The Orphans of Glen Elder

by Margaret M. Robertson

“Let me just try it a while, aunt,” she pleaded; “I am sure I can get on with you to advise me; and the days will seem shorter with the bairns coming and going.”

And so her aunt yielded, though only half convinced that she did right. There is no better promoter of cheerfulness than constant and earnest occupation; and so Lilias found it. She had no time during the day to think of the troubles that seemed gathering over them, and at night she was too weary to do so. But, though weary in body, her patience and energy never flagged. Indeed, never were so many children so easily taught and governed before. The gentle firmness of their young teacher wrought wonders among them. Her grave looks were punishment enough for the most unruly, and no greater reward of good behaviour could be given than to be permitted to go on an errand or do her some other little favour when school was over.

But her chief dependence for help was on Elsie Ray. Her gratitude for Lilias’ kindness when she first came to the school was unbounded; and she could not do too much to prove it. It was Elsie who brought in the water from the well and the fuel from the heap. It was Elsie who went far and near for anything which the varying appetite of the invalid might crave. Lilias quite learnt to depend on her; and the day was darker and longer than usual, that failed to bring Elsie to the school.

Mrs Stirling’s visits, too, became more frequent as the winter wore away; and there was seldom a Saturday afternoon, be it raining or shining, that failed to bring her to the cottage. Nor was she by any means unwelcome there. For Nancy could be very helpful, when she willed it; and, by some strange witchcraft or other, Lilias had crept into her murmuring, though not unkind heart. It is true that she always came and went with the same ominous shake of the head, and the same dismal prophecy that, “unless she was much mistaken, Mrs Blair would never set her foot to the ground again;” but she strove in various ways to soothe the pain of the sufferer, and her strong arms accomplished many a task that Lilias in her weakness must have left undone. Once, in Lilias’ absence from the cottage, she collected and carried off the used linen of the family which had been accumulating for weeks, and quite resented the child’s exclamation of surprise and gratitude when she brought them back done up in her very best style. “She had done it to please herself, as the most of folks do favours; and there need be no such ado made about it. If she had thought it a trouble, she would have left it alone.”

She was never weary of suggesting new remedies for Mrs Blair’s complaint, and grumbled by the hour if each in turn had not what she called a fair trial. Fortunately, her remedies were not of the “kill or cure” kind. If they could do no good, they could do little harm; and Mrs Blair was generally disposed to submit to a trial of them.

In all her intercourse with Lilias there was a singular blending of respectful tenderness with the grumbling sourness that had become habitual to her. The child’s unfailing energy and patience were a source of never-failing admiration to her; yet she always spoke to her as if she thought she needed a great deal of encouragement, and not a little reproof and advice, to keep her in the right way.

“You mustn’t grumble, Lilias, my dear, that you have to bear the yoke in your youth. I dare say you need all you’re getting. Many a better woman has had more to bear. We all have our share of trouble at one time or another. Who knows but you may see prosperous days yet,—you and your aunt together? Though indeed that’s more than I think,” she added, with the old ominous shake of the head; “but, grumble here or grumble there, it will make little difference in the end.”

Lilias would listen sometimes with a smile, sometimes with tears in her wistful eyes, but always with a respect which was all the more grateful to Nancy that it was not often given by those on whom she bestowed her advice.

But notwithstanding the kindness of friends, and (what Lilias valued even more) the weekly visits of Archie, the afternoon walks, and the long evening spent in talking over all that the week had brought to each, the winter passed away slowly and heavily. To the children in the school, Lilias always appeared in all respects the same; as indeed she was during school-hours. But when the little ones had gone home, and her household duties were all over, when there was no immediate call for exertion, her strength and spirits flagged. Sitting in the dim light of the peat fire, her weary eyes would close, and her work would fall upon her lap. It is true, the lowest tone of her aunt’s voice would awaken her again, as indeed it would at any hour of the night; but, waking still weary and unrefreshed, no wonder that the power to step lightly and speak cheerfully was sometimes more than she could command. She was always gentle and mindful of her aunt’s comfort; but as the spring drew near she grew quiet and grave, and her laugh, which had been such pleasant music in the cottage, was seldom heard.

“You never sing now, Lily,” said her aunt, one night, as Lilias was busily but silently putting things to rights after the children had gone home.