she read Blair's sermons or "The Week's Preparation" at home; so Lilian went alone up the quiet hill, and along the green lane, to Alice Rayner's cottagehome. The sweet April day had come to its close, the sun had gone down behind the distant hills, leaving on their lonely summits a glorious flush of crimson and golden light; the rush of the river sounded solemnly in the hushed Sabbath twilight, and the young moon and the faint stars gleamed forth in the clear blue sky, that hung so peacefully over the quiet, darkening world. Lilian paused at the top of the hill; her eye rested lovingly on the grey church beneath, and on the silent churchyard, where her father and mother, with some of their infant children, slumbered side by side. Next Sunday she would be far away; and the tears rose unbidden, as she thought of her old home forsaken, her old and tried friends no longer by her side. But Basil, he for whom she was willing to break all the tender ties of her youth, he would be by her side, he would be always with her, her guide, her protector, her best and nearest friend! Slowly she turned along the lane, and reached Alice's cottage. Alice lay as usual on her couch by the fire; the lamp was not lighted, and she was gazing at the silvery stars, as one by one they shone out in the pure ether above. Dear, dear Lilian!" she said, "how kind of you You have come to have a last quiet talk!" "Yes, Alice. I thought there would be so many things to do to-morrow; and Tuesday, you know, Tuesday is to be the day.' "Yes, yes! I know. God bless you, Lilian; may He make you very, very happy. You look rather sad; you do not repent?" "Repent! Oh no, Alice. I know I shall be happy; for, after Tuesday morning, Basil's path and mine will be one. I can never know sorrow with him; never suffer while he loves me as he loves me now!" "Lilian," said Alice, thoughtfully, "do you know I think of many things that would never, perhaps, occur to any one who was well and able to be about; and I am afraid it is not good to rest one's peace, one's inmost self, on any mortal creature. It seems to me that any one without trust in God is just like a ship on a deceitful sea; as the earth would be, if gravitation were to cease; as the planets would be, if their laws of motion were suddenly suspended." "But I do trust in God, Alice dear. I am not a heathen all Christian people trust in God, do they not?" "All Christian people do, undoubtedly; but oh, Lilian, how hard it is to be a Christian! It is, I am sure, the hardest thing that is not impossible. One has need of so much faith, so much patience!" "Poor Alice!" said Lilian, tenderly. "It must indeed require patience to bear so much weakness and pain; to see others entering on a life of happiness, and know that no such change can await yourself." "I was not thinking of myself, Lilian. I am sheltered here from many trials and temptations that beset others, whose lot seems brilliant compared with mine. I have many comforts in my quiet hours that no one knows of; and then I know there will come a time when all this trouble will cease. This poor body will wear out some day, and then the spirit that cannot die will be clothed afresh, and dwell with its Father and King for ever. Ah! it is not I who need so much patience, so much trust, such unwavering hope. It is in the world, in the great struggle that must be carried on through life, that faith and patience is so much needed. Lilian, you must pray for it; you will need it." "Alice, you talk to me as if I were about to enter upon a world of misery and pain; your words would better suit a pale, careworn child of sorrow, who longs for the rest and quiet of the cloister, than a young bride of nineteen, who is giving her hand and her heart to the man she would have chosen had she been able to select from the whole universe. Why do you talk of patience? With Basil by my side what evil can befall me?" "Dear Lilian, Basil is not omnipotent; but I do not wish to sadden you to-night. I do trust you will be very happy. May God make you so, both you and your Basil. May God Almighty bless you both, and make you happy everlastingly!" Amen," said Lilian, solemnly. "I can say Amen to that prayer most earnestly. Alice, dear, I wish I were as good as you are!" "A poor wish, Lilian; but may you be as happy in your pleasant path in the world as I am in my lonely chamber." "How did you learn to be happy, Alice? I remember when you were always fretting. Who taught you the secret of perpetual peace and content?" Alice drew forth her little Bible. "No one taught me," she said; "at least, no one on earth. I learnt it here. And, Lilian, I will give you this Bible; it seems a poor wedding-gift, but it is really worth more than all the jewels in the world. Some day you may feel care-laden and weary, and then you, too, may learn the secret." Lilian took the little Bible, and kissed it fervently. It was time to go, and she took leave of her friend with a strange yearning for the calm that reigned on the white brow and in the patient heart of her whose earthly hopes had long ago faded never more to revive. She went her way homeward by the silvery sweeping river, watching its swift current, remembering how its bright waves were borne to the great sea; and dimly picturing how like to a stream was mortal life, that sped on and on, never turning back, but reaching at last the great ocean of Eternity. She knew that on the shores of that boundless sea was eternal joy and pleasure for evermore. In her hand she held a chart, a way-book, that would lead her safe there-even Alice's little pocket Bible; but her eyes were blinded, and she saw not yet the celestial road. Alice's battle had been with pain, and solitude, and irritability. Lilian's scene of conflict was to be the great world of every-day life. CHAPTER II. THE HONEYMOON. "Harmonious union must for ever cease TEN weeks had passed since Lilian Grey bade adieu to Alice Rayner; since, in the Sabbath calm of the sweet spring evening, she had stood watching the swift current of the river Brough, half thinking of its impetuous course from its cradle in the western hills to the smooth meadow-lands beyond the town, and further on to the deep, deep sea, twenty miles away, and half wondering whether the stream of her life would flow in such varied and uninterrupted channels. Her wedding-day was alternately fine and showery. Now, the sun shone out in as clear a sky as ever arched its glorious dome over this world of flowers and thorns; and now the bright beams faded, and darkness gathered over the landscape's vernal loveliness; and then the clouds rolled away, and the soft, golden rain fell like a veritable Danæan shower on the green, grateful earth. Lilian had hoped for a day of unceasing, cloudless sunshine. The showers disquieted her; she had a superstitious notion that the atmospheric complexion of one's marriage-day is an unerring index to the wedded life which is to follow. Elizabeth cared nothing about the weather after the bridal party returned from church; no finery was spoiled, only Eleanor allowed her delicate lilac silk to brush against the long, dripping grass as she crossed the churchyard; and the elder sister, who had no fancies, and never encouraged them in others, strove to combat Lilian's nervous apprehensions, and very sensibly remarked, that those who had an objection to a chequered state of weather on their wedding-day should certainly eschew April as the time of its celebration. Eleanor thought little of the sunshine, or of the shower. She believed that Lilian was that day to take out a perpetual patent for unimpeachable happiness. Her sister's marriage seemed to her the most fortunate and promising of human events. She had neither Elizabeth's sober, sensible, tranquil mind, nor Lilian's poetic tendencies and passionate yearnings after the purest and noblest kind of terrestrial enjoyment. To tell the truth, Eleanor had more of the world in her young heart than any one could have imagined. She was ambitious; she had no idea of dreaming out her existence in the sleepy little town of Kirby |