"Whiles," said the child; "no in bonnie days like this, but whiles--Jacky says I'm a lady--am I a lady?" "Not till you are old, like me; you will be a lady then." "But Jacky says I'm a _young_ lady," reiterated Lilie; "does Jacky no ken?" "We will ask mamma when she comes," said Anne. The little face became radiant: "Eh! when mamma comes!--will you be glad too, like Lilie?--and will they a' be there? Papa and Lawrie? What way do you put your head down? then your eyelashes come upon your cheek, and then you grow like--" "Like whom, Lilie?" "My papa. If mamma comes, will they a' come--papa and Lawrie?" "Who is Lawrie, Lilie?" The name was a still further corroboration; there was something touching in the exile calling his son by his father's name. "Lilie's brother. He is near as tall as you, and he's like papa." "And you think I am like papa," said Anne, tremulously. "Whiles, when you hold down your head, and look sad." "Does papa look sad?" "No," said Lilie, "but when you look as if you would greet, then you grow like him; and Lawrie never greets, and yet he's like him, too. What way is that?" "And do they call you Miss Lilie at home?" said Anne, at once to evade the difficult question submitted to her, and to ascertain something of the worldly comforts of her banished brother. Mrs. Melder's guess was no doubt correct: the box which had been sent to Lilie could come from no _poor_ house. "No papa, or mamma, or Lawrie, but the maids and English John, and Jose--for papa's no like Robert Melder; he's a rich gentleman." "And why did they send you here?" exclaimed Anne, more as expressing her own astonishment, than addressing the child. "Lilie was very ill--had to lie in her bed--mamma thought I would die, and it was to get strong again. See," Lilie disengaged herself from Anne, and ran away along the bank of the Oran, returning ruddy and breathless, "Lilie's strong now." "And why did you not tell me this before?" said Anne.