ight in rousing her. She was ready at last.

"Are they come?" asked Graeme, faintly.

"No, dear. There's no haste. Rest yourself a wee while. My dear, are
you sure you are quite able for it?" added she, as Graeme rose.

"Yes, I think so. But I would like to go alone, first."

"My poor lamb! If I were but sure that I have been right," thought
Janet, as she sat down to wait.

An hour passed, and when the door opened, and Graeme came out again, the
fears of her faithful friend were set at rest.

"She hasna' been alone all this time, as I might have known," said Janet
to herself, with a great rush of hidden tears. "I'm faithless, and sore
beset myself whiles, but I needna fear for them. The worst is over
now."

And was the worst over? After that was the covering of the beloved
forever from their sight, and the return to the silent and empty home.
There was the gathering up of the broken threads of their changed life;
the falling back on their old cares and pleasures, all so much the same,
and yet so different. There was the vague unbelief in the reality of
their sorrow, the momentary forgetfulness, and then the pang of sudden
remembrance,--the nightly dreams of her, the daily waking to find her
gone.

By and by, came letters from the lads; those of Norman and Harry full of
bitter regrets, which to Graeme seemed almost like reproaches, that they
had not been sent for before the end; and the grief of those at home
came back strong and fresh again.

The coming of the "bonny spring days" for which Norman had so wished,
wakened "vain longings for the dead." The brooks rose high, and the
young leaves rustled on the elms; and all pleasant sounds spoke to them
with Menie's voice. The flowers which she had planted,--the May-flower
and the violets by the garden path, looked at them with Menie's eyes.
The odour of the lilacs, by the gate, and of the pine trees on the hill
came with that mysterious power to awaken old associations, bringing
back to Graeme the memory of the time when they first came to the house
on the hill, when they were all at home together, and Menie was a happy
child. All these things renewed their sorrow, but not sharply or
bitterly. It was the sorrow of chastened and resigned hearts, coming
back with hopeful patience to tread the old paths of their daily life,
missing the lost one, and always with a sense of waiting for the time
when they shall meet again, but quite content.

And Mrs Sno