through which she gazed, lay a boy,
apparently about ten years of age. His face was pale and thin, and he
moved his head uneasily on his pillow, as though very weary or in pain.
For a time all sense of fatigue was forgotten by the traveller, so
occupied was she in tracing in that fair little face a resemblance to
one dearly beloved in former years--her only brother, and the father of
the child.

Suddenly he raised himself up; and, leaning his head upon his hand,
spoke to some one in another part of the room.

"Oh me! oh me!" he said faintly; "the time seems so long! Surely she
must be coming now."

"It's Saturday night, you ken," said a soft voice, in reply. "She can't
be home quite so soon to-night. But the shadow of the speir has got
round to the yew-tree at the gate, and it won't be long now."

The little head sank back on the pillow again, and there was a pause.
"Oh me!" he murmured again, "it seems so long! I wish it was all at an
end."

"What do you wish was at an end?" said the same low voice again.

"All these long days and my mother's going out when she's not able to
go, and you sewing so busy all the day, and me waiting, waiting, never
to be well again. Oh, Lily, I wish I was dead."

There was the sound of a light step on the floor, and a little girl's
grave, pale face bent over the boy.

"Whisht, Archie!" said she, gravely, as she smoothed the pillow and
placed his restless head in a more easy posture. "Do you not ken it's
wrong for you to say the like of that? It's an awful thing to die,
Archie."

"Well, if it's wrong to be weary of lying here, I can't help it," said
the child; "but it's surely not wrong to wish to die and go to heaven,
yon bonny place!"

"But it is wrong not to be willing to live, and suffer too, if it be
God's will," said his sister, earnestly. "And what would _we_ do if you
were to die, Archie, my mother and me?"

"I am sure you could do far better than you can do now. You wouldn't
need to bide here longer. You could go to Glen Elder to Aunt Janet, you
and my mother. But I'll never see Glen Elder, nor Aunt Janet, nor
anything but these dark walls and yon bit of the kirk-yard."

"Whisht, Archie," said his sister, soothingly. "Aunt Janet has gone
from Glen Elder, and she's maybe as ill off as any of us. I doubt none
of us will ever go there again. But we won't think of such sad things
now. Lie still, and I'll sing to you till my mother comes home."

She drew