Close by the sunshine is the cloud; And yonder o’er the hills, the shadows pass Like breath; across this field they flit, they hover-- And now ’tis bright, and now ’tis dim, and now There’s not a cloud in heaven. Look up again; Lo! all the sky is veiled, the sun shut out-- There’s nothing here but sadness.--ANONYMOUS. Mrs Buchanan was in high spirits. The friendship of Lilias, and the honour intended for her by the Reverend Robert Insches, had opened a new life to Helen. She was no more the neglected and solitary schoolmistress. The young lady of Mossgray was a frequent visitor at their humble house. Mrs Whyte of Kirkmay had called to make a definite beginning of their friendship--the plaintive Mrs Gray became a regular visitor. Mr Insches took every possible opportunity of stealing into William Oswald’s vacant corner in the quiet parlour. It pleased the good mother “to see her bairn respected like the lave.” And the change was also very pleasant to Helen. She had been at Kirkmay, and much enjoyed the hospitalities of the Manse--she saw Lilias frequently; and even the handsome head of the Reverend Robert was an agreeable variety, breaking the blank of the dim wall, which for whole years of past evenings had been the only thing she had to look across to. She was still much alone; but the much was not always, and the monotony thus occasionally broken became monotony no longer. The firmament of their quiet life was brightened; it was a pleasant change. But other changes were progressing; as the spring grew into summer some shadow fell upon Lilias Maxwell. No one knew what it was, nor how produced, but the old paleness returned to her cheek, and the old sinking to her heart. There was no external sign of sorrow or suffering. The change fell upon her like a cloud--such a cloud as does sometimes glide across the sun in the early glory of his shining. She was very calm, very quiet, very thoughtful, but in moments when she fancied no one saw her, her fingers sought each other painfully, and were clasped together, as hands are clasped only in grief or in prayer. But the cause of this she told to no one; and even to her guardian’s affectionate inquiries, she only answered, “It is nothing, Mossgray; indeed it is nothing.” Very early on a bright May day, Lilias went hastily up along the banks of the wan water, to the house of Murrayshaugh. She had been up that morning earlier than even the wakeful Janet Mense, as if she could not rest; and now she had stolen forth, avoiding any company. She walked more quickly than was usual to her, and over the face, which still wore its look of constitutional calmness, shades of unwonted colour were wavering to and fro; for the Lily of Mossgray was sick at heart--sick with the fever of anxiety--the hope and the fear.