“Is it always so?” said Lilias. She was thinking of her fretful, repining father, whose discontent was not allayed by years.
“I think so,” said Mossgray: “we resist when we are strong, but when this gentle hand of decay droops over us, we learn to think that what has befallen us was, after all, the best; but I did not intend to discuss melancholy matters with you, and youthful people, as I remember, think all sad that relates to the end. When that comes, Lilias—when you yourself are the lady of this old stronghold of the Graemes, remember that you have promised to bear their name.”
Lilias laid down her work and looked steadily into her guardian’s face.
“You shall call me by what name you please, but you must not give me Mossgray.”
The old man shook his head and smiled.
“No, no!” exclaimed Lilias, hastily; “you have given me a home in my extremity—more than that, you have given me such kindness as perhaps no other in the world could give. You have been my protector, my true father, and I thank you with all my heart; but there is no gift you can give me now half so precious as those I have received already. You have made me your child; after this I will take no inferior gift, not though it is all your land. I will be Lilias Graeme your daughter; but only while Mossgray is your home must it be mine.”
Mossgray laid his hand gently on the young head which was inspired with energy so unusual.
“I thank you, my good Lilias; but even on your own showing you must take my inheritance; for I can have no heir so fitting as my own child.”
“Mossgray,” said Lilias, “you are not the last of your race.”
A slight colour passed over the old man’s face.