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 gra.s.s 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 la.s.s, and Lilias Elder should have the credit of it." Of the last fact Elsie was as well persuaded as Nancy was; and her grat.i.tude and devotion to Lilias were in proportion. No sacrifice would she have considered too great to give proof of her grat.i.tude 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 pa.s.sed, 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 embarra.s.sment 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 a.s.sented, 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, la.s.sie. 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 G.o.d'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?"