Blair sat down on the bed, still holding the child in her arms. Poor Lilias! Tears must have been long kept back, her aunt thought, for she seemed to have no power to check her sobs, now that they had found way. Half chiding, half soothing her with tender words, she held her firmly till she grew calm again.

In a little while the weary child raised herself up, and said:

“Don’t be vexed with me, Aunt Janet. I don’t often cry like that; but I am so glad you have come. We have needed you sorely; and I was sure you would come, if you only knew.”

Mrs Blair would not grieve her by telling her how little she could do for them now that she had come; but she still held her in her arms, as she bent down to kiss the little lad, who was gazing, half in wonder, half in fear, at the sight of his sister’s tears; and as she got a better view of his thin pale face, she resolved that, if it were possible, he at least should be removed from the close, unhealthy atmosphere of his present home.

“You must be weary, aunt,” said Lilias, at last, withdrawing herself from her arms, and untying the strings of her bonnet, which had not yet been removed. “Come and rest here in the armchair till mother comes home. Oh, she will be so glad!”

Mrs Blair suffered herself to be led to the chair which had been her mother’s; and, as she rested in it, she watched with much interest the movements of the little girl. In a few minutes there was a fire on the hearth, and warm water prepared, and then, kneeling down, she bathed the hands and face and weary feet of her aunt. Mrs Blair felt a strange sweet pleasure in thus being waited on by the child. Many months had passed since she had looked on one united to her by the ties of blood; and now her heart was full as she gazed on the children of her brother. There was something inexpressibly grateful to her in the look of content that was coming into the grave, wistful eyes of the little lad, and in the caressing touch of Lily’s hand. In the interest with which she watched the little girl as she went about intent on household cares, she well-nigh forgot her own weariness and her many causes of anxiety. There was something so womanly, yet so childish, in her quiet ways, something so winning in the grave smile that now and then played about her mouth, that her aunt was quite beguiled from her sad thoughts. In a little while Lily went to the door, and listened for her mother’s returning footsteps.

“I wonder what can be keeping her so late?” she said, as she returned. “This is not a busy time, and she said that she would be early home. Sometimes she is very late on Saturday night.”

Once more she went to the head of the stairs to listen; and then, returning, she sat herself on a stool at her aunt’s feet.

“And so you are very glad to see me, Lily?” said Mrs Blair, smiling upon the child’s upturned face.

The bright smile with which the girl answered faded quickly as her aunt continued:

“And you are very poor now, are you?”

“Yes, we are poor; and, yet, not so very poor, either. We have had some work to do, my mother and I; and we have never been a whole day without food. If Archie were only well again! That’s our worst trouble, now. And mother, too, though she won’t own to being ill, often gets very weary. But now that you are come, all will be well again.”

“And maybe you’ll take us all home to Glen Elder for a wee while, as you used to do,” said Archie, speaking for the first time since his aunt’s coming.

“Archie so pines for the country,” said Lilias; “and we can hardly make ourselves believe that you live anywhere but at Glen Elder.”

“My home now is very unlike Glen Elder,” said Mrs Blair, sadly. “But there is fresh air there, and there are bonny heather hills; so cheer up, Archie, laddie; it will go hard with me if I canna get you to Kirklands for a while at least, and you’ll be strong and well before winter yet.”

The boy smiled sadly enough, and the tears started in his eyes; but he did not answer.

“Archie is thinking that, maybe, he’ll never be well again,” said his sister. “The doctor says he may be a cripple all his life.”

This was a new and unexpected sorrow to Mrs Blair; and her countenance expressed the dismay she felt, as she questioned them about it.

“It was the fever. Archie was ill with the fever all the winter; and when the spring came he didn’t get strong again, as we had hoped, and the disease settled in his knee. The doctor said if he could have got away into the country he might have grown strong again. And maybe it’s not too late yet,” added the little girl, eagerly. “I’m sure the very sight of the hills, these bonny summer days, might make one strong and well.”

“Well, he’ll get a sight of the hills before very long, I trust; and I don’t despair of seeing him strong and well yet,” said Mrs Blair, hopefully; and the children, reassured by her cheerful words, smiled brightly to each other, as they thought of the happy days in store for them.

Death had visited the homes of both since Mrs Blair and her sister-in-law met last, and to both the meeting was a sad one. Lilias’ mother was scarcely more calm than Lilias had been, as she threw herself into the arms of her long-tried friend. Her words of welcome were few; but the earnest tearful gaze that she fixed upon her sister’s face told all that her quivering lips refused to utter.

When the first excitement of their meeting was over, Mrs Blair was shocked to observe the change which grief and care had made in her sister’s face and form. She looked many years older than when she had last seen her. There was not a trace of colour on her cheek or lip, and her whole appearance indicated extreme weariness and languor. Little was said of the exertions and privations of the last few months; but that these must have been severe and many was to Mrs Blair only too evident. The food placed upon the table was of the simplest and cheapest kind, and of a quality little calculated to tempt the appetite of an invalid; and she noticed with pain that it was scarcely tasted either by the sick boy or his mother.

“You are not well to-night, mother,” said Lilias, looking anxiously at her as she put aside the untasted food.

“Yes, dear, I am as well as usual; but I am tired. The night is close and sultry, and the walk has tired me more than usual. I have not hard work now,” she added, turning to Mrs Blair. “This is not a busy time, and my employer is very considerate; but her place of business is quite at the other end of the town, and it’s not so easy walking two or three miles on the pavements as it used to be among the hills at home.”

“I fear you carry a heavier heart than you used to do in those days,” said Mrs Blair, sadly. “But are you not trying your strength more than you ought with these long walks?”

Mrs Elder might have replied that she had no choice between these long walks and utter destitution for herself and her children; but she said, cheerfully, that it was only since the weather had become so warm that she had found the walk at all beyond her strength, and the hot weather would soon be over now.

“It’s the country air mother wants, as well as me,” said Archie; and the gaze which the weary mother turned upon her sister was as full of wistful longing as the little lad’s had been. After a little pause, she said:

“Sometimes I think it would be great happiness to get away to some quiet country place, where I might earn enough to support myself and them. The din and dust of this noisy town are almost too much for me, sometimes; and I am not so strong as I once was. I think it would give me new life to breathe the air of the hills again. But if such is not God’s will, we must even be content to bide here till the end comes.” And she sighed heavily.

“Whisht, Ellen, woman,” said her sister; “don’t speak in such a hopeless voice as that.