Which Christ doth call His own,
For all His sheep He knows by name,
And He of them is known.''
'Let us call upon your good Shepherd, Agnes,' said the pastor, and the child turned her face towards him as if she understood him. Kneeling down, he repeated the Lord's Prayer, and the feeble voice followed his. He then read the prayer for a sick child, and left the room, for he saw that Lily would be quite overcome if she remained there any longer. Mrs. Eden followed them downstairs, and again stung poor Lily to the heart by thanks for all her kindness.
They then left the house of mourning; Lily trembled violently, and clung to her cousin's arm for support. Her tears streamed fast, but her sobs were checked by awe at Mrs. Eden's calmness. She felt as if she had been among the angels.
'How pale you are!' said her cousin, 'I would not have taken you there if I thought it would overset you so much. Come into Mrs. Grey's, and sit down and recover a little.'
'No, no, do not let me see any one,' said Lily. 'Oh! that dear child! Robert, let me tell you the worst, for your kindness is more than I can bear. I promised Agnes a blister and forgot it!'
She could say no more for some minutes, but her cousin did not speak. Recovering her voice, she added, 'Only speak to me, Robert.'
'I am very sorry for you,' answered he, in a kind tone.
'But tell me, what shall I do?'
'What to do, you ask,' said the Rector; 'I am not sure that I know what you mean. If your neglect has added to her sufferings, you cannot remove them; and I would not add to your sorrow unless you wished me to do so for your good.'
'I do not see how I could be more unhappy than I am now,' said Lily.
'I think if you wish to turn your grief to good account you must go a little deeper than this omission.'
'You mean that it is a result of general carelessness,' said Lily; 'I know I have been in an odd idle way for some time; I have often resolved, but I seem to have no power over myself.'
'May I ask you one question, Lily? How have you been spending this Lent?'
'Robert, you are right,' cried Lily; 'you may well ask. I know I have not gone to church properly, but how could you guess the terrible way in which I have been indulging myself, and excusing myself every unpleasant duty that came in my way? That was the very reason of this dreadful neglect; well do I deserve to be miserable at Easter, the proper time for joy. Oh! how different it will be.'
'It will be, I hope, an Easter marked by repentance and amendment,' said the Rector.
'No, Robert, do not begin to be kind to me yet, you do not know how very bad I have been,' said Lily; 'it all began from just after Eleanor's wedding. A mad notion came into my head and laid hold of me. I fancied Eleanor stern, and cold, and unlovable; I was ingratitude itself. I made a foolish theory, that regard for duty makes people cold and stern, and that feeling, which I confused with Christian love, was all that was worth having, and the more Claude tried to cure me, the more obstinate I grew; I drew Emily over to my side, and we set our follies above everything. Justified ourselves for idling, neglecting the children, indulging ourselves, calling it love, and so it was, self-love. So my temper has been spoiling, and my mind getting worse and worse, ever since we lost Eleanor. At last different things showed me the fallacy of my principle, but then I do believe I was beyond my own management. I felt wrong, and could not mend, and went on recklessly. You know but too well what mischief I have done in the village, but you can never know what harm I have done at home. I have seen more and more that I was going on badly, but a sleep, a spell was upon me.'
'Perhaps the pain you now feel may be the means of breaking the spell.'
'But is it not enough to drive me mad to think that improvement in me should be bought at such a price-the widow's only child?'
'You forget that the loss is a blessing to her.'
'Still I may pray that my punishment may not be through them,' said Lily.
'Surely,' was the answer, 'it is grievous to see that dear child cut off; and her patient mother left desolate-yet how much more grievous it would be to see that spotless innocence defiled.'
'If it was to fall on any one,' said Lilias, 'I should be thankful that it is on one so fit to die.'
The church bell began to ring, and they quickened their steps in silence. Presently Lily said, 'Tell me of something to do, Robert, something that may be a pledge that my sorrow is not a passing shower, something unnecessary, but disagreeable, which may keep me in remembrance that my Lent was not one of self-denial.'
'You must be able to find more opportunities of self-denial than I can devise,' said her cousin.
'Of course,' said Lily; 'but some one thing, some punishment.'
'I will answer you to-morrow,' said Mr. Devereux.
'One thing more,' said Lily, looking down; 'after this great fall, ought I to come to next Sunday's feast? I would turn away if you thought fit.'
'Lily, you can best judge,' said the Rector, kindly. 'I should think that you were now in a humble, contrite frame, and therefore better prepared than when self-confident.'
'How many times! how shall I think of them! but I will,' said Lily; 'and Robert, will you think of me when you say the Absolution now and next Sunday at the altar?'
They were by this time at the church-porch. As Mr. Devereux uncovered his head, he turned to Lilias, and said in a low tone, 'God bless you, Lilias, and grant you true repentance and pardon.'
Early the next morning the toll of the passing-bell informed Lily that the little lamb had been gathered into the heavenly fold.
When she took her place in church she found in her Prayer-book a slip of paper in the handwriting of her cousin. It was thus: 'You had better find out in which duty you have most failed, and let the fulfilment of that be your proof of self-denial. R. D.'
Afterwards Lily learnt that Agnes had been sensible for a short time before her peaceful death. She had spoken much of her baptism, had begged to be buried next to a little sister of Kezia's, and asked her mother to give her new Bible to Kezia.
It was not till Sunday that Lilias felt as if she could ever be comforted. Her heart was indeed ready to break as she walked at the head of the school children behind the white-covered coffin, and she felt as if she did not deserve to dwell upon the child's present happiness; but afterwards she was relieved by joining in prayer for the pardon of our sins and negligences, and she felt as if she was forgiven, at least by man, when she joined with Mrs. Eden in the appointed feast of Easter Day.
Mrs. Naylor was at church on that and several following Sundays; but though her husband now showed every kindness to his sister, he still obstinately refused to be reconciled to Mr. Devereux.
For many weeks poor little Kezia looked very unhappy. Her blithe smiles were gone, her eyes filled with tears whenever she was reminded of her friend, she walked to school alone, she did not join the sports of the other children, but she kept close to the side of Mrs. Eden, and seemed to have no pleasure but with her, or in nursing her little sister, who, two Sundays after the funeral, was christened by the name of Agnes.
It was agreed by Mr. Mohun and Lilias that the grave of the little girl should be marked by a stone cross, thus inscribed
'AGNES EDEN,
April 8th, 1846,
Aged 7 years.
'He shall gather the lambs in His arms.''
CHAPTER XVIII: DOUBLE, DOUBLE TOIL AND TROUBLE
'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
