“My new mother wants to see you, Helen; you must come with me to Mossgray to-day; and Isabell at Murrayshaugh begins to be reconciled to Miss Lucy. She was cured of her unbelief,” said Lilias, with a happy blush and smile, “when she saw Hew.”
“Is he so like what his uncle was?” said Helen.
“He is very like the picture, and the picture was like his uncle—there is a resemblance still.”
“And, Lilias—for yourself,” said Helen; “do you stay at home—do you remain here?”
The calm Lilias answered less shyly than her friend asked, though both of them blushed. “We are going out to the wars again—not to India; I do not mean to India—but Hew must go and work, Helen; for all these changes do not make us rich, and Mossgray tells him it is best to climb the brae and conquer the difficulties with his own hand.”
The flush deepened on Helen’s cheek—the brave stout heart rose; for her too this work remained; and the notes of the reveilée were already in her ear.
“You guessed well once, Helen,” said Lilias, “when you prophesied calm griefs for me; but now that the terror and the pain are overpast—now, Helen—what do you promise me now?”
“Good times,” said the young prophet, raising her stooping head, “fair calm sunshine, pleasant skies—and so many to help and comfort you, Lilias; sometimes sorrows—quiet ones—righteous people going away hopefully to the other country—but not war; for you will dwell among your own people.”
“Not always,” said Lilias, with her quiet smile; “not at first certainly; and for you, Helen?”