Mrs Blair had striven to do faithfully the work she had undertaken of instructing these ignorant children; but at her age the formation of new habits was by no means easy. The constant attention to trifles which the occupation required was at times inexpressibly irksome to her; and the relief which the assistance of Lilias gave her was proportionally great.
“I’m sure I know not how I ever got on without my lassie,” she said, one day, after watching with wonder and delight the patience with which she arranged the little girls’ work,—a task for which patience was greatly needed. “I shall grow to be a useless body if I let you do all that is to be done in this way. Are you not weary with your day’s work, Lilias, my dear?”
“Weary!” said Lilias, laughing. “I don’t need to be weary, for all I have done. It’s only play to hear the bairns read and spell. I like it very much.”
“But it’s not play to take out and put into shape, and to sew as you have been doing for the last hour. I fear I put too much upon you, Lilias.”
“Oh, now you are surely laughing at me. I wish I could do ten times as much. Do I really help you, Aunt Janet?”
“Ay, more than you know, my darling. But put by your work for a night, and run down the brae, and freshen the roses that are just beginning to bloom on your cheeks. We mustn’t let them grow white again, if we can help it.”
But the best time of all was when the children had gone home,—when, with the door close shut against the wintry blast, they sat together around the pleasant firelight, talking, or reading, or musing, as each felt most inclined. From her father’s well-chosen library Mrs Blair had preserved a few books, that were books indeed,—books of which every page contained more real material for thought than many a much-praised modern volume. Read by themselves, the quaint diction of some of these old writers must have been unintelligible to the children; but with the grave and simple comments of their aunt to assist their understanding, a new world of thought and feeling was opened to them. Many a grave discussion did they have on subjects whose names would convey no idea to the minds of most children of their age. There was often a mingling of folly and wisdom in their opinions and theories, that amused and surprised their aunt. Archie’s lively imagination sometimes ventured on flights from which the grave expostulations of Lilias could not always draw him.
“To the law and to the testimony, Archie, lad,” was his aunt’s never-failing suggestion; and then his eager, puzzled face would be bent over the Bible, till his wild imaginings vanished of themselves, without waiting to be reasoned away.
But the history of their country was the chief delight of those long winter evenings. One read aloud; but the eyes of both rested on the page with an eagerness that did not pass away after the first perusal. The times and events that most interested them were gone over and over, till they were ready to forget that they of whom they read had long since passed away: Murray and Douglas, John Knox and Rutherford, and Mary, lived and laboured, and sinned and suffered, still in their excited feelings. It is true, their interest and sympathy vacillated between the contending parties. They did not always abide by their principles in the praise or blame awarded. Their feelings were generally on the side of the sufferers, whoever they might be; and if their eyes sparkled with delight at the triumphant energy of Knox, their tears for poor Queen Mary were none the less sincere.
But it was the history of the later times that stirred their hearts to their inmost depths,—the times...