The ladies--Mrs Gray, Lilias, and Helen were the only _lay_ persons present--were very comfortably gathered into groups in the drawing-room discussing the notable things of their own district: the church, their several families. The small company was by no means dull, especially as Mrs Whyte’s children, the little boy and girl about whom their frank mother had said there could not be two opinions, were, with all their might, entertaining the guests. The room was rather an oddly shaped room; it had a curiously angled corner, with a window in it, which Mrs Whyte chose as her summer seat, and playfully called her boudoir. The work-table which stood in it was scarcely clear of its ordinary lumber even now; there were traces that the minister’s wife had been sitting there this morning, singing over her household work the low-voiced songs of a pure mind, happily at ease. Lilias Maxwell had strayed alone into Mrs Whyte’s chair by the window. She was very pale, and as she looked out upon the verdant country, and the Firth and the hills far away, her fingers came slowly towards each other, and were painfully clasped as was their wont. It was drawing near again--that day which might change the current of her life. As she sat there, Helen Buchanan approached quietly; the pale, sad, absorbed face touched her to the heart. “You are very sad, Lilias,” said Helen, as she stood screening her friend from the other occupants of the room, “but you will not tell me why; will you let me say anything--do anything for you?” “Yes, Helen.” Lilias rested her head silently upon her companion’s shoulder, and closed her eyes. It was a relief to her; her heart was sick--she could not speak of it, but here in silent confidence she could lean for a moment the weight of her trouble. “I have heard nothing; I have had no word this long, long, weary time--and the day is coming near again. To-morrow--after to-morrow will be the day.” There was nothing more said, for the sickness rose up blank over the heart of Lilias, and the tears were in Helen’s eyes; but the drooping head of the Lily of Mossgray, overcharged with heavy rain, leaned on the friend’s breast, and was comforted. She remembered the moment long after, and so did Helen. More than many words--more than much bewailing together of a sorrow more openly confessed, did that silent confidence bind them together.