Very shortly afterwards he joined Lilias. She was still sitting in the deep window-seat of the cheerful, old-fashioned drawing-room. The ruddy sunbeams just touched her pale head with a shadowy glory; her fingers were busily employed, her mind no less active. Not as Helen Buchanan would have done in the vivid dreams which took possession of her less serene spirit, but in the flush of a tranquil, gentle hope, weaving the mystic thread of her imagined destiny over the unknown future which lay before her. “Lilias,” said her guardian, when they had been for some time engaged in conversation less personal, “I am the last of my race, but I have a fancy that I should like ill to be the last of my name. When I was as young as you are, there seemed to me a peculiar charm and grace in the name I would have you bear--you must be Lilias Graeme.” “Gladly, if it pleases you, Mossgray,” answered Lilias. “It pleases me,” said the old man, with his gentle smile; “it is strange how sometimes, Lilias, we have our early fancies realized in a way which, could we foresee it when we form them, we should think bitter mockery. This name! well, but the years fall tranquilly, and do a good work in the content they bring. I think they bring content--acquiescence at least in what Providence sends us.” “Is it always so?” said Lilias. She was thinking of her fretful, repining father, whose discontent was not allayed by years. “I think so,” said Mossgray: “we resist when we are strong, but when this gentle hand of decay droops over us, we learn to think that what has befallen us was, after all, the best; but I did not intend to discuss melancholy matters with you, and youthful people, as I remember, think all sad that relates to the end. When that comes, Lilias--when you yourself are the lady of this old stronghold of the Graemes, remember that you have promised to bear their name.” Lilias laid down her work and looked steadily into her guardian’s face. “You shall call me by what name you please, but you must not give me Mossgray.” The old man shook his head and smiled. “No, no!” exclaimed Lilias, hastily; “you have given me a home in my extremity--more than that, you have given me such kindness as perhaps no other in the world could give. You have been my protector, my true father, and I thank you with all my heart; but there is no gift you can give me now half so precious as those I have received already. You have made me your child; after this I will take no inferior gift, not though it is all your land. I will be Lilias Graeme your daughter; but only while Mossgray is _your_ home must it be mine.” Mossgray laid his hand gently on the young head which was inspired with energy so unusual. “I thank you, my good Lilias; but even on your own showing you must take my inheritance; for I can have no heir so fitting as my own child.” “Mossgray,” said Lilias, “you are not the last of your race.” A slight colour passed over the old man’s face.