'Truly the tender mercies of the weak,
As of the wicked, are but cruel.'

And how did Lilias show that she had been truly benefited by her sorrows? Did she fall back into her habits of self-indulgence, or did she run into ill-directed activity, selfish as her indolence, because only gratifying the passion of the moment?

Those who lived with her saw but little change; kind-hearted and generous she had ever been, and many had been her good impulses, so that while she daily became more steady in well-doing, and exerting herself on principle, no one remarked it, and no one entered into the struggles which it cost her to tame her impetuosity, or force herself to do what was disagreeable to herself, and might offend Emily.

However, Emily could forgive a great deal when she found that Lily was ready to take any part of the business of the household and schoolroom, which she chose to impose upon her, without the least objection, yet to leave her to assume as much of the credit of managing as she chose--to have no will or way of her own, and to help her to keep her wardrobe in order.

The schoolroom was just now more of a labour than had ever been the case, at least to one who, like Lilias, if she did a thing at all, would not be satisfied with half doing it. Phyllis was not altered, except that she cried less, and had in a great measure cured herself of dawdling habits and tricks, by her honest efforts to obey well- remembered orders of Eleanor's; but still her slowness and dulness were trying to her teachers, and Lily had often to reproach herself for being angry with her 'when she was doing her best.'

But Adeline was Lily's principal trouble; there was a change in her, for which her sister could not account. Last year, when Eleanor left them, Ada was a sweet-tempered, affectionate child, docile, gentle, and, excepting a little occasional affectation and carelessness, very free from faults; but now her attention could hardly be commanded for five minutes together; she had lost the habit of ready and implicit obedience, was petulant when reproved, and was far more eager to attract notice from strangers--more conceited, and, therefore, more affected, and, worse than all, Lily sometimes thought she perceived a little slyness, though she was never able to prove any one instance completely to herself, much less to bring one before her father. Thus, if Ada had done any mischief, she would indeed confess it on being examined; but when asked why she had not told of it directly, would say she had forgotten; she would avail herself of Phyllis's assistance in her lessons without acknowledging it, and Lilias found it was by no means safe to leave the Key to the French Exercises alone in the room with her.

Emily's mismanagement had fostered Ada's carelessness and inattention. Lady Rotherwood's injudicious caresses helped to make her more affected; other faults had grown up for want of sufficient control, but this last was principally Esther's work. Esther had done well at school; she liked learning, was stimulated by notice, was really attached to Lilias, and tried to deserve her goodwill; but her training at school and at home were so different, that her conduct was, even at the best, far too much of eye-service, and she had very little idea of real truth and sincerity.

On first coming to the New Court she flattered the children, because she did not know how to talk to them otherwise, and afterwards, because she found that Miss Ada's affections were to be gained by praise. Then, in her ignorant good-nature, she had no scruples about concealing mischief which the children had done, or procuring for Ada little forbidden indulgences on her promise of secrecy, a promise which Phyllis would not give, thus putting a stop to all those in which she would have participated. It was no wonder that Ada, sometimes helping Esther to deceive, sometimes deceived by her, should have learnt the same kind of cunning, and ceased to think it a matter of course to be true and just in all her dealings.

But how was it that Phyllis remained the same 'honest Phyl' that she had ever been, not one word savouring of aught but strict truth having ever crossed her lips, her thoughts and deeds full of guileless simplicity? She met with the same temptations, the same neglect, the same bad example, as her sister; why had they no effect upon her? In the first place, flattery could not touch her, it was like water on a duck's back, she did not know that it was flattery, but so thoroughly humble was her mind that no words of Esther's would make her believe herself beautiful, agreeable, or clever. Yet she never found out that Esther over-praised her sister; she admired Ada so much that she never suspected that any commendation of her was more than she deserved. Again, Phyllis never thought of making herself appear to advantage, and her humility saved her from the habit of concealing small faults, for which she expected no punishment; and, when seriously to blame, punishment seemed so natural a consequence, that she never thought of avoiding it, otherwise than by expressing sorrow for her fault. She was uninfected by Esther's deceit, though she never suspected any want of truth; her singleness of mind was a shield from all evil; she knew she was no favourite in the nursery, but she never expected to be liked as much as Ada, her pride and glory. In the meantime Emily went on contriving opportunities and excuses for spending her time at Devereux Castle, letting everything fall into Lily's hands, everything that she had so eagerly undertaken little more than a year ago. And now all was confusion; the excellent order in which Eleanor had left the household affairs was quite destroyed. Attention to the storeroom was one of the ways in which Lilias thought that she could best follow the advice of Mr. Devereux, since Eleanor had always taught that great exactness in this point was most necessary. Great disorder now, however, prevailed there, and she found that her only chance of rectifying it was to measure everything she found there, and to beg Emily to allow her to keep the key; for, when several persons went to the storeroom, no one ever knew what was given out, and she was sure that the sweet things diminished much faster than they ought to do; but her sister treated the proposal as an attempt to deprive her of her dignity, and she was silenced.

She was up almost with the light, to despatch whatever household affairs could be settled without Emily, before the time came for the children's lessons; many hours were spent on these, while she was continually harassed by Phyllis's dulness, Ada's inattention, and the interruption of work to do for Emily, and often was she baffled by interference from Jane or Emily. She was conscious of her unfitness to teach the children, and often saw that her impatience, ignorance, and inefficiency, were doing mischief; but much as this pained her, she could not speak to her father without compromising her sister, and to argue with Emily herself was quite in vain. Emily had taken up the principle of love, and defended herself with it on every occasion, so that poor Lily was continually punished by having her past follies quoted against herself.

Each day Emily grew more selfish and indolent; now that Lily was willing to supply all that she neglected, and to do all that she asked, she proved how tyrannical the weak can be.

The whole of her quarter's allowance was spent in dress, and Lily soon found that the only chance of keeping her out of debt was to spend her own time and labour in her behalf; and what an exertion of patience and kindness this required can hardly be imagined. Emily did indeed reward her skill with affectionate thanks and kind praises, but she interfered with her sleep and exercise, by her want of consideration, and hardened herself more and more in her apathetic selfishness.

Some weeks after Easter Lilias was arranging some books on a shelf in the schoolroom, when she met with a crumpled piece of music-paper, squeezed in behind the books. It proved to be Miss Weston's lost song, creased, torn, dust-stained, and spoiled; she carried it to Emily, who decided that nothing could be done but to copy it for Alethea, and apologise for the disaster. Framing apologies was more in Emily's way than copying music; and the former task, therefore, devolved upon Lily, and occupied her all one afternoon, when she ought to have been seeking a cure for the headache in the fresh air. It was no cure to find the name of Emma Weston in the corner, and to perceive how great and irreparable the loss of the paper was to her friend. The thought of all her wrongs towards Alethea, caused more than one large tear to fall, to blot the heads of her crotchets and quavers, and thus give her all her work to do over again.

The letter that she wrote was so melancholy and repentant, that it gave great pain to her kind friend, who thought illness alone could account for the dejection apparent in the general tone of all her expressions. In answer, she sent a very affectionate consoling letter, begging Lily to think no more of the matter; and though she had too much regard for truth to say that she had not been grieved by the loss of Emma's writing, she added that Lily's distress gave her far more pain, and that her copy would have great value in her eyes.

The beginning of June now arrived, and brought with it the time for the return of Claude and Lord Rotherwood.

The Marquis's carriage met him at Raynham, and he set down Claude at New Court, on his way to Hetherington, just coming in to exchange a hurried greeting with the young ladies.

Their attention was principally taken up by their brother.

'Claude, how well you look! How fat you are!' was their exclamation.

'Is not he?' said Lord Rotherwood. 'I am quite proud of him. Not one headache since he went. He will have no excuse for not dancing the polka.'

'I do not return the compliment to you, Lily,' said Claude, looking anxiously at his sister. 'What is the matter with you? Have you been ill?'

'Oh, no! not at all!' said Lily, smiling.

'I am sure there is enough to make any one ill,' said Emily, in her deplorable tone; 'I thought this poor parish had had its share of illness, with the scarlet fever, and now it has turned to a horrible typhus fever.'

'Indeed!' said Claude. 'Where? Who?'

'Oh! the Naylors, and the Rays, and the Walls. John Ray died this morning, and they do not think that Tom Naylor will live.'

'Well,' interrupted Lord Rotherwood, 'I shall not stop to hear any more of this chapter of accidents. I am off, but mind, remember the 30th, and do not any of you frighten yourselves into the fever.'

He went, and Lily now spoke. 'There is one thing in all this, Claude, that is matter of joy, Tom Naylor has sent for Robert.'

'Then, Lily, I do most heartily congratulate you.'

'I hope things may go better,' said Lily, with tears in her eyes. 'The poor baby is with its grandmother. Mrs. Naylor is ill too, and every one is so afraid of the fever that nobody goes near them but Robert, and Mrs. Eden, and old Dame Martin. Robert says Naylor is in a satisfactory frame--determined on having the baby christened--but, oh! I am afraid the christening is to be bought by something terrible.'

'I do not think those fevers are often very ............