that it was not often given by those on whom she bestowed her
advice.

But notwithstanding the kindness of friends, and (what Lilias valued
even more) the weekly visits of Archie, the afternoon walks, and the
long evening spent in talking over all that the week had brought to
each, the winter passed away slowly and heavily. To the children in the
school, Lilias always appeared in all respects the same; as indeed she
was during school-hours. But when the little ones had gone home, and
her household duties were all over, when there was no immediate call for
exertion, her strength and spirits flagged. Sitting in the dim light of
the peat fire, her weary eyes would close, and her work would fall upon
her lap. It is true, the lowest tone of her aunt's voice would awaken
her again, as indeed it would at any hour of the night; but, waking
still weary and unrefreshed, no wonder that the power to step lightly
and speak cheerfully was sometimes more than she could command. She was
always gentle and mindful of her aunt's comfort; but as the spring drew
near she grew quiet and grave, and her laugh, which had been such
pleasant music in the cottage, was seldom heard.

"You never sing now, Lily," said her aunt, one night, as Lilias was
busily but silently putting things to rights after the children had gone
home.

"Don't I?" said Lilias, standing still.

"Well, maybe not, though I had not thought about it. I am waiting for
the birds to begin again, I suppose; and that won't be long now."

But spring seemed long in coming. March passed over, and left matters
no better in the cottage. Indeed, it was the worst time of all. The
damp days and bleak winds aggravated Mrs Blair's illness, and increased
her suffering. The young lambs and calves at home needed Elsie's care,
and she could seldom come now; and Lilias' burden grew heavier every
day. Two rainy Saturdays in succession had presented Archie's coming
home; and time seemed to move on leaden wings.

"You have need of patience, Lily," said her aunt one night, as the child
seated herself on a low stool and laid her head down on the side of the
bed.

"Have I, aunt?" said she, raising herself quickly, for she thought her
aunt's words were intended to convey reproof.

"Yes; and God is giving it to you, my child. It ought to be some
comfort to you, love, that you are doing good in the weary life you are
leading. You are not living in vain, my child."

"I am quite happy