placed on the table; for none of them could taste food. Then her brother was prepared for bed; but all the time she spoke no word, and went about like one in a dream.

When she stooped to kiss her brother a good-night, the little boy clasped his arms about her neck, and wept aloud. But she did not weep; she laid her head down on the pillow beside him, gently soothing him with hand and voice; and, when at last he had sobbed himself to sleep, she disengaged his arms from her neck, and, rising, placed herself on a low stool beside her mother’s bed.

Mrs Blair thought it better to leave her to herself. Indeed, what could she say to comfort her? And so the child sat a long time gazing into her mother’s face, her own giving no sign of the struggle that was going on within. At first the one thought that filled her mind was that it was impossible her mother could be going to die. It seemed too dreadful to be true; and, then, it was so sudden! Her father had been with them for months after they knew that he must die, and her mother had been quite well only three days ago. No; it could not be!

And, yet, such things had been before. She thought of a little girl, rosy and strong, who had sickened and died in three short days; and it might be so with her mother. How should she ever live without her? Oh, if she could only die too, and have done with life and its struggles! Everything was forgotten in the misery of the moment; and with a moan that revealed to her aunt something of what she was suffering, she leaned forward on the bed.

“Lily,” said a voice beside her.

Lilias started. It was the first time her mother had spoken during the day, and the child bent eagerly over her and kissed her.

“Lily, love, read to me the twelfth of Hebrews,” said her mother, in a low, changed voice.

By a strong effort Lilias quieted herself, and read on till she came to the eleventh verse: “‘Now no chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous, but grievous; but afterwards it yieldeth the peaceable fruits of righteousness to them that are exercised thereby.’”

“You believe that, Lily?” said her mother.

“Yes, mother,” said the child, in a trembling voice.

“And you’ll mind it by-and-by, darling, and comfort your brother with the words? It won’t be for long, Lily. You’ll soon be with us there.”

“Mother! mother!” gasped the child, losing her self-control, as she threw herself upon the bed and clasped her arms about her mother’s neck. For a few minutes her frame shook with her sobs. Fearing the effect of this strong emotion on the mother, Mrs Blair came to the bed; but she did not speak, and by a strong effort she calmed herself again.

“Lily,” said her mother, in a moment or two, “I have many things to say to you, and I have not much strength left. You must calm yourself, darling, and listen to me.”

“But, mother, you are not much worse to-night, are you?”

“God is very good to us both, my child, in giving me a little strength and a clear mind at the last. What I have to say will comfort you afterwards, Lily. I want to tell my darling what a comfort she has been to me through all my time of trouble. I have thanked God for my precious daughter many a time when I was ready to sink. Archie will never want a mother’s care while he has you; and for his sake, love, you must not grieve too much for me. It will only be for a little while; and, then, think how happy we shall be.”

There was a pause.

“Will you promise, Lily?”

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

“I do not fear to leave my darlings. God 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. God 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 passed over her face, and Lilias knew that she was motherless.

Of how the next days passed, 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 assistance 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 passed 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 lassie 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