But they bore her mother away at last; and then for a moment Lilias’ strength and courage forsook her. The cry of her desolate heart would no longer be hushed.
“Oh, mother! mother!”
Even the sound of her brother’s weeping had not power, for a time, to recall her from the indulgence of her grief.
On the morning of her sister’s death, Mrs Blair had written to a friend, asking him to make arrangements for conveying the orphans to her humble home; and they were to leave the town on the day succeeding that of the funeral. Little was left to be done. A few articles of furniture were to be disposed of, a few trifles, heirlooms in the family for several generations, were to be taken with them; and it was with a feeling of relief that Mrs Blair welcomed the honest carrier of Kirklands who was on the morrow to convey them away from the unhealthy town to the free fresh air of their native hills. Only one thing more remained to be done, and the afternoon was nearly over before Mrs Blair found courage to speak of it.
“Lilias, if you are not too weary, I should like you to go out for me to Dr Gordon’s, love, if it will not be too much for you.”
“I’m not weary, aunt. I’ll go, if you wish.” But she grew very pale, remembering the last time she had gone there.
“Lilias,” said her aunt, drawing her towards her, and kissing her fondly, “you have been my own brave, patient lassie to-day. You have not forgotten your mother’s words?”
“Oh, aunt, I wish to be patient, indeed I do. But I fear I am not really patient at heart.” And she wept now as though her heart would break.
Her aunt let her weep freely for a few minutes, and then she said:
“It’s not wrong for you to weep for your mother, Lilias; you must do that. But you know ‘He doth not afflict willingly;’ and you can trust His love, though you cannot see why this great sorrow has been sent upon you. You can say, ‘Thy will, not mine, be done.’”