"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 G.o.d for that!" said her aunt, as she returned her caress.

March pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sistance, 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 ingrat.i.tude, 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 a.s.sistance, alms she called it, before it came to this pa.s.s 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 Sat.u.r.day, 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 n.o.body 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 la.s.sie! 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 la.s.sie?

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-gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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 pa.s.sing 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 gla.s.s, thanked her and went away. But before he had gone far he turned again, and, coming to Lilias, said in a low, hoa.r.s.e voice:

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

"G.o.d speed you!" said Lilias, reverently, and wondering much. "And G.o.d 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.