IT was in spring that Harry came in one day with the news in his face; at least I thought it was the news. Heaven help me!—I came forward with my hands clasped, struck speechless by the thought, my limbs trembling under me so that I could scarcely stand. I suppose Harry was struck by my dumb agony. My ears, that were strained to hear the one only thing in the world that I was afraid of, devoured, without being satisfied, the soothing words he said to me. I gasped at him, asking, I suppose, without any sound, to know the worst; and he told me at once, in pity for my desperate face.

“No such thing, Milly darling. No, no; not to the war just yet. We are only to leave Edinburgh, nothing more.”

I think I almost fainted at this reprieve; I could scarcely understand it. The certainty of the other was so clear upon my mind that I almost could have thought he deceived me. I sank down into a seat when I came to myself, and cried in my weakness like a child; Harry all the while wondering over me in a surprise of love and pity. I do not think he quite knew till then how much that terror had gone to my heart.

“No, Milly, darling,” he kept repeating, looking at me{100} always with a strange compassion, as if he knew that the grief I was dreading must come, though not yet; “take comfort, it has not come yet; and before it comes you must be stronger, and able to bear what God sends.”

“Yes, yes, yes, I will bear it,” said I, under my breath, “but say again it is not to be now.”

“No, we are going away to Chester,” said Harry, “be satisfied, I will not try to cheat you when that time comes. We are to go to Chester to let some other fellows away. Now you must pack again and be going, Milly, like a true soldier’s wife.”

Ah, me! if that were all that was needful for a soldier’s wife! Somehow, all that night after, I felt lighter in my heart than usual. I had felt all this time as if the sword was hanging over my head; but now that we were sent out wandering again, the danger seemed to have faded further off. Nobody would take the trouble to send a regiment from one end of the country to the other, and then send them right away. If they had been going to the war, they would have gone direct from Edinburgh. It was a respite, a little additional life granted to us. I sang my old songs that night, as I went about the room. I could dare laugh to baby, and dance him about. How he was growing, the dear fellow! He set his little pink feet firm on my hand, and could stand upright. I showed Harry all his accomplishments, and rejoiced over them. How thankful and lighthearted I was, to be sure, that night! Harry kept watching me, following me with his eyes in the strangest, amused, sympathetic way. He was surprised to see the agony I was in at first; but he was still more surprised to see how easily, as one might have said, I got over it now.

“And, Milly, what is to be done with the sprite?” said Harry.

“Lizzie? what should be done with her? She is an orphan, she has nobody belonging to her, she has taken shelter with me. Harry, no; we’re poor, but we’re not free to think of ourselves alone. Lizzie shall go too. She is God’s child, and He sent her to me.”

Harry did not say anything, but he kept slowly shaking his head and drumming upon the table. Harry had the common people’s ideas rather about responsibility. He was afraid of the responsibility. For all the kindness in his heart he did not like to step into what might be other people’s business, or to take up any burdens that did not lie in his way.

“Besides, she is the best servant in the world. She is{101} worth all Aunt Connor’s three maids. I can trust her with baby almost as well as I can trust myself; and, besides,” said I, rather hypocritically, “look at the creature’s laundry work; you never were so pleased before.”

“Well, that is rather astonishing, I confess,” said Harry, looking at his fresh wristband with a little admiration. “I don’t believe those awkward red fingers ever did it. She must keep some private fairy in a box, or have made an agreement with a nameless personage. What if poor Lizzie’s soul were in danger on account of your fine linen, you hard-hearted Milly! I do not believe you would care.”

“Ah! you can’t deny her talents in the laundry,” cried I, with a little injudicious laughter. “What a triumph that is! You never were content with anybody’s work before.”

Harry looked at me rather doubtfully. “You look very much as if you were a little cheat,” he said. “I’ll have a peep into the laundry one of these days myself.”

“But Lizzie must go with us,” said I. “I have taken very much to the strange creature. You and I are God’s orphans too. We have a right to be good to her; and it is not all on one side—don’t think it, Harry; she is very good to me. She helps me with all her might, and stands by me whenever I want, or tries to do it. I had rather have her than half-a-dozen common servants. Leave this to me.”

“But consider, Milly, what you are making yourself responsible for,” cried Harry.

I stopped his mouth; I would not let him speak; and danced away with baby all in my joy and comfort to put him to bed. We met Mrs. Saltoun on the stairs in the dark, and as she kissed the child, I kissed my good old lady out of the fulness of my heart. “We are going away, but it is only to Chester; we shall be together still,” I said in her ear. I never thought how strange she would think it that I should be pleased to leave her, or how she might wonder at my spirits getting up so easily. I was very happy that night.

Lizzie was putting all baby’s things away when I went into the room. She folded and laid them all aside more nicely than I could have done it myself; not, so far as I know, because orderliness came natural to her, but because, with all her heart, she had wanted to please me, and saw with her quick eyes how it was to be done best. When anybody looked at Lizzie, and she knew it, she was just as awkward as ever. How I had laboured to make her hands and her feet look as if they belonged to her, without twisting up or going into angles! but{102} it was all of no use. Whenever anybody looked at Lizzie, she would stand on one foot, and seek refuge of an imaginary pinafore for her hands; but just now, in the firelight, when you could only half see her, you cannot think how tidily and nicely the uncouth creature was going about her work.

I paused before the fire after the child was in bed. “Lizzie,” said I, standing in the warm light, and looking down into it, “do you like Edinburgh very much?” I did not loo............