"I won't marry until I love some one even better than my only brother," replied Lilias in a grave voice. "That time has not come yet," she added, and then she turned away.
The games went on as fast as ever; Marjory romped with the merriest. Lilias was graver than her sister, not so fond of pastimes, perhaps not quite so generally popular. She went into the house, sat down by the organ in the hall and began to play. She had almost as much talent as Gerald; her fingers wandered over the keys, she was in a dreamy mood, and her thoughts were carrying her back to a bygone scene—to Gerald's face on that Sunday night. She heard again the rich tones of his voice, and heard his words:—
"Till in the ocean of Thy love
We loose ourselves in Heaven above."
"Oh, Gerald," she said with a kind of sob, "things have been hard for me since you went away. It was not your marriage alone, I had prepared myself for that; but it was more—it was more. The Church of God—you gave that up. Yes, yes. There has been a shut door between us. Gerald, since you and Valentine first met; and where are you now—where are you now?"
"Lilias," said little Joan running in breathlessly, "father wants you in his study, quickly. I don't think he's quite well. He has just had a letter, and he looks so queer."
"I'll go to him at once," said Lilias.
She could be apprehensive enough, but in real danger, in times of real anxiety, her head could be cool and her steps firm.
"Yes, father," she said, motioning the frightened little Joan away.
She shut the library door behind her.
"Yes, father. What is it? Jo says that you have got a letter, and that you want me."