The Lily of Mossgray was almost gay now. She put her hands on her friend’s shoulders, and looked with a smile into her face. “Because Mossgray particularly desires to know. He will ask you the question himself if you do not tell me, Helen.” Helen drew away the gentle hands. “You have told me very little about your new mother, Lilias. Is she indeed the Miss Lucy of Murrayshaugh--Isabell Brown’s young lady?” “My new mother wants to see you, Helen; you must come with me to Mossgray to-day; and Isabell at Murrayshaugh begins to be reconciled to Miss Lucy. She was cured of her unbelief,” said Lilias, with a happy blush and smile, “when she saw Hew.” “Is he so like what his uncle was?” said Helen. “He is very like the picture, and the picture was like his uncle--there is a resemblance still.” “And, Lilias--for yourself,” said Helen; “do you stay at home--do you remain here?” The calm Lilias answered less shyly than her friend asked, though both of them blushed. “We are going out to the wars again--not to India; I do not mean to India--but Hew must go and work, Helen; for all these changes do not make us rich, and Mossgray tells him it is best to climb the brae and conquer the difficulties with his own hand.” The flush deepened on Helen’s cheek--the brave stout heart rose; for her too this work remained; and the notes of the reveilée were already in her ear. “You guessed well once, Helen,” said Lilias, “when you prophesied calm griefs for me; but now that the terror and the pain are overpast--now, Helen--what do you promise me now?” “Good times,” said the young prophet, raising her stooping head, “fair calm sunshine, pleasant skies--and so many to help and comfort you, Lilias; sometimes sorrows--quiet ones--righteous people going away hopefully to the other country--but not war; for you will dwell among your own people.” “Not always,” said Lilias, with her quiet smile; “not at first certainly; and for you, Helen?” “For me!” She looked away into the vacant air, her eyes absorbed with fairy visions; not of ease or wealth, or rank--those things so far away and unknown in which she saw no charm; but the loud heart beat high in her breast, and the colour went and came on her cheek, like the rapid breath which seemed to sway it; the hill to climb, the dangers to conquer! With a sudden start she broke the spell of her musing: “He’ll hae misfortunes great and sma’, But aye a heart aboon them a’,” she said half aloud, and tears bright and pleasant were in her eyes. This was the lot which she saw rising in its unknown glory before her, the undiscovered country full of grand perils and deliverances--the storms to be borne, the griefs, the joys--the labours. The bright calm which suited her friend was not made for her; it was she who was going to the wars. “And am I to have a lilac satin frock, Mamma?” demanded Hope Oswald.