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." "How can you say so, John?
I'm a poor little creature,--no use to anybody." Hereupon John told her that her only use in life was to be lovely and to be loved,--that a thing of beauty was a joy forever, &c., &c.
But Lillie was too much exhausted, on her return, to appear at the tea-table.

She took to her bed at once with sick headache, to the poignant remorse of John.

"You see how it is, Gracie," he said.

"Poor dear little thing, she is willing enough, but there's nothing of her.
We mustn't allow her to exert herself; her feelings always carry her away." The next Sunday, John sat at home with Lillie, who found herself too unwell to go to church, and was in a state of such low spirits as to require constant soothing to keep her quiet.
"It is fortunate that I have you and Rose to trust the school with," said John; "you see, it's my first duty to take care of Lillie.".