"What will you say to me, if after all your aunt's kindness in asking me, I do not go?"

"Not go? You are not well?" inquired Lois anxiously.

"I am quite well--too well!"

"But something is the matter?"

"Nothing new."

"Dear Mrs. Barclay, can I help you?"

"I do not think you can. I am tired, Lois!"

"Tired! O, that is spending so much time giving lessons to Madge and me! I am so sorry."

"It is nothing of the kind," said Mrs. Barclay, stretching out her hand to take one of Lois's, which she retained in her own. "If anything would take away this tired feeling, it is just that, Lois. Nothing refreshes me so much, or does me so much good."

"Then what tires you, dear Mrs. Barclay?"

Lois's face showed unaffected anxiety. Mrs. Barclay gave the hand she held a little squeeze.

"It is nothing new, my child," she said, with a faint smile. "I am tired of life."

Looking at the girl, as she spoke, she saw how unable her listener's mind was to comprehend her. Lois looked puzzled.

"You do not know what I mean?" she said.

"Hardly--"

"I hope you never will. It is a miserable feeling. It is like what I can fancy a withered autumn leaf feeling, if it were a sentient and intelligent thing;--of no use to the branch which holds it--freshness and power gone--no reason for existence left--its work all done. Only I never did any work, and was never of any particular use."

"O, you cannot mean that!" cried Lois, much troubled and perplexed.

"I keep going over to-day that little hymn you showed me, that was found under the dead soldier's pillow. The words run in my head, and wake echoes.

'I lay me down to sleep, With little thought or care Whether the waking find Me here, or there.

'A bowing, burdened head--'"

But here the speaker broke off abruptly, and for a few minutes Lois saw, or guessed, that she could not go on.

"Never mind that verse," she said, beginning again; "it is the next. Do you remember?--

'My good right hand forgets Its cunning now.

To march the weary march, I know not how.

'I am not eager, bold, Nor brave; all that is past.

I am ready not to do, At last, at last!--'

I am too young to feel so," Mrs. Barclay went on, after a pause which Lois did not break; "but that is how I feel to-day."

"I do not think one need--or ought--at any age," Lois said gently; but her words were hardly regarded.

"Do you hear that wind?" said Mrs. Barclay. "It has been singing and sighing in the chimney in that way all the afternoon."

"It is Christmas," said Lois. "Yes, it often sings so, and I like it. I like it especially at Christmas time."

"It carries me back--years. It takes me to my old home, when I was a child. I think it must have sighed so round the house then. It takes me to a time when I was in my fresh young life and vigour--the unfolding leaf--when life was careless and cloudless; and I have a kind of home-sickness to-night for my father and mother.--Of the days since that time, I dare not think."

Lois saw that rare tears had gathered in her friend's eyes, slowly and few, as they come to people with whom hope is a lost friend; and her heart was filled with a great pang of sympathy. Yet she did not know how to speak. She recalled the verse of the soldier's hymn which Mrs.

Barclay had pa.s.sed over--

"A bowing, burdened head, That only asks to rest, Unquestioning, upon A loving breast."

She thought she knew what the grief was; but how to touch it? She sat still and silent, and perhaps even so spoke her sympathy better than any words could have done it. And perhaps Mrs. Barclay felt it so, for she presently went on after a manner which was not like her usual reserve.

"O that wind! O that wind! It sweeps away all that has been between, and puts home and my childhood before me. But it makes me home-sick, Lois!"

"Cannot you go on with the hymn, dear Mrs. Barclay? You know how it goes,--

'My half day's work is done; And this is all my part-- I give a patient G.o.d My patient heart.'"

"What does he want with it?" said the weary woman beside her.

"What? O, it is the very thing he wants of us, and of you; the one thing he cares about! That we would love him."

"I have not done a half day's work," said the other; "and my heart is not patient. It is only tired, and dead."

"It is not that," said Lois. "How very, very good you have been to Madge and me!"

"You have been good to me. And, as your grandmother quoted this morning, no thanks are due when we only love those who love us. My heart does not seem to be alive, Lois. You had better go to your aunt's without me, dear. I should not be good company."