Lilias Maxwell laid her hand gently on Helen’s clasped fingers. There was an instantaneous change: the erect head fell into its ordinary stoop, the eyes were cast down, the figure shrank back shy and trembling, and Mr Oswald drew a long breath, and threw himself back in his chair, as the Reverend Robert brought down the tone of the conversation to the common-place and prosaic, by saying, with some emphasis,—
“I perfectly agree with Miss Buchanan.”
Mrs Gray had been somewhat startled. Mr Insches set her right again. She shook her head.
“Ah, young people, young people; it is quite natural, no doubt; but you don’t know—you will find it out only too soon.”
Mr Whyte rose from his chair with some displeasure, and lifted his fine hand in admonition.
“Rejoice in the Lord alway, and again I say unto you rejoice.”
The animation of his words lighted up his gentle face; not alone in the sunshine and in the fair earth, but in the Lord with whom was the wonderful “fellowship” of the holy man. It was meet that there should be gladness in all his peaceful life, for this was its charm and spell.
Mrs Whyte changed her seat. She took the chair which Mrs Gray left vacant beside Lilias and Helen, to the great contentment of the Reverend Robert.
“I warn you, young ladies, against my sister,” said Mrs Whyte, cheerfully. “Agnes has had a great deal of grief herself, and she thinks it is the common lot, and is anxious to prepare others for all that befell her. She means it very kindly, though I think she is mistaken; but, Miss Maxwell, you must not adopt these melancholy views of hers—it is quite soon enough to be sorrowful when sorrow comes.”
“You warn me, Mrs Whyte,” said Lilias, smiling. “Have you no fear for Helen?”