"Will you promise, Lily?"

"Yes, mother; I promise. It will only be for a little while."

"I do not fear to leave my darlings. G.o.d will keep them safe till we meet again."

There was a long silence after that; and then she called her sister by name, and Mrs Blair bent over her.

"Kiss me, Janet. G.o.d sent you to us now. Comfort--Alex's bairns."

Again there was silence. The mother's hand moved uneasily, as if in search of something. Her sister lifted it, and laid it over her daughter's neck, and then it was at rest. Not a sound broke the stillness of the hour. They thought she slept; and she did sleep; but she never woke again. The early dawn showed the change that had pa.s.sed over her face, and Lilias knew that she was motherless.

Of how the next days pa.s.sed, Lilias never had a distinct remembrance.

She only knew that when, on the third morning, strangers came to bear her mother away, it seemed a long, long time since she died. It seemed like looking back over years, rather than days, to recall the time when she lay with her arms clasped around her neck, and listened to her dying words.

During this time, Mrs Blair had watched her niece with some anxiety.

There was no violent bursts of grief, but there was a look of desolation on her face which it was heartbreaking to see. She was quiet and gentle through all; willing, indeed eager, to render a.s.sistance to her aunt when it was required; but as soon as she was free again she returned to the low stool beside the bed on which her mother lay.

The time was pa.s.sed by Archie in alternate fits of violent weeping and depression almost amounting to stupor. Lilias tried hard to perform the promise made to her dying mother. She put aside her own sorrow to soothe his. She read to him; she sang to him; and when he would listen to neither reading nor singing, she would murmur such words of comfort as her mother had spoken to her; and their burden always was, "They are so happy now. They have found such rest and peace; and it will be but a little while, and then we shall be with them there."

And then, when he grew quiet and listened to her, she would try to meet his wistful looks with a smile; but when he was quiet or asleep, she always returned to the place beside her dead mother.

But they bore her mother away at last; and then for a moment Lilias'

strength and courage forsook her. The cry of her desolate heart would no longer be hushed.

"Oh, mother! mother!"

Even the sound of her brother's weeping had not power, for a time, to recall her from the indulgence of her grief.

On the morning of her sister's death, Mrs Blair had written to a friend, asking him to make arrangements for conveying the orphans to her humble home; and they were to leave the town on the day succeeding that of the funeral. Little was left to be done. A few articles of furniture were to be disposed of, a few trifles, heirlooms in the family for several generations, were to be taken with them; and it was with a feeling of relief that Mrs Blair welcomed the honest carrier of Kirklands who was on the morrow to convey them away from the unhealthy town to the free fresh air of their native hills. Only one thing more remained to be done, and the afternoon was nearly over before Mrs Blair found courage to speak of it.

"Lilias, if you are not too weary, I should like you to go out for me to Dr Gordon's, love, if it will not be too much for you."

"I'm not weary, aunt. I'll go, if you wish." But she grew very pale, remembering the last time she had gone there.

"Lilias," said her aunt, drawing her towards her, and kissing her fondly, "you have been my own brave, patient la.s.sie to-day. You have not forgotten your mother's words?"

"Oh, aunt, I wish to be patient, indeed I do. But I fear I am not really patient at heart." And she wept now as though her heart would break.

Her aunt let her weep freely for a few minutes, and then she said:

"It's not wrong for you to weep for your mother, Lilias; you must do that. But you know 'He doth not afflict willingly;' and you can trust His love, though you cannot see why this great sorrow has been sent upon you. You can say, 'Thy will, not mine, be done.'"

"I am trying, Aunt Janet," said Lilias, looking up with a wavering smile on her lips, almost sadder to see than tears, as her aunt could not help thinking. She said no more, but kissed her and let her go.

It was with a grave face and slow step that Lilias took her way to Dr Gordon's house. When she was fairly in the street, a wild desire seized her to go to the place where her father and mother lay, and she took a few rapid steps in that direction. It was not in the narrow kirk-yard seen from their window, but quite away in another part of the town, nearer to the place where they used to live, and Lilias paused before she had gone far, for she doubted if it would be right to venture down at that hour. She stood still a moment.

"I shall not see them. They are not there. I must have patience." And she turned slowly back again.

It was growing dark in the room in which, for a few minutes, she waited for Dr Gordon, and through the half-open door she caught a glimpse of a pleasant parlour, echoing with the music of voices. Happy, cheerful voices they were; but Lilias's heart grew sadder as she listened, and when at last Dr Gordon appeared, it was with difficulty that she could restrain her tears.

Speaking very fast, as if she were afraid that her voice would fail her, she said: "We are going away, sir, to-morrow with my aunt, Mrs Blair, and she sent me with this to you."

The doctor took what the child held towards him, but instantly replaced it in her hands.

"And so that was your aunt I saw the other day?" said he.

"Yes; Aunt Janet Blair, our father's sister. We are going to live with her in the country, and it's far away; and, if you please, sir, would you come and see Archie again? My aunt didn't bid me ask you, but it would be such a comfort if you would." And she looked up beseechingly into his face.

"Yes, surely, with a good will," said Dr Gordon heartily; "and to-night, too, it must be, if you are going to-morrow. No, no, my la.s.sie," he added, as Lilias made another attempt to place the money in his hand. "I have not yet eaten orphans' bread, and I'm not going to begin now."

"But my aunt sent it, sir; and she was not always poor; and I think she would like you to take it."

His only answer was to press her fingers more closely over the little packet of money, as he drew her towards the parlour-door.

"I will go with you by-and-by, but first you must come in and see my boys. Mrs Gordon wants to see you, too," said he.

The room into which they pa.s.sed was a large and pleasant one, and Lilias never forgot it, nor the kind words which were spoken to her there. The bright yet softened light of a lamp made all parts of it visible. Over the mantelpiece was a large mirror, and there were heavy crimson curtains on the windows, and many pictures on the walls. On a low chair, near the fire, sat a lady with a boy in her arms, and several other children were playing about the room. They became quiet as their father entered, and gazed with some curiosity on the stranger.

"This is my little friend, Lilias Elder," said the doctor. "It is fortunate she came to-night. We might not have found her to-morrow."

Mrs Gordon received Lilias very kindly, speaking to her in a voice so tender, that, in spite of herself, it brought the tears to her eyes.

Noticing her emotion, Mrs Gordon did not speak to her again for a moment, and the children gathering round her, she quickly recovered herself in receiving and returning their greetings.

When tea was fairly over, and the boys had gone to bed, a long conversation took place between Lilias and her friends. Dr Gordon was the father of six sons, but he had no daughter, and his heart overflowed with love and pity for the orphan girl. Through all the long illness of her father and brother, she had been an object of interest to the kind physician. Her never-wearying attention to both, and the evident comfort and support she had been to her mother in all her trials, had filled him with admiration and pleasure. For months he had lost sight of the family, and various circ.u.mstances had occurred to withdraw his thoughts from the subject; but now that he had found Lilias an orphan and in want, he longed to take her to his heart and home.

"I ought, perhaps, to have spoken first to your aunt, your natural guardian; but I think she will be willing to give you up to us. We will try and make you happy, my child."

Lilias shed many grateful tears as their plans were unfolded to her; but to all their kind words she had but one answer. It could not be. She could never leave Archie. He was ill and lame, and had no one else, and she had promised her mother always to take care of him.

It was in vain that they a.s.sured her that his health and comfort should be cared for; that, though for the present they might be separated, he would still be her brother, and that her change of circ.u.mstances would be, as beneficial to him as to her in the end. They urged her to consider, and not to decide hastily. They would wait, weeks or months, till her brother was better, so that she could leave him with her aunt.

But no. It could not be. It would seem like forsaking him. She had promised their mother always to take care of him. Nothing could make it right to break that promise.

"Indeed you must not be grieved, or think me ungrateful," she pleaded.

"It would not be right. It would break Archie's heart to part from me now."

And so they let her go. Dr Gordon did not speak to her, but he held her hand firmly as they pa.s.sed down the street. Lilias thought he was angry at her decision; but he was not angry. He was only grieved. When they reached the door, she lingered.

"Indeed, sir, I could not do any other way; and, if you please, don't tell my aunt all you have said to me to-night: she might think I would be sorry afterwards, and I wish you wouldn't tell her."

"Well, child, I will not tell her, since it is your wish. But remember, if any trouble comes upon you, you must write and let me know." And Lilias joyfully a.s.sented to the condition.

The doctor's visit comforted them all greatly. Archie's case he thought by no means so hopeless as he had once thought it. True, he might still be lame; but he might be strong and healthy for all that. The fresh air of the hills would, he believed, work wonders for him: so he bade him take heart; and the poor lad's pale face brightened as he said it.

To Mrs Blair he spoke of her brother in terms of respect and affection that won her confidence at once; and when he earnestly entreated her to consider him as a friend to the children, and to apply to him if trouble should overtake them, she promised to do so, without hesitation or reserve.

When he bade "good-bye" to Lilias, he took her face between his hands and kissed her many times on lip and brow, calling her a firm little thing, though she seemed so gentle; and then he prayed, "G.o.d bless her,"

and they were left alone.