Archie, too, listened intently, but not with tears. There was an earnest look in his eyes, and a grave smile about his mouth, as though he were hearing some glad tidings; and when the minister sat down, he leaned over towards his sister, and whispered softly:

"I like that."

And Lilias smiled in reply.

When the service was over, and Mrs Blair and the children had pa.s.sed out into the kirk-yard, Mrs Graham, the minister's widowed daughter, came and invited them into the manse till it should be time for the service in the afternoon. Mrs Blair went with her; but Archie was shy, and liked better to stay out in the pleasant kirk-yard; and Lilias stayed with him. The place had a quiet Sabbath look about it, which suited well the feelings of the children; and, as the resting-place of many friends of their father, it was full of interest to them. Many of the people who had come--from a distance stayed also, and seated themselves, in small parties, here and there among the grave-stones; but not a loud or discordant voice arose to break the silence that reigned around.

The kirk itself was a quaint old building, around which many interesting historical a.s.sociations cl.u.s.tered. The large stones of which it was built were dark with age; and the ivy that grew thickly over the western wall gave it the appearance of an ancient ruin. Dark firs and yew-trees grew around the kirk-yard, and here and there over the grave of a friend the hand of affection had planted a weeping-willow. On a low slab beneath one of these the brother and sister sat for a time in silence, broken at last by Archie.

"Oh, Lily! this is a bonny quiet place. How I wish they were lying here!"

"Yes," said Lilias, softly, "among their friends. But it makes no difference. I never think of them as lying there."

"Oh, no! they are not there. I suppose it is all the same to them. But yet, if I were going to die, I would like better to lie down here in this quiet place than among the many, many graves yonder in the town.

Wouldn't you, Lily?"

"Yes; for some things I would. I should like to be where the friends I love could often come. Look yonder how all the people are sitting beside the graves of their own friends. That is Ellen Wilson and her brother beside their father's grave. I read the name on the stone as I came in this morning. And Mrs Stirling's husband and children are buried there in the corner where she is sitting. She told me about them the last time she was in. I think the folk here must mind their friends better than they would if they never saw their graves."

"But we'll never forget our father and mother, though we can't see their graves," said Archie, eagerly; "I do wish they were lying here beside my grandfather and all the rest."

Lilias did not answer, for they were about to be interrupted. Only one of the persons who were approaching them was known to her, and she did not think her a very agreeable acquaintance, and a slight feeling of impatience rose within her as she drew near.

Mrs Stirling was one of those unfortunate persons who constantly move in an atmosphere of gloom. Her face seemed to express a desire to banish all cheerfulness and silence all laughter wherever she came. She had never, even in her best days, been blessed with a heavenly temper, and much care and many sorrows had made it worse. Men had dealt hardly with her, and G.o.d, she believed, had done the same. One short month had made her a widow and childless, and then other troubles had followed.

From circ.u.mstances of comfort she had been reduced, by the carelessness and dishonesty of those whom she had trusted, to a state of comparative poverty. This last trouble had been, in a measure, removed, but the bitterness it had stirred in her heart had never subsided.

If a subject had a dark side, she not only chose to look at it herself, but held it up before the eyes of all concerned. Having once been deceived, she never ceased to suspect, and, which was still worse, she even strove (from the best of motives, as she believed) to excite suspicion and discomfort in the minds of others; and, notwithstanding her well-known character as a prophesier of evil things, she did sometimes succeed in making people unhappy. She was, as the minister said, a pitiable example of the effects of unsanctified affliction, and a warning to all who felt inclined to murmur under the chastening hand of G.o.d.

During one or two visits at Mrs Blair's cottage, Mrs Stirling had made Lilias uncomfortable, she scarce knew why; and now, though she did not say so to Archie, she heartily wished she would stay at the other end of the kirk-yard.

"Weel, bairns," she said, as she drew near, "your aunt didna take you with her into the manse. Are you not weary sitting so long on the stones?"

"No," said Lilias. "Archie liked better to bide out here. This is a bonny place."

"Oh, ay, it's a bonny place enow," said Mrs Stirling. Then, turning to Archie, she said, "And so you liked better to bide out here than to go in to your dinner at the manse? Well, it's a good bairn that likes to do what it's bidden. I dare say Mrs Blair would have felt some delicacy in taking you both into the manse parlour; though why she should, is more than the like of me knows."

To this there was no reply to be made; and in a minute, turning again to Lilias, she asked:

"And when are you going to the manse as nurse, my dear?"

Lilias said she was not going at all.

"No! Where then? To Pentlands? I told your aunt that Mrs Jones, the housekeeper, wanted a la.s.sie to help in the kitchen; but it's a place full of temptations for a young thing like you. I wonder at Mrs Blair."

Lilias replied, rather hastily, that she was not going anywhere just now; she was going to bide at home with her aunt.

"Well, well, my dear, you needn't be angry at my asking; though there's little wonder that the daughter of Alexander Elder shouldn't like to have it said that she ought to go and gain her bread as a servant. We can't always part with our pride when we part with our money. n.o.body knows that better than I do."

"It's not pride that keeps me at home," said Lilias, in a low voice. "I would go gladly if my aunt thought it needful; but she says it is not."

"Oh, well, my dear, I dare say your aunt knows best. She may have money that I didn't know of. Maybe you wasn't so ill off as is said."

"Whisht! do you not see that you are vexing the bairns? Never mind her, my dear," said the pleasant-looking young woman whom Lilias had called Ellen Wilson, sitting down on the stone beside her. "I think this part of the country seems to agree with you both. Your brother looks much better than he did when he came first."

Lilias smiled gratefully in answer to this, and looked with loving pride at her brother. But Nancy Stirling had not yet said her say.

"Looks better, does he? I wonder how he could have looked before? Such a whitefaced creature I have seldom seen. He reminds me of the laddie that died at Pentlands, of a decline, a month since. I doubt he isn't long for this world."

"Whisht!" again interrupted Ellen, "you don't know what you are saying, I think."

"Archie is much better," said Lilias, eagerly. "He couldn't set his foot to the ground when we first came here; and now he can walk miles."

"Oh, ay; change of air is ay thought good for the like of him. But it's a deceitful complaint. We all ken that your father died of consumption,--and your mother too, it's likely."

"No," said Lilias, in a low voice. "She died of fever."

"Mrs Stirling," exclaimed Ellen Wilson, "I canna but wonder that one that has had the troubles you have had, should have so little consideration for other folks. Do you not see that you are vexing the bairns?"

"Weel, it's not my design nor my desire to vex them,--poor things! It never harmed me to get a friend's sympathy; though it's little ever I got. I'll not trouble them." And she went and seated herself at a little distance from the children.

An old man, with very white hair, but a ruddy and healthy countenance, had been walking up and down the path, his hands clasped behind his back, and his staff beneath his arm. As he pa.s.sed the place where Mrs Stirling sat, he paused, saying in a cheerful, kindly voice:

"This is a bonny day, Mrs Stirling."

"Oh, ay," replied Nancy, drearily; "it's a bonny day."

"And a fine harvest we are getting," said the old man, again,--"if we were only thankful to G.o.d for His undeserved goodness."

"Oh, ay; considering all things, the harvest's not so bad in some places, and in others it's just middling. It's not got in yet. We must wait awhile before we set ourselves up upon it."

"It would ill become us to set ourselves up on that, or any other good gift of the Lord," said the old man, gravely; "but you and I, Nancy, have seen many a different harvest from this in our day. We are ready enough to murmur if the blessing be withheld, and to take it as our right when it is sent. There's many a poor body in the countryside who may thank G.o.d for the prospect of an easy winter. He has blessed us in our basket and in our store."

"Oh, well, I dare say I'm as thankful as my neighbours, though I say less about it," said Nancy, tartly. "I dare say there's many a poor body will need all they have, and more, before the winter's over."

"You see you needn't mind what Mrs Stirling says," said Ellen, who with the children had listened to the conversation thus far. "She's always boding ill. It's her nature. She has had many things to make the world look dreary to her,--poor woman! Yonder is James Muir, one of our elders,--a good man, if ever there was one. He knew your father, and your grandfather too."

Yes, he had known their father well; and the next time he turned down the path he stopped to speak to them. Not in many words, but kindly and gravely, as his large, kind heart prompted; and Lilias felt that he was one that might be relied on in time of need.

"There's your aunt again, with Mrs Graham and the manse bairns," said Ellen, as they approached. They rose, and went to meet them at the kirk door; and while their aunt and Mrs Graham waited to speak a few words to James Muir, they exchanged sly glances with the young people designated by Ellen as "the manse bairns."

They were the grandchildren of the aged minister. Their father, his only son,--a minister too,--had, within a year, died in the large town where he had been settled, and his widow had come with her children to the manse, which was now their home.

Too shy to speak to the strangers, they cast many a look of sympathy on the lame boy and his sister who were both fatherless and motherless.

By-and-by the little Jessie ventured to put into Archie's hand a bunch of brilliant garden-flowers that she had carried. Archie did not speak; but his smile thanked her, and the flowers bloomed in the cottage-window for many days.

CHAPTER FOUR.

LIFE AT KIRKLANDS.