ing ill herself, at
least she was sometimes so weary that she feared she could not go on
long. Indeed, she tried not to be weary, but she could not help it.
The feeling would come upon her, and then she grew dazed and stupid
among the children; and she must try and get something else to do. This
was what she wanted to be advised about.

By a strong effort, in her capacity of adviser, Nancy was able to keep
back the words that came to the tip of her tongue:--"I knew it. Anybody
might have seen the upshot. To put a lassie like that to do the work of
a strong woman! What could one expect?"

She did not speak aloud, however, but rose and mended the fire under the
tea-kettle, asking, as she sat down again:

"And what are you thinking of doing, my dear?"

"It's not that I'm really ill," continued Lilias, eagerly. "I think
it's because I have been within doors so much. If I could get something
to do in the open air, I should soon be as well as ever again. I can't
go to service now, because I must stop at home with my aunt at night.
She can't be left. But I thought if I could be a herd-girl like Elsie
Ray, or get weeding to do, or light field-work, or something--" And she
looked so eagerly and so wistfully that Nancy was fain to betake herself
to mending the fire again. For there was a strange, remorseful feeling
stirring not unkindly at Nancy's heart. To use her own words, she "had
taken just wonderfully to this old-fashioned child." Her patience, her
energy, her unselfishness, her devotion to her aunt, had ever excited
her admiration and respect. But that there was "a good thick layer of
pride" for all these good qualities to rest upon, Nancy never doubted.

"And why not? Who has better right? The lassie is bonny and wise, and
has good blood and a good name. Few have so much to be proud of. And
if Mrs Blair thinks it's more becoming in her brother's daughter to
teach children the catechism than to go out to common service, who can
blame her that mind her youth and middle age?"

Indeed, it had always been a matter of congratulation to Mrs Stirling
that this "leaven of pride" prevented Lilias's absolute perfection; but
now, to see "that delicate lassie, so bonny and gentle, more fit for the
manse parlour or the drawing-room at Pentlands than any other place,"--
to see her so utterly unmindful of pride or station, wishing so eagerly,
for the sake of those she loved, to become a herd-girl or a
field-laboure