The Orphans of Glen Elder

by Margaret M. Robertson

So a constant and pleasant intercourse was kept up between them, and Lilias was as much at home in the manse as in the Glen. They still pursued what Davie derisively called “their studies.” That is, they read history and other books together, some of them grave and useful books, and some of them not quite so useful, but nice books for all that. Lilias delighted in poetry, and in the limited number of works of imagination permitted within the precincts of the manse. Anne liked them too; but, believing it to be a weakness, she said less about her enjoyment of them. Indeed, it was her wont to check the raptures of Lilias and her little sister Jessie over some of their favourites, and to rebuke the murmurs of the latter over books that were “good, but not bonny.”

They had other pleasures, too—gardening, and rambles among the hills, and cottage-visiting. But the chief business and pleasure of Lilias was in caring for the comfort of her aunt, and in the guiding of the household affairs at Glen Elder. Matters within and without were so arranged that, while she might always be busy, she was never burdened with care; and so the quiet days passed on, each bringing such sweet content as does not often fall to the lot of any household for a long time together.

But, though Lilias took pleasure in her friends and her home, her books and her household occupations, her best and highest happiness did not rest on these. Afterwards, when changes came, bringing anxious nights and sorrowful days, when the shadow of death hung over the household, and the untoward events of life seemed to threaten separation from friends who were none the less dear because no tie of blood united them, the foundation of her peace was unshaken. “For they that trust in the Lord shall be as Mount Zion, that cannot be removed.”

Here for the present our story must close.

They went home to Glen Elder in May. Three years passed, and May came again, and Glen Elder and Kirklands, and all the hills and dales between, were looking their loveliest in their changing robes of brown and purple and green. The air was sweet with the scent of hawthorn-blossoms, and vocal with the song of birds and the hum of bees. There was not a fleck of cloud on all the sky, nor of mist on all the hills. The day was perfect, warm, bright, and still; such a day as does not come many times in all the Scottish year.

Nancy Stirling stood at her cottage-door, looking out over the green slope, and the burn running full to the fields beyond, and the faraway hills; and, as she looked, she sighed, and quite forgot the water-bucket in her hand, and that she was on her way to the burn for water to make her afternoon cup of tea. We speak of spring as a joyful season; we say, “the glad spring,” and “the merry, merry May;” and it is a glad season to the birds and the bees, the lambs and the little children, and to grown people, too, who have nothing very sad to remember. But the coming back of so many fair things as the spring brings reminds many a one of fair things which can never come again; and hearts more contented than Mrs Stirling’s was, sometimes sigh in the light of such a day.

“It’s a bonny day,” said she to herself, “a seasonable day for the country; and we should be thankful.” But she sighed again as she said it; and, for no reason that she could give, her thoughts wandered away to a row of graves in the kirk-yard, and farther away still, to a home and a time in which she saw herself a little child, so blithe, so full of happy life, that, as it all came back, she could not but wonder how she ever should have changed to the troubled, dissatisfied woman that she knew herself to be.

“Oh, well! It couldna but be so, in a world like this. Such changes ay have been, and ay must be,” said she, trying to comfort herself with the “old philosophy.” But she did not quite succeed. For the passing years had changed her, and it came into her mind, as it had often come of late, that she might perhaps have made a better use of all that life had brought her. But it was not a pleasant thought to pursue; and she gave a little start of relief and pleasure as she caught sight of two figures coming slowly up the brae.

“It’s Lilias Elder and Archie. She’ll have nothing left to wish for now that she has him home again. Eh! but she’s a bonnie lassie, and a good! And Archie, too, is a well-grown lad, and not so set up as he might be, considering.”

It was Lilias and her brother. Archie was at home, after his first session at the college; and Nancy was right; Lilias had little left to wish for.