“Yes, a thousand million times,” said John in his enthusiasm, catching her in his arms and kissing her. “I wouldn’t for the world have you any thing but the darling little Lillie you are. I love your faults more than the virtues of other women. You are a thousand times better than I am. I am a great, coarse blockhead, compared to you. I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings this noon; you know, Lillie, I’m hasty, and apt to be inconsiderate. I don’t really know that I ought to let you go over next Sunday.” “O John, you are so good! Certainly if you go I ought to; and I shall try my best.” Then John told her all about the books and the lawn tea, and Lillie listened approvingly. So they had a lawn tea at the Fergusons that week, where Lillie was the cynosure of all eyes. Mr. Mathews, the new young clergyman of Springdale, was there. Mr. Mathews had been credited as one of the admirers of Rose Ferguson; but on this occasion he promenaded and talked with Lillie, and Lillie alone, with an exclusive devotion. “What a lovely young creature your new sister is!” he said to Grace. “She seems to have so much religious sensibility.” “I say, Lillie,” said John, “Mathews seemed to be smitten with you. I had a notion of interfering.” “Did you ever see any thing like it, John? I couldn’t shake the creature off. I was so thankful when you came up and took me. He’s Rose’s admirer, and he hardly spoke a word to her. I think it’s shameful.” The next Sunday, Lillie rode over to Spindlewood with John and Rose and Mr. Mathews. Never had the picturesque of religion received more lustre than from her presence. John was delighted to see how they all gazed at her and wondered. Lillie looked like a first-rate French picture of the youthful Madonna,—white, pure, and patient. The day was hot, and the hall crowded; and John noticed, what he never did before, the close smell and confined air, and it made him uneasy. When we are feeling with the nerves of some one else, we notice every roughness and inconvenience. John thought he had never seen his school appear so little to advantage. Yet Lillie was an image of patient endurance, trying to be pleased; and John thought her, as she sat and did nothing, more of a saint than Rose and Grace, who were laboriously sorting books, and gathering around them large classes of factory boys, to whom they talked with an exhausting devotedness. When all was over, Lillie sat back on the carriage-cushions, and smelled at her gold vinaigrette. “You are all worn out, dear,” said John, tenderly. “It’s no matter,” she said faintly. “O Lillie darling! _does_ your head ache?” “A little,—you know it was close in there. I’m very sensitive to such things. I don’t think they affect others as they do me,” said Lillie, with the voice of a dying zephyr. “Lillie, _it is not your duty to go_,” said John; “if you are not made ill by this, I never will take you again; you are too precious to be risked.”