There was no sound in the room, and it was some time before her eyes became accustomed to the dim light around her. Then the glimpse she caught, through the half-open door, of one or two familiar objects,—the desk which had been her father’s, and the high-backed chair of carved oak in which her mother used to sit so many, many years ago,—assured her that she had reached her journey’s end.
On a low bed, just opposite the door 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.”