Lillie, growing up by her
mother's side, began to be a compensation for all he had suffered. The
little creature inherited her mother's beauty, the dazzling delicacy
of her complexion, the abundance of her golden hair; but there had
been given to her also her father's magnanimous and generous nature.
Lillie was a selfish, exacting mother; and such women often succeed in
teaching to their children patience and self-denial. As soon as the
little creature could walk, she was her father's constant play-fellow
and companion. He took her with him everywhere. He was never weary of
talking with her and playing with her; and gradually he relieved the
mother of all care of her early training. When, in time, two others
were added to the nursery troop, Lillie became a perfect model of a
gracious, motherly, little older sister.

Did all this patience and devotion of the husband at last awaken any
thing like love in the wife? Lillie was not naturally rich in emotion.
Under the best education and development, she would have been rather
wanting in the loving power; and the whole course of her education had
been directed to suppress what little she had, and to concentrate all
her feelings upon herself.

The factitious and unnatural life she had lived so many years had
seriously undermined the stamina of her constitution; and, after the
birth of her third child, her health failed altogether. Lillie thus
became in time a chronic invalid, exacting, querulous, full of
troubles and wants which tasked the patience of all around her. During
all these trying years, her husband's faithfulness never faltered.
As he gradually retrieved his circumstances, she was first in every
calculation. Because he knew that here lay his greatest temptation,
here he most rigidly performed his duty. Nothing that money could give
to soften the weariness of sickness was withheld; and John was for
hours and hours, whenever he could spare the time, himself a personal,
assiduous, unwearied attendant in the sick-room.

CHAPTER XXIX.

_THE NEW LILLIE_.

[Illustration]

We have but one scene more before our story closes. It is night now in
Lillie's sick-room; and her mother is anxiously arranging the drapery,
to keep the fire-light from her eyes, stepping noiselessly about the
room. She lies there behind the curtains, on her pillow,--the wreck
and remnant only of what was once so beautiful. During all these
years, when the interests and pleasures of life