to tell what passed between the mother and the son. That the meeting was joyful, we need not say; but it was very sorrowful, too. For years of sin and years of suffering must leave traces too deep for sudden joy to efface. Hugh Blair had left his mother in the prime of life, a woman having few equals as regards all that in a woman is admired. He returned to find her feeble, shrunken, helpless, with the hair beneath her widow's cap as white as snow. He had redeemed his good name; he had returned to surround her last days with comfort; he had brought wealth greater than had blessed her most prosperous time. But for all those years of poverty and doubt and anxiety, those years which had made her old before her time, what could atone for these? And as for her, even amid her thankful gladness the thought would come, "How shall I ever learn to put trust in him, after all these years? Can his guileless child's heart come back again to him?"

Oh, yes! the meeting was sorrowful, as well as glad.

With the joy of Archie and Lilias no misgiving mingled. Their cousin Hugh had come home again. That was enough for them. In his youth he had done many foolish things, and maybe some wrong things, they thought. He had sinned against God and his mother. He had left his home, like the prodigal, choosing his own will and way rather than do his duty. But now, like the prodigal, he had come home repenting; and the best robe and the ring for his hand these happy children made ready for him.

"There is joy among the angels to-night, Lily," said Archie, coming back to whisper it to her, after she thought he was asleep.

"Yes: 'this my son was dead, and is alive again; was lost and is found,'" answered Lilias softly.

"And now Aunt Janet's midnight prayers will be changed to thanksgivings," was the last thought of the weary child, as she lay down that night. Her first thought in the morning was that her aunt would not want the children for a few days at least, now that her cousin had come home, and she would get rest and be well again. Her next was that Mrs Stirling's golden sovereigns might stay with the other nine-and-twenty in the china teapot; and a curious feeling of regret mingled itself with the pleasure of the thought.

"I almost wish that I had taken them,—just to show her that it wasn't pride; but I dare say Hugh would be better pleased as it is. I wonder if he is strong and ready at doing things? He doesn't look very strong; but he is a man and will know how to manage things; and my aunt will not be anxious and cast down any more. And now I see how foolish I was to vex myself with what was to happen to us. I might have known that the Lord was caring for us all the time. 'Yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.'" Lilias repeated the words with a sudden gush of happy tears, hiding her face in the pillow, lest her aunt should see.

Hugh and Archie went over the hills to the kirk at Dunmoor that day; but Lilias dreaded the long walk a little, and she dreaded a great deal the wondering looks and curious questioning which the sight of the stranger would be sure to call forth. So she went to the kirk close at hand, saying nothing to the people who spoke to her of her cousin's return, lest their coming and going might break the Sabbath quiet of her aunt. And a very quiet afternoon they had together. Her aunt sat silent, thinking her own thoughts; and Lilias sat "resting," she said, with her cheek on her little Bible, and her eyes fixed on the faraway clouds, till the cousins came home again.

As for Archie, it was with a radiant face, indeed, that he went into the full kirk, holding the hand of his cousin Hugh. Some in the kirk remembered him, others guessed who he might be; and many a doubtful glance was sent back to the days of his wayward youth, and many an anxious thought was stirred as to whether his coming home was to be for good or for ill.

It was well for him that he had learnt to hide his thoughts from his fellow-men, to suffer and give no sign of pain, or he would have startled the Sabbath quiet of the kirk that day by many a sigh and bitter groan. Sitting in his old familiar place, and listening to the voice which had taught and warned his childhood, it came very clearly and sharply before him how impossible it is to undo an evil deed. Closing his eyes, he could see himself sitting there a child, as his young cousin sat now at his side; and between this time and that lay years darkened by deeds which, in the bitterness of his remorse and self-upbraidings, he said to himself "could never be outlived—never forgotten." These years had been lost out of his life—utterly lost for all good; but, oh, how full of sin to him, of pain to others! His sin might be forgiven, washed away in that blood which cleanseth from all sin. But could his mother, could others, who had suffered through it, ever quite outlive the shame and pain?

It seemed to him that the grave, earnest faces about him were settling themselves into sternness at the stirring of the same bitter memories and accusing thoughts; and he would fain have escaped from the glances, some of them kind and others half averted, that followed him into the kirk-yard when the service was over. But he could not escape.

Who could resist the look on Archie's joyful face, so frankly challenging a welcome for the returned wanderer? Not James Muir, nor the master, nor scores besides. Not even Nancy Stirling herself, when Archie, sending a smile up into her face, said—

"This is my cousin Hugh come home again."

"Oh, ay! he's come home again. I kenned him when he was a guileless laddie, like yourself, Archie, man," said Nancy, not sparing her little prick to the sore heart. "And where's your sister to-day? Is your aunt so ill yet as to need to keep her from the kirk?" she added, with the air of finding a grievance in Lilias's absence. "Or is the lassie not well herself? She looked weary and worn enough when I bade her good-night at the stepping-stones in the gloaming. You're not come home over soon, Maister Hugh. It's time your mother had some one to care for her besides these bairns."

Archie looked indignant; but Hugh said gravely and gently—

"You are right, Mrs Stirling. You have been a kind friend to my mother and my cousin Lilias, they tell me, and I thank you from my heart."

Nancy looked not a little discomfited at this unexpected answer.

"It would have been liker Hugh Blair to turn on his heel and go his own way," said she afterwards; "but it may be that many a thing that was laid to his door in the old days belonged less to him than to those who beguiled him into evil, poor lad! And, whether or not, it would ill become me to cast up to him his past ill-deeds to-day."

"And all the folk were so glad to see him!" said Archie when he came home. Hugh was lingering outside, speaking to a friend who had walked with them over the hills, and Archie spoke fast and earnestly to have all told before he came in. "And they all minded on you, aunt, and said how thankful you would be, and how the Lord was good to you in your old age. And James Muir said he hoped he was never to go away again; and Allan Grant said that English Smith was to give up Glen Elder, and why should it not go back into the old hands again? They all said he would surely stay in the countryside now."

"And what said my son to that?" asked Mrs Blair tremulously. She had not ventured to ask him herself yet.

"Oh, he said little. I think it was because his heart was so full. And, Lily, he put five golden sovereigns into the poor's box! Steenie Muir told me that he saw his grandfather count it, and he heard him say that now surely the Lord was to bring back the good days to Glen Elder; and he thanked God for your sake, aunt. And, Lily, who kens but you may be 'the wee white Lily of Glen Elder' again?"

"A 'wee white Lily,' indeed," said her aunt fondly and gravely; but Lilias laughed, first at the thought of the golden sovereigns and Nancy's "nine-and-twenty more," destined still to be hidden away in the china teapot, and then a little at being called the "Lily of Glen Elder."

"It's like a story in a book, aunt. It would be too much happiness to have the old days come back again—the happy days at Glen Elder;" and then her ready tears flowed at the thought that followed—

"They can never—never quite come back again."



CHAPTER NINE.

LIGHT AT EVENTIDE.

"Bonny Glen Elder!" repeated Archie to himself many times, as, holding his cousin's hand, he walked over the fair sloping fields and through the sunny gardens. His cousin repeated it, too, sometimes aloud, sometimes sighing the words in regretful silence, remembering all that had come and gone since the happy days when he, a "guileless laddie," had called the place his home.

The farm had been rented by the Elder family for three generations. Archie's father had never held it. It had been in the hands of Hugh's father during his short lifetime; but Archie's father and grandfather had been born there, and his great-grandfather had spent the greater part of his life on the place; and it quite suited Archie's ideas of the fitness of things that it should again be held by his cousin, who, though he did not bear the name, was yet of the blood of these men, whose memory was still honoured in the countryside. It suited Hugh's ideas, too, but with one difference. He knew two or three things that Archie did not know. He had not come back a very rich man, according to his ideas of riches, though he knew the people about him might call him rich. He had come home with no plan of remaining, for he was a young man still, and looked upon the greater part of his life's work as before him. And through the talk he was keeping up with Archie as they went on, there was running all the time the question, "Should the rest of his work be done in India or in Glen Elder?" It was not an easy question to answer. He felt, with great unhappiness, that, whatever the answer might be, it must give his mother pain.

One thing he had determined upon. His mother was to be again the mistress of Glen Elder. This might be brought to pass in one of two ways. He could lease the farm, as his forefathers had done, and be a farmer, as they had been, living a far easier life than they had lived, however, because of the means he had acquired during the last ten years. Or, he could purchase Glen Elder, and invest the rest of his fortune for the benefit of his mother and his little cousins, and then go back to his business in India again. He thought his mother would like the first plan best; but it did not seem the best to him.

He was afraid of himself. He had never, in his youth, liked a quiet, rural life, and his manner of life for the past ten years had not been such as to prepare him to like it better. He feared that he could never settle down contented and useful in such a life; and he knew that an unwilling sacrifice would never make his mother happy. And, yet, would it be right to leave her, feeble and aged as she was? Of course his going away would be different now. He would leave her in comfortable circumstances, with no doubt about his fate, no fears as to his well-doing, to harass her. But even in such a case it would not be right to go away without her full and free consent.

It spoiled the pleasure of his walk—that and some other thoughts he had; and he sighed as he sat down to rest on a bank where he had often rested when a child.

"I can fancy us all living very happily here, if some things were different," he said at last.

"What things, Cousin Hugh?" asked Archie, in some surprise.

Hugh laughed.

"I ought to have said, 'if I were different myself,' I suppose."

"But you are different," said Archie.

"Yes," said his cousin gravely, after a moment's hesitation; "but oh, lad, I have many sad things to mind, and sinful things, too. All these years cannot be blotted out nor forgotten."

"But they are past, Cousin Hugh, and forgiven, and in one sense blotted out. There is nothing of them left that need hinder you from being happy here again."

"Ah, well, that may be. God is good. But I was thinking of something else when I spoke first. I was thinking that I am not a farmer."

"But you can learn to be one. It's easy enough."

"I am afraid I should not find it easy. I am afraid I should not do justice to the place. It spoils one for a quiet life, to be knocked about in the world as I have been. And I know I could never make my mother happy if I were discontented myself; at least, if she knew of my discontent."

"She would be sure to see it. You couldn't hide it from her, if discontent was in your heart. My aunt doesn't say much, but she sees clearly. But why should you not be happy here? I can't understand it."

"No; I trust you may never be able to understand it. Archie, lad, it is one of the penalties of an evil life that it changes the nature, so that the love of pure and simple pleasures, which it drives away, has but a small chance of coming back again, even when the life is amended. It is a sad experience."

"But an evil life, Cousin Hugh! You should not say that," said Archie sorrowfully.

"Well, what would you have? A life of disobedience to one's mother, ten years of forgetfulness—no, not forgetfulness, but neglect of her. Surely that cannot be called other than an evil life. And it bears its fruit."

There was a long pause; and then Archie said:

"Cousin Hugh, I'll tell you what I would do. I would speak to my aunt about it. If it is true that you could never settle down contented here, she will be sure to see that it is best for you to go, and she will say so. I once heard James Muir say that he knew no woman who surpassed my aunt in sense and judgment. She will be sure to see what is right, and tell you what to do."

Pleasure and pain oddly mingled in the feelings with which Hugh listened to his cousin's grave commendation of his mother's sense and judgment; but he felt that there was nothing better to be done than to tell her all that was in his heart, and he lost no time in doing so, and Archie's words were made good. She saw the situation at a glance, and told him "what to do." Much as she would have liked to have her son near her, she knew that he was too old to acquire new tastes, and too young to be content with a life of comparative inactivity. She told him so, heartily and cheerfully, not marring the effect of her words by any murmurs or repinings of her own. She only once said:

"If you could but have stayed in Scotland, Hugh, lad; for your mother is growing old."

"Who knows but it may be so arranged?" said Hugh thoughtfully. "There is a branch of our house in L—. It might be managed. But, whether or not, I have a year, perhaps two, before me yet."

But it came to pass, all the same, that before the month of May was out they were all settled at Glen Elder. Though "that weary spendthrift," Maxwell of Pentlands, as Mrs Stirling called him, could not break the entail on the estate of Pentlands, as for the sake of his many debts and his sinful pleasures he madly tried to do, he could dispose of the outlying farm of Glen Elder; and Hugh Blair became the purchaser of the farm and of a broad adjoining field, called the Nether Park. So he owned the land that his fathers had only leased; or, rather, his mother owned it, for it was purchased in her name, and was hers to have and to hold, or to dispose of as she pleased. His mother's comfort, Hugh said, and the welfare of his young cousins, must not be left to the risks and chances of business. They must be put beyond dependence on his uncertain life or possible failure, or he could not be quite at rest with regard to them when he should be far away.

Glen Elder had not suffered in the hands of English Smith. As a faithful servant of the owner, he had held it on favourable terms, and had hoped to hold it long. So he had done well by the land, as all the neighbours declared; though at first they had watched his new-fangled plans with jealous eyes. It was "in good heart" when it changed hands, and was looking its very best on the bright May day when they went home to it. It was a happy day to them all, though it was a sad one, too, for Hugh and his mother. But the sadness passed away in the cheerful bustle of welcome from old friends; and it was not long before they settled down into a quiet and pleasant routine.

The coming home, and the new life opening before her, seemed for a long time strange and unreal to Lilias. She used to wake in the morning with the burden of her cottage-cares upon her, till the sight of her pleasant room, and the sunshine coming in through the clustering roses, chased her anxious thoughts away. The sense of repose that gradually grew upon her in her new home was very grateful to her; but she did not enter eagerly into the new interests and pleasures, as her brother did. Indeed, she could do very little but be still and enjoy the rest and quiet; for, when all necessity for exertion was over, that came upon her which must have come soon at any rate: her strength quite gave way, and, for some time, anxiety on her account sobered the growing happiness of the rest.

Even her aunt did not realise till then how much beyond her strength had been the child's exertions during the winter and spring. Not that she would acknowledge herself to be ill. She was only tired, and would be herself again in a little while. But months passed before that time came. For many a day she lay on the sofa in the long, low parlour of Glen Elder, only wishing to be left in peace, smiling now and then into the anxious faces of her aunt and Archie, saying "it was so nice to be quiet and to have nothing to do."

But this passed away. In a little while she was beguiled into the sunny garden, and before the harvest-holidays set Archie at liberty she was quite ready and able for a renewal of their rambles among the hills again.

As for Mrs Blair, the return of her son, and the coming home to Glen Elder, did not quite renew her youth; but when the burden that had bowed her down for so many years was taken away, the change in her was pleasant to see. For a long time she rejoiced with trembling over her returned wanderer; but as day after day passed, each leaving her more assured that it was not her wayward lad that had returned to her, but a true penitent and firm believer in Jesus, a deeper peace settled down upon her long-tried spirit, and "I waited patiently for the Lord; and He inclined unto me, and heard my cry. He hath set my feet upon a rock, and established my goings. And He hath put a new song in my mouth," became a part of her daily thanksgiving.

As for him, if it had been the one desire of his life to atone for the sorrow he had caused her in his youth, he could not have done otherwise than he did. He made her comfort his first care. Her slightest intimation was law to him. Silently and unobtrusively, but constantly, did he manifest a grave and respectful tenderness towards her, till she, as well as others, could not but wonder, remembering the lad who would let nothing come between him and the gratification of his own foolish desires.

"You dinna mind your cousin Hugh, Lilias, my dear?" said Mrs Stirling to her one day. "I mind him well—the awfulest laddie for liking his own way that ever was heard tell of! You see, being the only one left to her, his mother thought of him first always, till he could hardly do otherwise than think first of himself; and a sore heart he gave her many a time. There's a wonderful difference now. It must just be that," added she, meditatively. "'A new heart will I give you, and a right spirit will I put within you.' Lilias, my dear, he's a changed man."

A bright colour flashed into Lilias's face, and tears started in her eyes.

"I am sure of it! We may be poor and sick and sorrowful again, but the worst of my aunt's troubles can never come back to her more."