"Not unless you make it so," responded her mother, cheerily.
"Make it so!" rejoined Lilian. "How can I make it anything else? It is always lonesome here, and to-day will be the worst of all. Only think of the fun the girls will be having in dear old Deerfield, while I am off out here in this—"
She stopped short, fearing she might say too much. What she had been about to say was "this horrid, desolate Kansas ranch."
"Perhaps the boys can take you for a drive, dear; and you know we're invited to Uncle Abner's for the evening."
"A drive!" replied Lilian, scornfully. "I hate driving, all alone, along these endless roads. Nothing but snow, snow, until I am nearly blind."
"You have your books, Lilian; and your father likes perfect lessons."
"Yes, I can have books any day. But think of the girls at home—what they are having. They are getting their tables ready, this very minute. They will darken the parlors and have gas-light, and pretty dresses and lots of callers."
Here Lilian broke down and sobbed. Her mother came to her side and stroked her hair.
"Be brave, daughter," she whispered. "I know it is a great change. But I have often told you we must bear in mind why we left the East, and why we are here. Father would not have been alive but for this change of climate and open-air life. You know he is getting well, and is so happy in that. We ought not to mind anything if he can be well again."
Lilian felt ashamed, and tried to dry her tears. Yet she was unwilling to quite give up her discontent.