neck, and kissed him.’”

“Archie never tires of that,” she said, smiling at her brother, who had been sitting with his eyes fixed upon her, listening as she read. “And this is the one I like best, about Mary, and Martha, and Lazarus.” And she read the eleventh chapter of John, but paused before she got to the end.

“I never like to read the rest, about their taking counsel to slay Him, so soon after they had seen all this. Sometimes I can hardly make it seem true, it is so sad. But I like the story, oh, so much!” And she read again slowly, “‘Now Jesus loved Martha, and her sister, and Lazarus.’” And again, “‘Jesus said unto her, I am the Resurrection, and the Life: he that believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and he that liveth and believeth in Me shall never die.’”

“Do you like it, aunt?”

“Yes, love; it is a fine chapter.”

“It’s maybe not better than many and many a one here,” said Lilias, slowly turning over the leaves of her Bible; “but I happened on it once when I needed something to help me, and I’ve liked it ever since.”

“And what time was that?” asked her aunt, much interested.

“Oh, it was long ago,” answered Lilias, lowering her voice, and looking to see if her mother still slept. “It was just after father died. Mother was ill, and I thought God was sending us too much trouble; and I came upon this chapter, and it did me so much good! Not that I thought Jesus would raise up my father again, but I knew He could do greater things than that if He pleased; and I knew He had not forgotten us in our troubles, more than He had forgotten Mary and Martha, though He stayed still in the same place where He was, two whole days after they had sent for Him because their brother was sick. No trouble has seemed so bad since then; and none ever will again, come what may.”

“Come what may!” Little was Lilias thinking of all that might be hidden in those words. She gradually came to know, as that night and the next day and night passed away, and the dawning of the third day found her mother no better, but rather worse. Mrs Blair had concealed her own anxiety, for the children’s sake. Believing her sister’s illness to be the consequence of over-exertion, she had thought that rest and quiet would be sufficient to restore her; but these three days had made no change for the better, and, fearing the worst, she asked Lilias if she knew any doctor to whom they might apply.

“Yes; there is Dr Gordon, who attended my father and Archie. We have not seen him for a long time, but I think I could find his house.” And, with trembling eagerness, she prepared to go out.

It rained violently, but Lilias scarcely knew it, as she ran rather than walked along the street. It was still early, and the doctor had not gone out. When the servant carried in the little girl’s message, he repeated the name several times, as if to recall it.

“Mrs Elder!—I had lost sight of her this long time. Yes, certainly I will go. Where does she live now?”

The servant replied that the child who brought the message was waiting to show him the way; and in a few minutes he was ready to go with her. Lilias, who was standing at the door, started homeward as soon as he appeared, and hurried on almost as rapidly as she came, so that the doctor had some difficulty in keeping her in sight.

“Are you sure you are not mistaking the way?” said he, as Lilias waited for him at the corner of the street, or rather the alley that led to the attic; “surely Mrs Elder cannot be living in a place like this?”

Lilias threw back her bonnet, and now, for the first time, looked in the doctor’s face. “Yes, sir, we have lived here ever since the time you used to come and see Archie.”

“Oh, he! my Lily of the valley, this is you, is it? Well, don’t cry,” he added; for his kindly voice had brought the tears to the child’s eyes. “We shall have your mother quite well in a day or two again, never fear.”

But he looked grave indeed as he stood beside her, and took her burning hand in his.

“You don’t think my mother will be long ill?” said Lilias, looking up anxiously into his face as he stood beside the bed.

“No, my child; I don’t think she will be long ill,” said he, gravely.

And Lilias, reassured by his words, and fearing no evil, smiled almost brightly again, as she went quietly about her household work.

“You think her dying, then?” said Mrs Blair, to whom his words conveyed a far different meaning.

“She is not dying yet; but, should her present symptoms continue long, she cannot possibly survive. She must have been exerting herself far beyond her strength or living long without nourishing food, to have become reduced to a state so frightfully low as that in which I find her.”

“She has been doing both, I fear,” said her sister, sadly. “She has sacrificed herself. And, yet, what could she do? They have had nothing for many months between them and want, but the labour of her hands, and the few pence that poor child could earn. God help them!”

“God help them, indeed!” echoed the doctor earnestly.

He gave her what hope he could. He said it was possible, only just possible, that she might rally. It would depend on the strength of her constitution. Nothing that he could do for her would be left undone.

“In the mean time, we must hope for the best.”

But, with so much cause to fear, it was no easy thing to hope; and to Mrs Blair the day was a long and anxious one. Her sister seemed conscious at intervals; but for the greater part of the time she lay quite still, giving no evidence of life, save by her quick and laboured breathing. When Dr Gordon came again at night there was no change for the better; and, though he did not say so, it was evident to Mrs Blair that he anticipated the worst.

“And must she die without recovering consciousness? Can she speak no word to her children before she goes?”

“It is possible she may die without speaking again. But if she revives so much as to speak, it will be very near the end.”

Lilias had gone out on an errand, so that she did not see the doctor; and her aunt’s heart grew sick at the thought of telling her that her mother must so soon die. Archie evidently had some idea of his mother’s state; for, though he did not speak, he gazed anxiously into his aunt’s face as she turned away from the bed.

“Poor boy! Poor, helpless child!” she murmured, stooping suddenly over him. Poor boy, indeed! He knew it all now. He asked no questions. He needed to ask none; but he hid his face in the pillow, and sobbed as if his heart would break. At length Lilias’ footstep was heard on the stair, and he hushed his sobs to listen. She came up step by step, slowly and wearily; for the watching and anxiety of the last few days and nights were beginning to tell upon her.

“Well, aunt?” she said, laying down the burden she had brought up, and looking hopefully into her aunt’s face. Mrs Blair could not speak for a moment; and Lilias, startled by her grave looks, exclaimed:

“Does Dr Gordon think my mother worse?”

“She is not much better, I fear, love,” said her aunt, drawing her towards her, and holding her hands firmly in her own. Lilias gave a fearful glance into her face. The truth flashed upon her; but she put it from her in terror.

“We must have patience, aunt. She has had no time to grow better yet.”

“Yes, love; we must have patience. Whatever God shall see fit to send on us, we must not distrust Him, Lilias.”

“Yes, we must have patience,” said the child, scarcely knowing what she said. She went and knelt down beside the bed, and spoke to her mother; but her voice had no power to rouse her from the heavy slumber into which she had fallen. In a little while she rose, and went quietly about arranging the things in the room. Then, with needless care, the supper was