, aunt," said Lilias, coming near, and speaking in a
low, wondering voice.

"Blessed with the peace _He_ gives His own through His dear Son our
Saviour: thank God for that!" said her aunt, as she returned her caress.

March passed and April too, and May came warm and beautiful, at last.
It brought the blessing so earnestly longed for by the weary Lilias,--
comparative health to her aunt. Although she was not quite well yet,
she was no longer confined to her bed; and, with some assistance, could
walk about the house, and even in the little garden, now bright with
violets and daisies. "She had aged wonderfully," Mrs Stirling said; as
indeed she had. Lilias could see that, but she had great faith in the
"bonny summer days," and thought that now their troubles were nearly at
an end.

The return of spring had not made the schoolmaster willing to part with
Archie, and he was seldom at home more than once or twice a week. But,
though Lilias still missed him, she had long ago persuaded herself that
it would be selfishness on her part to wish it otherwise. It was for
Archie's good; and that was more than enough to reconcile her to his
continued absence.

But the pleasant May days did not make Lilias her old self again. She
did not begin to sing with the birds, though she tried sometimes. The
old burden was there, and she could not. Often she accused herself of
ingratitude, and wondered what ailed her, that she could not be so
cheerful as she used to be. The feeling of weariness and depression did
not wait now till the children had gone home. Sometimes it came upon
her as she sat in the midst of them, and the hum of their voices would
die away into a dull murmur, and she would fall into a momentary
forgetfulness of time and place. Sometimes it came upon her as an
inexpressible longing for rest and quiet, and to get away from it all
for a little while.

Her spirits were unequal; and it required a daily and unceasing effort
to go about quietly, as she used to do. More than once she startled
herself and others by sudden and violent bursts of weeping, for which,
as she truly said, she could give no reason. In vain she expostulated
with herself; in vain she called herself ungrateful and capricious. The
weary weight would not be reasoned away.

At length the knowledge that she was overtired, and not so well as
usual, relieved her heart a little; but not very long. She was ill; and
that was the cause of all her wre