Janets Love and Service | Page 2

future, and to
the building of pleasant castles, in which she and they whom she loved
were to dwell. Sitting in the firelight, with eyes and lips that smiled, the
pleasant fancies came and went. Not a shadow crossed her brow. Not a
fear came to dim the light by which she gazed into the future that she
planned. So she sat till her dream was dreamed out, and then, with a
sigh, in which there was no echo of care or pain, she woke to the
present, and turned to her book again.
"I might see by the fire," she said, and in a minute she was seated on

the floor, her head leaning on her hands, and her eye fastened on the
open page.
"Miss Graeme," said Janet, softly coming in with a child in her arms,
"your mamma's no' weel, and here's wee Rosie wakened, and wantin'
her. You'll need to take her, for I maun awa'."
The book fell from the girl's hand, as she started up with a frightened
face.
"What ails mamma, Janet? Is she very ill?"
"What should ail her but the one thing?" said Janet, impatiently. "She'll
be better the morn I hae nae doubt."
Graeme made no attempt to take the child, who held out her hands
toward her.
"I must go to her, Janet."
"Indeed, Miss Graeme, you'll do nothing o' the kind. Mrs Burns is with
her, and the doctor, and it's little good you could do her just now. Bide
still where you are, and take care o' wee Rosie, and hearken if you hear
ony o' the ither bairns, for none o' you can see your mamma the night."
Graeme took her little sister in her arms and seated herself on the floor
again. Janet went out, and Graeme heard her father's voice in the
passage. She held her breath to listen, but he did not come in as she
hoped he would. She heard them both go up-stairs again, and heedless
of the prattle of her baby sister, she still listened eagerly. Now and then
the sound of footsteps overhead reached her, and in a little Janet came
into the kitchen again, but she did not stay to be questioned. Then the
street door opened, and some one went out, and it seemed to Graeme a
long time before she heard another sound. Then Janet came in again,
and this time she seemed to have forgotten that there was any one to
see her, for she was wringing her hands, and the tears were streaming
down her cheeks. Graeme's heart stood still, and her white lips could
scarcely utter a sound.

"Janet!--tell me!--my mother."
"Save us lassie! I had no mind of you. Bide still, Miss Graeme. You
munna go there," for Graeme with her little sister in her arms was
hastening away. "Your mamma's no waur than she's been afore. It's
only me that doesna ken about the like o' you. The minister keeps up a
gude heart. Gude forgie him and a' mankind."
Graeme took a step toward the door, and the baby, frightened at Janet's
unwonted vehemence, sent up a shrill cry. But Janet put them both
aside, and stood with her back against the door.
"No' ae step, Miss Graeme. The auld fule that I am; 'gin the lassie had
been but in her bed. No, I'll no' take the bairn, sit down there, you'll be
sent for if you're needed. I'll be back again soon; and you'll promise me
that you'll no leave this till I bid you. Miss Graeme, I wouldna deceive
you if I was afraid for your mamma. Promise me that you'll bide still."
Graeme promised, awed by the earnestness of Janet, and by her own
vague terror as to her mother's mysterious sorrow, that could claim
from one usually so calm, sympathy so intense and painful. Then she
sat down again to listen and to wait. How long the time seemed! The
lids fell down over the baby's wakeful eyes at last, and Graeme,
gathering her own frock over the little limbs, and murmuring loving
words to her darling, listened still.
The flames ceased to leap and glow on the hearth, the shadows no
longer danced upon the wall, and gazing at the strange faces and forms
that smiled and beckoned to her from the dying embers, still she
listened. The red embers faded into white, the dark forest with its sunny
glades and long retreating vistas, the hills, and rocks, and clouds, and
waterfalls, that had risen among them at the watcher's will, changed to
dull grey ashes, and the dim dawn of the summer morning, gleamed in
at last upon the weary sleeper. The baby still nestled in her arms, the
golden hair of the child gleaming