Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

LILLA AND HER GRANDMOTHER.   Frontispiece.

NO ROYAL ROAD;

OR,

THE THING THAT LIES THE NEAREST.


A Story for Girls.

BY

FLORENCE E. BURCH

THIRTEENTH THOUSAND.

LONDON:

THE SUNDAY SCHOOL UNION

57 AND 59 LUDGATE HILL, E.C.

PRINTED BY

MORRISON AND GIBB LIMITED, EDINBURGH

CONTENTS.
—————

CHAP.

I. LILLA

II. MARGIE

III. LIVES OF GREAT WOMEN

IV. A GOOD BEGINNING

V. LILLA MAKES A NEW ACQUAINTANCE

VI. LILLA AWAKENS MARGIE'S AMBITION

VII. THE REWARD OF DILIGENCE

VIII. WASTED MINUTES

IX. WHICH WAS THE GREATEST?

X. A FRIEND IN NEED

XI. MARGIE THROWS NEW LIGHT ON THE QUESTION

XII. THE WAY, THE TRUTH, AND THE LIFE

ILLUSTRATIONS.
—————

LILLA AND HER GRANDMOTHER. (Frontispiece.)

"SHE LOOKED UP AS LILLA ENTERED."

MISS ST. IVES.

NO ROYAL ROAD.

CHAPTER I.

LILLA.

"Standing with reluctant feet,
 Where the brook and river meet,
 Womanhood and childhood fleet."
LONGFELLOW.

IN a shady nook, hidden away from the road by an overgrown hedge and a row of tall lime trees, stood a quaint-looking little cottage.

It was concealed from view as you came along the lane, for it had formerly been the lodge of a larger house, and in order to enter the swinging gate in the sweet-briar hedge which separated its little garden from the carriage drive, you had to pass through a broad iron gateway standing back in a deep bay in the plantation.

It was no longer required as a porter's lodge at the time of our story, the house having been long untenanted. And though the rooms were small and the thatched gables old-fashioned, it formed a very comfortable dwelling for the old lady who had now been its inmate for more than ten years.

It was a wonderfully pretty little house, too. It had a rustic porch, covered with jessamine and honeysuckle, and latticed windows that opened wide to admit the summer breezes. Upstairs were the snuggest bedrooms, with sloping ceiling and snowy curtained dormer windows, and handy cupboards to fill up spare corners.

Then, too, the garden, full of the old-fashioned flowers dear to those whose bright memories of far distant childhood are so closely wound up with them. Sweet peas and lupins, wallflowers—or warriors, as the children call them—stocks and clove pinks, and Aaron's rod and sweetwilliam—

   "With his homely cottage smell."

And the roses! Not the trim heads of bloom on straight, stiff stems, which you see in gardens of the present day, but luxuriant bushes, rich with blossoms, that seemed grateful for the sunlight, so sweet was their perfume. All sorts were there: tea roses, cabbage roses—worthy of a prettier name—delicate buds in moss wrappings, and at every turn of the paths, arches laden with the snowy wreaths of the cluster.

At the bottom of the garden ran a brook, silent and peaceful in summer, when the overhanging fringe of foliage hid its pebbly bed from view; gurgling and rushing with wild vehemence in spring when the snows had melted, and the dark firs of the plantation beyond were rocking and swaying in the wind.

But enough of the place, that we may pass on to its inmates.

It would have been a dull spot for an old lady to spend her last days in alone. But Mrs. Eden had a companion.

Fourteen years ago, when her hair was still brown, her only daughter had faded and died, leaving to her care the dimpled baby girl who was just beginning to lisp her name. For three years the fond grandmother made her home with her son-in-law, devoting herself entirely to the little darling whose ways reminded her so much of the babyhood of her own child. But sickness laid its hand upon that home again.

There came a time when the little one asked, with wonder in her blue eyes, why father was always tired now. And, later on, why father never romped with her as he used; why he never got up, and why the doctor came so often. Until at last, one evening they did not even take her to him for her good-night kiss.

Next morning they showed him to her, cold and still in the long sleep of death, telling her that he had gone to be with Jesus in God's bright heaven, where everybody had a golden harp. And Lilla Claridge was an orphan.

Then it was that bereft of all, save that tender little life, which seemed to cling to her as the young ivy to the old tree trunk, the old lady came to live at The Lodge, where, by various little economics, such as substituting her own needlework for that of a seamstress, and doing her own housework, with occasional help, she could not only make her slender means sufficient for them both, but even add something yearly to the little capital which was accumulating at the bank in Lilla's name.

So the ten years had passed, bringing snowy locks and failing strength to the old lady, whilst for Lilla, each return of the season had some fresh gift of growth and intellect.

Lilla was turned fourteen, and a sensible girl for her years, quite a companion for any grown woman. Having been so much in the society of an old lady, she had perhaps learnt to think older thoughts than most young people of her age. She was amiable and gentle, too. For in training her, Mrs. Eden had not forgotten that some day she must mix with those who would not have a grandmother's indulgence. So, instead of spoiling her, as it would have been so easy to do, with no one close to lavish her tenderness upon, she had tried her best to lay the foundation of all those qualities most calculated to make of any girl—a happy, useful woman.

Lilla had grown up with no companion of her own age. Their economical style of housekeeping had rendered it impossible that she should mix with those really in her own station. And as Mrs. Eden had undertaken her education, intending to procure lessons in French and music for her so soon as she should be far enough advanced, she had formed no school friendships.

At the time when our story commences, Easter was just past, and the larches were hanging out their green tassels in pretty contrast against the sombre green of the firs. A keen wind was still blowing, and the distant hills looked dark and well defined in the clear air as the sun sank to his western couch. But leaf-buds were swelling on the hedges, and thrushes were piping merrily on the tree-tops. In the woods, primroses were peeping out from their hiding places under the dead leaves, and anemones were shaking their delicate bells by the watercourses. Spring was advancing rapidly, in spite of winter's attempts to keep his hold, and even an occasional snowfall could not long hinder the young monarch from ascending his rightful throne, so many upon all hands were his subjects.

Lilla and her grandmother had just returned from their afternoon's walk. They formed a strong contrast. The young girl, with her lithesome elastic figure, and the old lady, with her silver locks and feeble steps. But they always went out together when Lilla's tasks were done, and it was astonishing the long distances the old lady made round the country lanes beyond their little home.

Lilla's hands were full of anemones and trailing ivy, for she loved plants and flowers. Unlike many girls of her age who let the spring pass over them unheeded, its many voices had an undefinable charm for her. She could not have told you why she listened so eagerly for the first thrush's note, or watched the opening buds on tree and plant, but it was not simply that winter disagreeables were retreating before a milder reign. The reason was rooted in the poetic part of her nature which loved the life and beauty all around.

Here again you might trace her grandmother's teaching:

"God's world is so beautiful," she would say, "and Jesus loved the flowers. He has given them to us that we may learn from them. Every spring ought to remind us that we must open our hearts to the sunbeams of His love, if we would grow daily in beauty and fragrance."

Mrs. Eden was unusually tired with her walk that day.

"I am not so young as I was, Lilla," she said, with a sigh, as she took the door-key from her pocket.

"But you are wonderful, grandmother," returned Lilla fondly, as she followed her in. "I wonder how many old ladies of sixty-eight could walk the miles you do!"

The kitchen fire was out, for Mrs. Eden could not afford to keep two fires burning when the morning's work was done. But the kettle was singing contentedly on the trivet in the sitting-room.

Lilla saw at a glance that all was right, and in less than a minute she had fetched the tea-tray, so that her grandmother might make the tea at once.

Whilst it was brewing, she slipped out into the garden to plant a primrose root which she had brought in with her. This need not have occupied many minutes, but the stars were coming out, and Lilla could not resist watching them as their tiny orbs glittered and twinkled in the clear, pale sky. When she looked down to earth again, everything seemed so dark that it was some time before she could find a place for her primrose. By degrees, however, her eyes became accustomed to the change of light, and the plant was soon disposed of, its native soil snugly patted down round its roots.

"There!" exclaimed Lilla, as she raised herself up and turned to go in.

But somehow her eyes went back to the stars. She was surprised to see how much brighter they appeared to have grown during the few moments occupied by planting the flower. They no longer seemed struggling to make their feeble rays penetrate the twilight. They were shining down with a clear, steady light. And one after another added itself to their number as Lilla's eyes wandered over the heavens.

"It must be the contrast," she said to herself, resting on her spade, "for I have not been long. It is no darker than when I came out, and yet they were hardly visible then. But the sky is always brighter than the earth."

Lilla stood thinking for several minutes. But she suddenly remembered her grandmother and the tea, so she moved on towards the house. She had just put the spade in the tool shed when a noise of shouts and cries up the lane caught her ear, and, unable to repress her natural curiosity, she ran down the path, slipped through the gate, and went out into the road to see what it meant.

A pony was coming full tear that way, and two boys, one of whom had a rope bridle in his hand, were running after him at their utmost speed, at the same time doing their best by their halloos and yells to make him gallop the faster.

Lilla hurried back into the bay, and just got into shelter behind the gate as the pony dashed past. She was not used to animals, and was rather frightened of them.

But there is something exciting that few young people can resist in the sight of a runaway horse.

Lilla almost wished herself one of the pursuers, instead of a demure little maiden just about to wash her hands and sit down to tea with her grandmother.

However, it was of no use wishing. And certainly it would have been undesirable to change places with the two uncouth, mud-begrimed figures that hurried by next minute.

Lilla waited until the sound of hoofs was out of hearing, then hastened indoors, and ran upstairs to lay aside her outdoor things. In a few minutes she was seated opposite Mrs. Eden at the tea-table.

CHAPTER II.

MARGIE.

"The crown must be won for Heaven,
 In the battlefield of life."
ADELAIDE PROCTER.

MEANWHILE, the fugitive and his pursuers were far away, and a desperate race they had. Until at last, the unwary animal, scenting a freshly cut stack of hay, turned in at the gate of a farm-yard, and being taken in the trap, was ridden back by the panting youths, both of whom mounted on his back—one clasping his arms round the waist of the other who held the bridle in his right hand, whilst with his left, he kept a firm grip of the animal's mane.

In this fashion they reached his master's dwelling, turned him in for the night, and trudged homewards.

They were evidently behind time, for their sister had been out more than once to look for them. She was standing in the doorway when they appeared, a strongly-built girl, with unusually sturdy arms for her age, and a look as if she was accustomed to work hard.

A glance round the room revealed the secret. Half a dozen little brothers and sisters, beside a lad older than herself, and the two boys who now pushed their way passed her and began clamouring for something to eat. No wonder she could not be spared to service, whilst her mother had so many "to do for."

"You don't deserve anything to eat, if you can't come in at the proper time," said the mother sharply. "Tea has been cleared away this long while."

"Jack ran away," said the elder of the two boys.

"And we had a job to catch him," added the other. "My word! What a run we had!"

"And what a pretty lot of dirt you've brought in," exclaimed the mother. "Go and pull your boots off."

But the boys knew their tea was safe, for their mother never kept them without food as a punishment.

Margie followed them into the outer kitchen.

"You 'are' in a mess," she exclaimed, as they kicked off the dirty boots. "Why can't you be more careful? You're up to your necks with mud. See what you've brought in for me to clear up."

"Well! Who's to help it?" said the biggest. "I say, Margie! Ain't there any tea for us?"

"Of course there is," replied Margery, getting down a loaf, from which she cut two thick slices. "And I saved you this bit off father's bacon. So now you must be good boys, and get me some wood first thing on Monday, for we've hardly got a bit. And this wind has brought down a lot."

When the boys came back, munching their last mouthful, they tumbled over two of the smaller children playing on the floor, and the latter set up such a dismal howl that it was all over with the peace of the family. After several vain attempts to restore quiet, Margery had to march them off to bed by two's, beginning at the youngest, whilst her mother remained downstairs patching some clothes for the eldest boy, who worked on a farm close by.

This was the way in which Margery's day usually ended. It always commenced by getting them up, and from early morn until they were safe asleep, she was slaving to keep them out of mischief. Poor child! Sometimes she got very tired, but she never seemed to regard it as anything to complain of. She had been accustomed ever since she could remember to do her utmost. And if she had more to get through every day, it was only because she was capable of more, so the balance still kept even.

There was only one thing she regretted, that she could not go to service. To get a good place and keep it, as one of her cousins was doing, earning money to buy her own clothes, and even laying by a little so that she might be able to help her parents in their old age. That was Margery's dream. But her mother wanted her at home, and that was quite sufficient reason why she should stay.

The best day of the week was Sunday, because after Margery had helped get breakfast and wash the children ready for Sunday school, there was not much else to do, except tidy herself and go to church.

It seemed such a rest to get away and walk through the sweet, quiet air to the little church on the hill side, where she could sit still in the high-backed pew and listen to the minister's voice and the solemn tones of the organ. There was something in the light from the coloured windows, with their quaint Bible pictures, and in the dim arches of the vaulted roof overhead, that made her forget how she had been working and hurrying all the week.

Her brothers called her a silly for going to sit still there all the morning, when she might have had a ramble in the fields with them.

And if she asked her father to go, he always replied, "Not to-day, Margie. I must rest my legs a bit, against to-morrow." Then he went and lounged about the garden and cleaned the pig-stye, or even did a bit of hoeing among his potatoes, but he never went to church except on Christmas Day and Easter Sunday.

It was a source of perplexity to Margery, what difference there could be between attending to the garden and walking to church. But if she was unable to explain why the former rested his legs more than the latter, she was just as unable to tell why the church had such a quieting effect upon "her," so she was content to let the matter rest.

As it happened, the day following that on which we made her acquaintance, was Sunday. A bright beautiful day it was, one of God's own Sabbaths, when all the earth seems full of joy and gratitude to its Maker. The wind, too, had lulled, so the trees were no longer buffeted and shaken, and their budding branches glittered against the blue sky, as the sun poured down upon them. Margery usually gave a little sigh of relief as she closed the door after her, but this morning everything was so bright that there was no room for a sigh. She only looked away across the fields to the green hills, over which came the sound of the bells already ringing for service, and exclaimed—"Oh if it were only 'always' Sunday!"

"What then, little maid?" asked a voice just behind her.

Margery started and turned quickly, and coloured to the roots of her hair, for it was the clergyman who had overheard her.

"What would you do with all Sundays?" he asked, as she looked down and did not reply.

"I was thinking there would be no work to do, sir," she answered.

"Ah! That is bad reason," returned the old gentleman. "None but lazy people want to escape their fair share of work."

"But I was thinking, sir, that if it was always Sunday, 'no one' would have any work to do."

"I do not fancy they would be any happier for that," said the clergyman. "It is God who gives us our work to do, you know; and He never sends us anything that is not good for us."

"But some people have to work so hard, sir," said Margery, "and then they get tired."

"Do 'you' often get very tired?"

The old gentleman looked down so kindly at her as he asked this question, that Margery could not feel afraid of him. She glanced up trustfully in his face and answered—

"Not very, sir; only—I like Sunday."

"And you can't quite tell why? Do you think you would like it so well if you hadn't been busy all the week? You know the Bible speaks of heaven as a beautiful land of rest, where we shall never grow weary. But Jesus said, 'I must work the works of Him that sent Me while it is day, for the night cometh when no man can work.' And death will be like a long winter night to those who have not used their daylight well. But to those who have never been 'weary in well-doing' it will be like this beautiful Sabbath day, a time to rest and worship God."

Margery did not answer. Probably she did not understand his words, for she had never troubled her head much about such things as yet. She was only just beginning to think about them a little. But just then the clergyman stopped to speak to a lady and gentleman who were coming along that way, so Margery went on alone.

It was very early when she arrived at the church, only the beadle and pew-opener were there. The children had not even come in from the school-room, so Margery sat down on the stone seat in the porch to wait and watch the faint shadows from the clouds moving across the fields beyond the graveyard. The wind had risen a little, and the fleecy white masses kept chasing each other sportively across the sun, until at last, one denser than the rest came, throwing a shadow which seemed as if it would never pass. But it was the last. Behind it the sky stretched clear and blue to the horizon, and as the landscape flashed into light again, a lark rose out of the grass carolling blithely as he soared, and mounting in ever-lessening circles, until he became a faint black speck of song.

"Oh! If I were only a lark," exclaimed Margery to herself. "It wouldn't matter about Sunday then." But this time she did not express her thoughts aloud, and there would have been no one to hear them if she had.

CHAPTER III.

LIVES OF GREAT WOMEN.

"Lives of great men all remind us
   We may snake our lives sublime,
 And, departing, leave behind us
   Footprints in the sands of time."
LONGFELLOW.

THE next day seemed determined to show how disagreeable clouds can make the face of nature. The wind moaned in the plantation as if the trees were complaining that the sun had broken his promise, and the brook sobbed as though it had come down from the hills on purpose to tell some sad, sad story. There was no going out after dinner. So, after lingering near the window for some minutes, half in hopes that the clouds would break, Lilla curled herself up in a big armchair with a book, whilst Mrs. Eden took her work.

They were both very still, not a sound in the room, save the ticking of the timepiece, and the regular click of the old lady's needle.

Mrs. Eden was very busy with her thoughts as well as her sewing, and it was easy to guess what she was thinking about, for every time the shaking of the casement and the tap-tap of the rose-tree against it, made her look up, she glanced towards her granddaughter.

These fourteen years had passed very quickly, but Mrs. Eden felt that they had wrought a great change in herself, and she often wondered what Lilla would do when the last change came to still her voice and hands in the sleep of death.

Of one thing she felt sure. The Heavenly Father, in whom she had trusted all her life, and who had never failed her, would never forsake the dear child for whom she had prayed so unceasingly. But she longed for the assurance that Lilla had found for herself the One who would be her guide when her earthly teacher was no longer by to counsel her.

"She is a good girl," she often said to herself. "But the time is coming when she will have to think for herself, for I cannot be with her much longer. Pray God that when I am gone she may have an arm to lean upon which will never fail her!"

They had been sitting so for more than an hour, when Lilla with a deep sigh suddenly closed her book, got up, and, going to the window, looked out with a weary yawn.

Mrs. Eden glanced up from her work.

"Tired of your book, Lilla?" she asked.

"Not exactly, grandmother," Lilla replied, turning back towards the fire. "Tired of myself, I suppose, or of the rain. But I think you must be weary of sitting quiet."

"No," replied Mrs. Eden, "my thoughts have been as active as my needle, but I shall not be able to see much longer."

"Then let us have tea early, grandmother, and we can shut out this gloom and be cosy. Shall I stir the fire up?"

There was soon a cheerful blaze under the kettle, and Lilla sat down with some wool-work to wait until the first notes of its song should give the signal to fetch the tea-tray.

"I always wish something would happen on days like these," she said: "some adventure like you read of in books. A prince in disguise might come and beg our hospitality, or some travellers who had lost their way. But that is the worst of living in a civilised country—nothing romantic ever happens."

"Most things have a 'best' side as well as a 'worst,'" said her grandmother. "I think the disadvantages of uncivilised life would outweigh its advantages. But look! There is your traveller."

A wet umbrella was at the gate. Lilla jumped up.

"Oh! Grandmother," she exclaimed, "it is Mr. Munro! I wanted a prince, not a clergyman. Mr. Munro always puts me in a tremble."

"We must not keep him waiting in the rain," said Mrs. Eden, putting down her work and rising.

But Lilla sprang to the door.

"Let me go, grandmother!" she cried. "The wind blows in so cold. Besides, I am not so terrified of Mr. Munro that I dare not let him in. But I am disappointed, because now we shall not be able to have tea, and he will stay a long while and spoil our cosy evening."

With these words she left the room, and soon returned ushering in Mr. Munro.

"It is very good of you to come and see us on such a wet day." Mrs. Eden said, when she had seen the clergyman safely seated in the large easy-chair where Lilla had been reading.

"I usually find people at home on afternoons like this," replied Mr. Munro, "and, as for myself, I enjoy such good health that I never stay indoors for the weather. I often think that I have made my constitution what it is by accustoming myself to spend a certain part of each day in open air exercise. So you see duty brings its reward."

"Ay! That it does," said Mrs. Eden; "we never sow but God gives us our harvest. Lilla and I rarely take any notice of the weather, but to-day we thought it 'too' wet and windy, so we have worked and read until the daylight is almost gone, and we were about to shut out the rain and light up."

"And have an early cup of tea," added Mr. Munro, with a glance towards the kettle, which was now steaming out in good earnest. "Will you allow me to join you?"

Mrs. Eden expressed herself delighted, and Lilla went to fetch the tea-tray.

"I don't know a more cheery companion than the kettle," continued Mr. Munro. "I think the rich lose a great deal by banishing it from their sitting-rooms. I remember in the good old days at home my mother always had the water boiled, and the tea brewed under her own supervision. And no modern tea comes up to it, unless it is yours and my wife's."

In the meantime Lilla had cut some bread, which she now proceeded to toast, whilst her grandmother went to fetch some preserve from her store-closet.

"And how have you been occupying yourself?" Mr. Munro asked as he watched her kneeling before the fire, slowly turning the bread until it assumed a delicate brown.

"I have been reading some 'Lives of Great Women,' the best part of the time, Mr. Munro," replied Lilla. "But all of a sudden I got tired, so took up some wool-work and talked to grandmother."

"Which is nearly as good as a book, she is so wise and good," said Mr. Munro. "Do you soon get tired of reading?"

"Not usually, if the book is interesting," replied Lilla.

"And this wasn't?"

"Oh! Yes, but—I can't tell you exactly. It made me feel discontented."

"With yourself, or your surroundings?"

"I don't know. It made me want to be great too. And of course I never can, so I put it down and tried to forget it."

"I am not quite sure that was the best thing to do."

Lilla's eyes had been so intent upon her toast that she had answered all Mr. Munro's questions hitherto without looking up. But his last words puzzled her a little. Reading the lives of these heroines of womankind had made her feel discontented with the narrowness of her own life, spent in eating and drinking, walking and sleeping, learning tasks and doing fancy-work, and talking to her grandmother. And it was wrong to wish to be anything but what God had made her, so she had thrown the temptation aside with the book. Surely that was right! Lilla looked up involuntarily, as if to read his meaning in his face.

"There are two ways of wanting to be great," Mr. Munro went on, seeing her puzzled expression. "And it makes all the difference which one your book put into your head. You know God's estimate of greatness is very different from the world's. We very often think it consists in fine circumstances and plenty of money and servants, because we look on the outward appearance, but God looks on the heart. If your book made you long to be great, no matter what circumstances you were placed in, the more you read of it, the better."

"But what is the use of wishing?" said Lilla, looking up as she reached for another slice of bread. "There are some things I can do nicely enough. I can sew evenly, and grandmother says I make toast very well, but that will never make a great woman of me. How could I do as Florence Nightingale or Mrs. Fry did? I couldn't nurse soldiers all night. I should fall asleep just when I ought to give them their physic, and kill them by my neglect. Besides, I know nothing about medicine. And as for going about distributing tracts, I couldn't do that, much less write them. I'm neither brave nor clever enough, and I don't even learn half I might."

"That may be," said Mr. Munro, with a smile at Lilla's graphic picture, "and I know numbers of clever people who couldn't write tracts. But sometimes it takes more perseverance than bravery to make people great. Courage is for the battle-field, and industry and patience for the workshop. Did it ever strike you that there are more workshops than battle-fields in the world?"

Lilla did not answer. She had never thought about it. And now she did not quite see what workshops and battle-fields had to with great women. But her grandmother returned just then with some of her famous preserved cherries, and as the toast was ready, she rose from her knees and went to the table to butter it.

Tea-time passed very pleasantly, for in spite of what Lilla said about Mr. Munro always putting her in a tremble, he was far from being a terrible sort of old gentleman. He was as kind and full of interesting talk as it was possible to be. And the conversation happening to turn upon a tour which he had made some years before, in Egypt, Lilla forgot rain and terror and everything, until Mr. Munro took out his watch and said that it was time for him to be going.

"There was one thing struck me particularly," he said, as he rose. "Almost all trace of the existence of these old-world people consists in their provision for a future state. There are still remains of the costly tombs they made—covered with sculptures and pictures of the scenes amongst which they had lived—as though they wished to be surrounded after death by the familiar objects they had known from youth to old age. But of their lives and labours you see no trace. All vestiges of their everyday work seem to have perished with them."

"So much everyday work is too trivial to live," remarked Mrs. Eden.

"Yet Christ glorified it," returned Mr. Munro. "It seems to me that the strength of Christianity lies in the fact that it is by faithfulness in little things that we rise to true greatness. 'Do the work that lies the nearest' is the best motto for a Christian. And the nearer we get to Christ-likeness, the better we understand the reason why."

After tea, Lilla had her lessons to prepare for next day, so she forgot all about Mr. Munro. But the wind was very high when she went to bed, and for a long while she lay awake thinking.

"'Do the work that lies the nearest,'" she said to herself. "I suppose that is what I do every day, but I don't see that it makes me very great. I fancy I should be a good deal greater if I could do something else. I wonder how Mrs. Fry and Florence Nightingale managed to be so clever and good. There is one thing, I am only a little girl. But after all, they must have begun by being little girls—only I don't see how music lessons and French vocabulary and English grammar can make me great. I suppose they had to learn it though."

Just then a great gust of wind shook Lilla's casement so roughly that she involuntarily raised her head from the pillow. But her grandmother's regular breathing in the next room told her that she was already asleep. So Lilla snugged down again with a thought of the poor sailors and fishermen out at sea. She always prayed for them when the wind was high. As the gust lulled, however, her thoughts went back to Mr. Munro.

"I can't quite remember what he said about being faithful in little things," she said. "Something about true greatness. I 'should' like to be great. But after all, I suppose the best thing I can do is to learn my lessons as well as possible—'faithfully,' as Mr. Munro would say. I mean to begin to-morrow morning. I will get up half-an-hour earlier—and—"

Lilla was becoming drowsy, and, in a few minutes more, neither good resolutions nor the most boisterous gusts of wind could keep her awake any longer.

CHAPTER IV.

A GOOD BEGINNING.

"Life is real! Life is earnest!"
LONGFELLOW.

WHEN Lilla awoke next morning, all was calm and still. The wind had done its work and swept away the clouds, and with the dawn, it had hushed to rest. Lilla was beautifully warm and snug, and she lay for some time in a sort of dreamy doze, thinking of nothing and not even noticing how light it was. Her thoughts about greatness were still slumbering peacefully. But all on a sudden, something made her look up, and there, on the wall, was a broad strip of sunlight stealing through her blind.

Lilla raised her head on the pillow, and now for the first time became aware that the thrushes were singing blithely in the plantation. In an instant everything rushed back into her mind—yesterday's storm, Mrs. Fry and Florence Nightingale, Mr. Munro and her own resolutions. And throwing back the covering, she sprang out of bed. A peep at her grandmother's door, however, assured her that the latter was not yet astir. So gently closing her own, she went across to the window and drew aside the blind.

What a beautiful sight it was that met her eyes! Not a cloud in the sky, and the sun—still low in the east—shining like a golden eye of love upon the waking world, touching into gems the drops that still hung upon the boughs, and flashing a stream of light down the brook.

No wonder the thrushes had found such a happy hymn of praise! Who could help feeling glad with such a blue sky laughing down at the green fields, and such sunlight making ready to play hide-and-seek with the breezes among the boughs. Yet, as Lilla gazed, a sort of soberness came over her; for something reminded her that she had to learn to be great, not to swing idly in the tree-tops like those thrushes, who had nothing to think of but singing all day long.

Nothing to think of but singing! Lilla little understood them. Not one but had a nest to build before the month was out, and there was much to be done to scrape together material, but their hearts were in their work, and they simply went on doing it as it came, without a question as to what was beyond, or how dreadfully pushed they would be on the morrow, and that was at the bottom of their happiness. When men and women learn that secret, life itself becomes a psalm, and they have perpetual music and sunshine in their hearts. As regards the birds never attaining to any greatness—well, they are often God's messengers of hope to the weary and forlorn. And perhaps none of us can desire to be anything worthier.

However, Lilla dropped the corner of her blind and hurried on with her toilet, bent upon getting down to her lessons as quickly as possible. The consequence was that when Mrs. Eden came out of her room in her large apron and housemaid's gloves, ready to light the fire, Lilla was just opening her door to go downstairs, instead of lying fast asleep as usual, waiting to be called.

Mrs. Eden looked surprised, though she had fancied she heard Lilla stirring.

"You are up betimes, Lilla," she said.

"I have come to the conclusion that I waste a good deal of time in the morning," replied Lilla, sagely; "so I am going to begin getting up early. If you can get up, grandmother, I think I ought to."

"Young people often require plenty of sleep," replied Mrs. Eden. "If you are awake, it will do you good to get up. But I generally have some trouble in rousing you."

"But if I 'mean' to wake, I shall," said Lilla, "at least I 'think' I shall. I am going to begin being very industrious, grandmother."

"I don't consider idleness a fault of yours," said Mrs. Eden, as she threw open the shutters.

"Only I waste so many 'between whiles,'" said Lilla. "I mean to use up every 'minute' of my time, for the future."

Mrs. Eden passed on to the kitchen, and Lilla walked up to the book-case.

"Which shall it be?" she said to herself, leaning both elbows on it, and running her eyes along her row of lesson books. "Oh! French vocabulary, because I hate that most. And it is always best to do the disagreeable things first."

When Mrs. Eden came back with her wood and matches, she found Lilla curled up in the big armchair, absorbed in her task.

"Lessons before breakfast, Lilla?"

Lilla only looked up to smile and nod, and went on with her French, alternately reading over the column and covering it with her hand to see if she knew it. When it was about half perfect, her grandmother came in with the whisk-broom to sweep the carpet.

"I shall make you dusty, Lilla," she said, as she proceeded to lay a cover over the sofa and the sideboard where the old china was arranged.

"Then I must decamp, grandmother," said Lilla, uncurling herself and getting out of the chair. "I can go into the kitchen."

"You will find it cold. There is no fire."

"Oh! I'm too busy to be cold," returned Lilla, as she trotted off. "I've got all my lessons to learn before breakfast."

Mrs. Eden could not forbear a smile. "Too good to last," she said to herself, "and not desirable either. Exercise is best for young folks before breakfast, especially in March weather." Notwithstanding, she was pleased to see that Lilla began to understand the value of time, and no longer regarded her tasks as disagreeable duties.

Meanwhile Lilla had begun to find that her grandmother was right after all. She had felt so warm after hurriedly dressing in her sunny little room that she had no idea the morning was cold. As she sat by the kitchen window, however, plodding away at the unmanageable idioms, her fingers began to grow stiff, and cold shivers ran through her limbs. She put the book on the sill and rubbed her palms together, whispering the words over to herself all the time. But the chilly sensations still crept on, and she was quite glad when, just as the lesson was perfect, her grandmother reappeared with the whisk. She shut the book, jumped up, and gave her hands a good rub.

Mrs. Eden noticed it. "You will get chilblains, Lilla," she said.

"Oh! No, grandmother, I shall get accustomed to it," answered Lilla, cheerfully. "Besides, the warmer weather is coming, when I can take my books out on the door-step in the sun."

"I think you would do better to take your skipping-rope for half-an-hour instead," said Mrs. Eden.

"Then I should want to rise half-an-hour earlier still," said Lilla, "because skipping is child's play, and will never make me great."

"Is that your ambition?" asked her grandmother.

Lilla coloured, and made no answer. She had not intended to say anything about her high aspirations, for, like many people, she was shy of speaking about what she might never be able to accomplish.

"After all," continued Mrs. Eden, "neglecting your health will not help you to be great. Many people, who might otherwise have lived very useful lives, have rendered themselves all but useless by forgetting that, to work properly, machinery must be in thoroughly good order; my sewing machine has taught me so a good many times over."

Lilla was silent. This was a new aspect of the question.

As her grandmother got her duster, however, she picked up the book, saying: "I suppose I can come back now, grandmother."

Mrs. Eden replying in the affirmative, Lilla followed her to the sitting-room, replaced her book on the shelf, and, taking down another, seated herself on a low stool near the fire.

"You see, I am fast growing up now, grandmother," she said, as she found her place, "and I want to make the most of my time."

"You will not do that by devouring your capital," returned the old lady.

"I don't think I understand," said Lilla, with a puzzled expression.

Mrs. Eden proceeded to explain. "Your health and strength are the funds which youth has laid up for you. If you draw upon them, by and-by your health will break down, and there will be no capital left to produce interest, so you will be bankrupt. If you cram one week full of lessons, and at the same time catch a cold, you will have to lie up all the next week and lose more time than you gained."

Lilla was thoughtful for a moment or two, but suddenly she jumped up. "Does your back ache, grandmother?" she asked, for she observed that every time the old lady stooped she caught her breath, as if a sudden pain seized her. "You are not well this morning; let me dust for you."

"Then what about your lessons?"

"Oh! I'm not 'obliged' to do them before breakfast, grandmother, and dusting will be as good as skipping—only of more use."

So Mrs. Eden willingly resigned her duster and went on seeing about breakfast. For, truth to tell, she felt far from well that morning, and was glad of Lilla's help.

It may seem strange to those of my readers who are accustomed to take their share of the housework that Lilla should have been so selfish as never to have helped her grandmother before. But they must look at the question from another point of view, and admire Mrs. Eden for the unselfishness which had prompted her to undertake so much hard work without pressing Lilla into the service. Like many young girls, Lilla usually slept until she was called, except in summer, when she spent the time attending to her flower-garden, so the sitting-room was always swept and dusted by the time she came down. On the other hand, Mrs. Eden reasoned that had Lilla's father lived, she would never have had to do servant's work, and that it would not be right to bring her up to what was beneath her station, when she ought to be spending her time in gaining an education which would fit her to take her proper place in society. She therefore determined to do it herself as long as her strength permitted, and when that failed, to engage a young servant.

That time was approaching very rapidly. The old lady had already found the winter very trying. But she had persevered bravely, in hopes of being able to manage through another summer. But she felt that she had taken a decided step downward since the winter, and she was beginning to think seriously of securing a little more ease for herself.

"What would you say to having a servant, Lilla?" she asked as they sat at breakfast. "I am getting too old to work."

Lilla looked surprised for a moment. Then she replied: "I have been thinking it is too much for you, grandmother. I wonder I never thought of it before. Why couldn't I have helped you, instead of snoring my time away upstairs? I 'am' vexed with myself."

"I have made up my mind to engage a maid at once," continued Mrs. Eden, "instead of waiting till the autumn. I have managed without ever since your father died, and I think I may leave off trying to save now."

"Besides, you will be bankrupt if you devour your capital," said Lilla, mischievously, quoting her grandmother's words.

Something which happened during the day decided Mrs. Eden upon taking the step at once.

Lilla's work for the morning was done, and she was practising, whilst Mrs. Eden cleared up the dinner things, and eagerly looking forward to the afternoon's walk after the previous day's disappointment. She had just finished one piece, and was taking another from her portfolio, when her grandmother came in and sat down by the fire. Lilla closed the portfolio and got off the music-stool at once.

"Ready, grandmother?" she asked, without turning her head.

"I have not quite finished up," replied Mrs. Eden, "but I am afraid I must give up the walk to-day. I am so giddy. Reach me that phial, Lilla, and fetch me a glass of water."

Lilla did as she was desired, feeling rather frightened; and, having administered the dose, by her grandmother's directions, tucked her up on the sofa, and slipped out into the kitchen to finish clearing up.

When she returned, the old lady was dozing peacefully, so Lilla crept upstairs for her hat, to make the best of the afternoon in the garden.

The attack did not prove serious, and after a good sleep and some tea—which Lilla made for the first time in her life—Mrs. Eden was much better. She declared her intentions, however, as they went upstairs for the night, of hiring a servant without delay, and it was arranged that they should set about making inquiries the very next afternoon.