Soon she asked, in a voice which had quite lost the tone of peevishness:

"When will you come home again, Effie?"

Effie turned towards her immediately.

"I don't know. I'm not quite sure, yet. But, Christie, I canna bear to hear you speak in that way—as though you saw no good in anything. Did you ever think how much worse it might be with you and with us all?"

In her heart, Christie was saying she did not think things could be much worse, as far as she was concerned; but she only looked at her sister, without speaking.

"For, after all," continued Effie, "we are very well off with food and shelter, and are all at home together. You are not very strong, it is true, and you have much to do and Aunt Elsie is not always considerate; or, rather, she has not always a pleasant way of showing her considerateness. She's a little sharp sometimes, I know. But she suffers more than she acknowledges, and we all ought to bear with her. You have the most to bear, perhaps; but—"

"It's no' that, Effie," interrupted Christie. "I don't mind having much to do. And I'm sure it never enters into Aunt Elsie's head that I have anything to bear from her. She thinks she has plenty to bear, from me and from us all. I wouldna care if it came to anything. I could bear great trials, I know, and do great things; but this continual worry and vexation about nothing—it never ends. Every day it is just to begin over again. And what does it all amount to when the year's over?"

"Hush, Christie," said her sister. "The time may come when the remembrance of these words will be painful to you. The only way we can prove that we would bear great trials well is by bearing little trials well. We don't know how soon great trials may come upon us. Every night that I come home, I am thankful to find things just as I left them. We need be in no hurry to have any change."

Christie was startled.

"What do you mean, Effie? Are you afraid of anything happening?"

"Oh, no," she said, cheerfully, "I hope not. I dare say we shall do very well. But we must be thankful for the blessings we have, Christie, and hopeful for the future."

"Folk say father is not a very good farmer. Is that it, Effie?" Christie spoke with hesitation, as though she was not quite sure how her sister would receive her remark. "But we are getting on better now."

Effie only answered the last part of what she said.

"Yes, we are getting on better. Father says we have raised enough to take us through the year, with something to spare. It's all we have to depend on—so much has been laid out on the farm; and it must come in slowly. But things will wear out; and the bairns—I wish I could bide at home this winter."

"Oh, if you only could!" cried Christie, eagerly.

Effie shook her head. "I can do more good to all by being away. And my wages have been raised. I couldna leave just now. Oh, I dare say we shall do very well. But, Christie, you must not fret and be discontented, and think what you do is not worth while. It is the motive that makes the work of any one's life great or small. It is little matter, in one sense, whether it be teaching children, or washing dishes, or ruling a kingdom, if it is done in the right way and from right principles. I have read, somewhere, that the daily life of a poor unknown child, who, striving against sin, does meekly and cheerfully what is given him to do, may be more acceptable in the sight of God than the suffering of some whom their fellow-men crown as martyrs. If we could only forget ourselves and live for others!" She sighed as she rose to go. "But come, child: we must hurry home now."

Christie had no words with which to answer her. She rose and followed in silence. "If we could forget ourselves and live for others!" she murmured. That was not her way, surely. Every day, and every hour of the day, it was herself she thought of. Either she was murmuring over her grievances, or pitying herself for them, or she was dreaming vain dreams of a future that should have nothing to vex or annoy. Her life's work was worth little, indeed, judging it by Effie's standard. She did all that she did, merely because she could not help it. As to forgetting herself and thinking of others—

But who did so? No one that she knew, unless, perhaps, Effie herself. And Effie had a great many things to make her life pleasant, she thought. Perhaps her father? But then, her father did what he did for his children. All fathers did the same, she supposed. No; she doubted whether any one came near Effie's idea of what life should be. It would be a very different world indeed if all did so.

They were quite close to the house before Christie got thus far; and a glimpse of her father's careworn face filled her with something like self-reproach.

"I wish I could do him some good! But what can I do? He has never been the same since mother died. Nobody has been the same since that—except Effie; and she is better and kinder every day. Oh, I wish I could be like her! but it's of no use wishing;—I can never be like her. Oh, how tired I am!"

She started at the sound of Aunt Elsie's voice asking, rather sharply, what had kept them so long. She turned away, impatient of the question, and impatient of the cheerful answer with which Effie sought to turn aside her aunt's displeasure. She was impatient of Annie's regrets that their long delay had spoiled their supper, and of Sarah's questions as to who had been at the kirk, and answered them both shortly. She was impatient of the suppressed noise of the little ones, and vexed at her own impatience more than all.

"I dinna think your going to the kirk has done you much good. What ails you, Christie? One would think you had the sins of a nation to answer for, by your face."

"Whisht, Annie," interposed Effie. "Christie's tired, and her head aches, I'm sure. Dinna vex her—poor thing!"

"Well, if she would only say that, and no' look so glum!" said Annie, laughing, as she set aside the bowl of milk intended for Christie's supper. In a moment she returned with a cup of tea, and placed it where the bowl had stood. "There!" she said; "that will do your head good, and your temper too, I hope. I'm sure you look as though you needed it."

Christie would fain have resented both her sister's kindness and her thoughtless words, by taking no notice of the tea; but Effie interposed again:

"You are very kind, Annie. What a pity you should spoil all by those needless words!"

Annie laughed.

"Nonsense!" she said. "I didna mean to say anything unkind. Christie mustna be so testy. Don't tell me that you like milk better than tea. Christie will enjoy hers all the better if you take one too." And she placed it before her.

"Thank you. It's very nice," said Effie. "But the milk would have done very well."

The quick tap of Aunt Elsie's cane was heard approaching.

"I doubt you are getting away from Sabbath subjects," said Aunt Elsie. "Haste you with your supper, bairns—your father's waiting to have worship. Christie, if you are tired, you should go to bed at once."

For once, Christie did not wait for a second bidding. She was very tired; and long before the usual Sabbath evening's examination was over, she had forgotten her doubts and fears and vexing thoughts in sleep.



CHAPTER FOUR.

ORPHANHOOD.

When Christie was complaining of the small vexations and unvaried sameness of her daily life, she little dreamed how near at hand was the time when Effie's words were to prove true. Before the frost came to hush the pleasant murmur of the brook, or the snow had hidden alike the turf seat and the sear leaves of the birch-tree beside it, Christie was looking back over the stolen moments passed there on summer afternoons, with feelings with which were mingled wonder and pain and self-reproach. For the shadow of a coming sorrow was over their household. Day by day they seemed to be drawing nearer to a change which all saw, but which none had courage to name. The neighbours came and went, and spoke hopefully to the awed and anxious children; but they were grave, and said to one another that the poor young Redferns would soon be fatherless.

The harvest was quite over, and the assistance of the girls was no longer necessary out-of-doors, when one day Mr Redfern went alone to bring home the last load of turnips from a distant field; and when his children saw his face again it was like the face of the dead. Whether he had been thrown from the cart he had been driving, or whether he had fallen in some sort of fit, they could not tell. Even the doctor, who had been sent for from the next town, could not account for the state of stupor in which he found him. Two days of painful suspense passed; and then, contrary to the expectation of all, Mr Redfern opened his eyes and spoke. For a few days he seemed to revive so rapidly that the doctor had hopes of his entire recovery. It would be a work of time, he said. His back had been much injured by the fall. He could never expect to be so strong as he had been before; but he did not doubt that a few weeks would restore him to a good degree of health and strength again. And so they all took courage.

Effie, who had been summoned home, would fain have remained for the winter; but this did not seem best. The surplus of the harvest, over which she and Christie had so lately rejoiced, would be required to pay the wages of the man who must for the winter take their father's place; and Effie's increased salary would be of more value than ever to the family. With a face which she strove to make cheerful for the sake of those she left behind, she went away; but her heart was heavy, and when she kissed Christie a good-bye and bade her keep her courage up for the sake of all, she could hardly restrain her tears till the words were spoken.

Those who were left at home needed all the cheerfulness they could gather from each other; for it was a very dreary winter that lay before them. The passing weeks did not bring to Mr Redfern the health and strength so confidently promised by the doctor and so earnestly hoped for by his children. In her brief visits, Effie could see little change in him from week to week—certainly none for the better. He gradually came to suffer less, and was always cheerful and patient; but the times when he could be relieved from the weariness of his bed by changing his position to the arm-chair were briefer and at longer intervals.

And, in the meantime, another cloud was gathering over them. Aunt Elsie's rheumatism, which during the autumn had given her much trouble from time to time, was growing daily worse. Painful days and sleepless nights were no longer the exception, but the rule; and not long after the coming in of the New Year, the help which for a long time she had positively and even sternly refused, became a necessity to her. She could neither rise nor lie down without assistance, and she was fast losing the use of her limbs. She was patient, or at least she strove to be, towards her nieces; but she murmured audibly against God, who had so heavily afflicted them.

The firm health and cheerful spirits of the girls, Annie and Sarah, stood them in good stead during those long months of suffering. Sarah was the housekeeper, and she fulfilled the many and complicated duties of her office with an alacrity and success that might well surprise them all. She planned and arranged with the skill of a woman of experience, and carried out her plans with an energy and patience that seldom flagged. Indeed, she seemed to find positive pleasure in the little make-shifts which their straitened means made every day more necessary, and boasted of her wonderful powers in a way so merry and triumphant that she cheered the rest when they needed it most.

Annie's task was harder than her sister's. The constant attendance upon the sick-beds of her father and her aunt was very trying to a girl accustomed to daily exercise in the open air; and there were days when her voice was not so cheerful nor so often heard among them as it might have been. But she was strong and patient, and grew daily more efficient as a nurse; and though she did not know it, she was getting just the discipline that she needed to check some faults and to strengthen her character at the points where it needed strengthening most.

As for Christie, she was neither nurse nor housekeeper; or rather, I ought to say, she was both by turns. It was still her duty to attend to little items here and there, which seem little when done, but the neglect of which would soon throw a household into confusion. It was "Christie, come here," and "Christie, go there," and "Christie, do this and that," from morning till night, till she was too weary even to sleep when night came. Her sisters did not mean to be exacting. Indeed, they meant to be very kind and forbearing, and praised and petted her till she was ready to forget her weariness, as well as their unmindfulness of it. She did try very hard to be gentle, and patient, and useful, and almost always she succeeded; and the homecoming of Effie on Saturday night was the one event to which all her thoughts turned through the week, whether she was successful or not.

And, indeed, Christie was not the only one of them whose chief pleasure was a glimpse of Effie's cheerful face. It did them all good to have her among them for a day or two every week. All looked to her for help and counsel; and she seldom failed or disappointed any one. Whatever sad thoughts of the present or misgivings for the future she might have, she kept them, during her visits at home, quite to herself. So they who needed it so much enjoyed the good of her cheerfulness, and she suffered the doubts and suspense and painful anxiety of an elder sister in silence.

The winter passed slowly and sadly away to the two invalids, in spite of the hopes that spring might do for them what those long winter months failed to do. March came and passed, and April brought new cares and duties. The coming of the young lambs first, and afterwards the care of the calves and the dairy, gave Annie and Sarah full employment for a time. Annie's cheeks, that had grown thin and pale during the winter's confinement, began to get back their bright colour again.

From this time the care of her father devolved almost entirely on Christie. Her aunt was, in one respect, better than she used to be. She rarely suffered such intense pain as during the first part of the winter; but every day was making it more apparent that she could never hope to have full use of her limbs again. To an affliction like this, Aunt Elsie could not look forward submissively. She came at last to acknowledge, in words, that her trouble was sent by God, and that she ought to submit, believing that out of the present trial He could bring blessing. But in her heart she murmured bitterly. She could not bear to think that her helplessness added greatly to the burden of care that their father's illness had brought on these young girls. Yet her murmuring and repining spirit added to their troubles more than her helplessness did. Those days were very dreary to Aunt Elsie.

And on none of the family did the burden of her great unhappiness rest so heavily as upon Christie. Not that she had very much to do for her. After she was dressed by Annie and settled in her low chair for the day, she asked and needed little further care. Indeed, in the first misery of her helplessness she rather shrank from all assistance that was not absolutely indispensable, and almost resented all attempts to add to her comfort or relieve her pain. Christie was never quite sure that her aunt was satisfied with anything that was done for her. She never complained; but her acceptance of service seemed always under protest, as though she would fain have refused it if she had had the power. Her very sympathy with the child in her weariness was so expressed as to seem like a reproach.

In her attendance upon her father it was very different. All that was done for him was right; and his gentle thanks for her constant ministrations made the service sweet to his weary little daughter. No doubt he passed many a sorrowful day during that long and painful winter; but he suffered no murmur of his to add to the distress of those dear to him. In the silence of many a long and wakeful night, he could not but look in the face the possibility that his children might be left orphans, and the thought could not be otherwise than one of great pain. But he suffered no expression of doubt or fear to discourage them. He wished to live for their sakes; and for a long time he believed that he should live. But the hope passed away with the winter. As the days began to grow long, and the time approached when his children hoped he would be well again, the conviction gradually dawned upon him that the summer air would bring no healing. He felt that he had taken his last look of the snows of winter, that the willow buds and the pale spring blossoms that his little ones brought to him so lovingly were the last he should ever see. For himself it would be well; but for his children—! None but He who knoweth all things knew the pang that rent his heart at the thought of them! Orphans and strangers in a strange land, what was to become of his young daughters? Some of those bright May days were dark enough, as he groped amid the gloom of his great fear for them.

But the faith of the Christian triumphed. Before the time came to speak the words which were to chase all hope from their hearts, he could speak them calmly and even hopefully. The voice that never speaks in vain had said to the ear of faith, "Leave thy fatherless children with Me;" and he was thenceforth at peace. He sometimes sighed when he noticed the look of care that could not always be chased from the brow of his elder girls; but almost always he was at peace about them and their future.

As for them, they were altogether hopeful. They never saw the cloud that was growing darker and drawing nearer during those bright spring days. In after days, they wondered at their strange unconcern, and said to one another, "How could we have been so blind?" They were grave and anxious many a time, but never with the fear of death. They held long consultations together when Effie was at home; but it was always how they might arrange their affairs so that they need not vex nor annoy their father while he was not strong. They did not apprehend how near was the time when no earthly care should have power to vex him. Even Effie, more thoughtful and anxious than the rest, cheated herself with the hope that time alone was needed to restore him. Whatever Aunt Elsie saw in her brother's changing face, she said nothing of her fears till the time for self-deception was past with them all.

When the time of his departure drew very near, they even thought him better, because he suffered less, and because a far greater part of his time was spent in his arm-chair, or in moving about the room. More than once, too, he was able, by the help of his staff and of a daughter's willing arm, to go into the garden, or to the turf seat at the end of the house; and his enjoyment of the pleasant spring air and the pleasant spring sights and sounds beguiled them into the belief that he was becoming himself again. But, alas! it was not so. When the suffering passed away, there came in its place a feeling of restlessness that could not be controlled. There was rest for him nowhere. He grew weary of the bed, weary of the arm-chair, weary of his aimless wanderings up and down. At such times, Christie's voice, singing or reading, had, now and then, a power to soothe, sometimes to quiet, sometimes even to put him to sleep. And, indeed, she grew very skilful in her efforts to soothe and amuse him; and at any hour of the night or day a movement of his would bring her to his side. A softly-spoken word, or the loving touch of his hand upon her head, was enough to make her forget all her weakness and weariness; and during her whole life, or, at least, since her mother's death, Christie had passed no happier days than in that last month of her father's life.

"Your voice is like your mother's, Christie, my lassie," he said one night, when all but themselves were sleeping.

Christie gave a quick look into his face. He smiled.

"Yes, and you have reminded me of her in various ways during the last few weeks. I hope you will be as good a woman as your mother was, Christie."

She was not a demonstrative child, usually; but now she dropped her face upon her fathers hand, and he felt the fall of her warm tears. It was gently withdrawn, and laid upon her head, and in words that Christie never forgot, he prayed God to bless her. But even with the joy that thrilled her there came upon her a shudder of awe—a fearful certainty that she was listening to the words of a dying man. For a time she lay quite motionless, and her father slumbered with his hand still upon her head. He breathed quite softly and regularly, and in a little time Christie found courage to raise herself and to look into his face. There was no change on it, such as she had heard comes always to the face of the dying, and gradually the quick beating of her heart ceased. As she stood gazing, he opened his eyes and met her look.

"You are weary and wan, poor child," he said. "You should have let Annie or Sarah be with me to-night. Lie down and rest."

"Are you worse, father? Would you like to have me call Annie or Sarah?"

He looked surprised.

"No; I am very comfortable. I think I shall sleep. Lie down and rest, my poor, weary lamb."

She moved the light so that his face might be in the shadow, and then laid herself down on the low bed near him. She did not mean to sleep; she thought she could not, but weariness overcame her, and she did not waken till Annie lifted the window-curtain and let the light stream in on her face. She woke with a start and a cry; but a glance at her sister's serene face reassured her.

"You frightened little creature! What makes you jump out of your sleep in that way? I doubt if you have slept much, and yet father says he has had a good night."

"Oh, yes, I have," said she, with a sigh of relief. "I think I have been dreaming."

Looking into her father's face for confirmation of Annie's assurance that he was better, he met her look with a smile which quite banished her fears, saying he was very comfortable and had slept well. Once or twice during the day her fears came back; but she strove to chase them away, calling herself foolish and unthankful. And she could easily do so; for he did seem really better. He conversed more than usual with Aunt Elsie—though Christie did not understand all they said. She only knew that they spoke earnestly, and that her father spoke cheerfully. Aunt Elsie looked grave and doubtful enough. "But she always does," thought Christie. "I can judge nothing by that."

He went farther down the garden-walk than he had ever gone yet; and he looked so cheerful, sitting in the sunshine, that Christie smiled at her unreasonable fears. Alas! that day was to be ever memorable to the Redfern children, as the last on which the sunshine ever rested on their father's face. He never trod the garden path again.

That night Effie came home, and did not go away again till all was over. Christie never knew very well how those days passed. She remembered running down the lane to meet her sister in the twilight, and the irresistible impulse that came over her to tell of the terrible fear that had come upon her as she sat that night with her father's hand on her head. She called herself foolish and weak, and hastened to tell her sister how much better he had been through the day, how he had walked down the garden and enjoyed the sunshine, and how easy and peaceful he had been since then. But the shadow that had fallen on Effie's face at her first words did not pass away as she continued to speak; and it was with eyes opened to see "the beginning of the end" that she came into her father's chamber.

She did not leave him again. Christie slept on the couch near him; but all night long Effie sat with her eyes fixed on her father's changing face. He did not bid her lie down, as he was wont to do. He always smiled when he met her look, and once he said, "I have much to say to you, Effie;" but, while she listened for more, he slumbered again. And so the night passed.

The light of the morning made the change more visible. Sarah saw it when she came in. They did not need to tell each other what they feared. When Christie awoke, it was to see the anxious faces of the three sisters bending over their father. She rose mechanically, and stood beside them.

"Is he worse?" she asked. "He seems sleeping quietly."

She did not need to say more.

"Annie," said Effie, in a little time, beckoning her sister away from the bed, "Aunt Elsie must have her breakfast before she is told this; and the bairns—" Effie's voice failed her for a moment. "We must try and keep them quiet."

Annie said something in a low voice about the doctor; Effie shook her head.

"It's of no use," said Effie. "Still, we might send. I'll tell James." And she went out.

A little after daybreak he seemed to rouse himself for a moment; but he soon slumbered again. By and by their neighbours, who had heard from the messenger sent for the doctor that Mr Redfern was worse, came dropping in. They looked in for a moment upon the group of girls gathered round their father's bed, and then, for the most part, seated themselves in the outer room with Aunt Elsie. Mrs Nesbitt and her son John lingered in the room, and whispered together. In a little while the mother beckoned to Effie.

"My poor bairn," she said, "if you have anything to say to your father, or anything to ask of him, it had better be now."

Effie gave a quick, startled look.

"Now?" she said. "So soon?"

"Effie, my bairn, for the sake of the rest," whispered her friend.

In a minute or two she was able to take her old place by the pillow. As she bent over her father, the doctor came in. He stood for a moment looking down on him.

"Speak to him," he said.

"Father," said Effie, stooping, with her face close to his. "Father."

He stirred a little at the sound of her voice, and his fingers wandered aimlessly over the coverlet.

"Is it morning?" he asked.

"Father," repeated Effie, "Dr Grey is here."

He opened his eyes at that, and met the look of the doctor fixed on him.

"Oh, is the end come?" he asked. "I didna think it would be so soon. Did I hear Effie's voice? I have so much to say to her! My poor bairns!"

Effie bent her face again close to his. Her voice was low, but firm and clear.

"Father, don't let any thought of us disturb you now. God is good. I am not afraid."

"And your aunt, she has suffered much, sacrificed much for us. Consider her first in all things. Be guided by her."

"Yes, father."

"There are other things. I didna think this was to be so soon; and now it is too late. But you have some kind friends. Did I hear John Nesbitt's voice?"

"Yes, father; he is here." And she beckoned to John to come nearer. But he seemed to have forgotten him John stooped towards him, and said, in a low voice:

"Is there anything I can say that would make it easier for you to leave them?"

The eyes of the dying man turned towards him, slowly.

"John, you are a good man, and true. They will be very solitary. You will be their friend?"

"Always. So help me God!"

The words were spoken like the words of a vow.

The dying man's mind seemed to wander a little after that; for he asked again if it was morning, and what was to be done in the field to-day. But Effie's pale face bending over him seemed to recall all.

"Effie," he said, "I leave them all with you—just as I would have left them with your mother. Be to them what she would have been to you all. You will ay be mindful of the little ones, Effie?"

"Father, with God's help, I will," she answered, firmly.

"Poor little ones! Poor wee Christie!" he murmured.

They brought them to him, guiding his hand till it rested on each head, one after the other.

"Fear God, and love one another." It was all he had strength to say, now. John Nesbitt read from the Bible a verse or two now and then, speaking slowly, that the dying man might hear. Then an old man, one of the elders of the kirk, prayed by the bedside. The uneasy movement of his head upon the pillow, and the aimless efforts of his hands to grasp something, were the only signs of suffering that he gave; and when Effie took his hand in hers, these ceased.

"If Christie would sing, I think I could sleep," he said. "Her voice is like her mother's."

Effie beckoned to her sister.

"Try, Christie; try," she said.

But Christie's lips could utter no sound. John Nesbitt began, "The Lord's my Shepherd;" and in a little time several trembling voices joined. When they came to the verse:

"Yea, though I walk through Death's dark vale, Yet will I fear no ill; For Thou art with me, and Thy rod And staff me comfort still,—"

they rose full, clear, and triumphant. They were the last sounds he heard on earth. When they ended, Mrs Nesbitt's hand was gently laid on their father's eyelids, and at the sight of that the children knew they were orphans.



CHAPTER FIVE.

CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE.

When a great sorrow has just fallen upon us, we find it impossible to feel that all things about us are not changed. We cannot imagine ourselves falling into the old daily routine again. The death of one dear to us gives us a shock which seems to unsettle the very foundation of things. A sense of insecurity and unreality pervades all that concerns us. We shrink from the thought that the old pleasures will charm us again, that daily cares will occupy our minds to the exclusion of to-day's sadness, that time will heal the wounds that smart so bitterly now.

But it does; and as it passes, we find ourselves going the old rounds, enjoying the old pleasures, doing the duties which the day brings; and the great healer does his kindly office, to the soothing of our pain. It is not that our bereavement is no longer felt, or that we have forgotten the friend we loved. But the human heart is a harp with many strings. Though one be broken, there are others which answer to the touch of the wandering breezes; and though the music may be marred in some of its measures, it is still sweet.

The young cannot long sit under the shadow of a great sorrow, if there be any chance rays of sunshine gleaming. Besides, the poor have no time to sit down and nurse their grief. When little more than a week had passed after Mr Redfern's death, Effie was obliged to return to the ruling and guiding of her noisy little kingdom. She went sadly enough; and many an anxious thought went back to the household at home. But she could not choose but go. They had agreed among themselves that there should be no change till after the harvest should be gathered in, and in the meantime, all the help that she could give was needed. Her monthly wages were growing doubly precious in her estimation. They were the chief dependence at home.

The sowing and planting had been on a limited scale this spring, and all outdoor matters, except what pertained to the dairy, could very well be attended to by James Cairns, their hired man, who was strong and willing. So Annie and Sarah were in the house, and the little ones went to school as soon as the summer weather came.

As for Christie, little was expected from her besides attending to Aunt Elsie, and reading to her now and then. These were easy enough duties, one would think, considering how little attention Aunt Elsie was willing to accept from any one. But light as they were, Christie could not hide, and did not always try to hide, the truth that they were irksome to her.

Poor little Christie! How miserable she was, often! How mortified and ashamed of herself! This was all so different from what she had meant to be when Effie went away—a help and a comfort to all. There were times when she strove bravely with herself: she strove to be less peevish, and to join the rest in their efforts to be useful and cheerful; but she almost always failed, and every new failure left her less able and less willing to try again.

But Christie was not so much to blame for these shortcomings as she had sometimes been. The great reaction from the efforts and anxieties before her father's death, as well as the shock of that event, left her neither strength nor power to exert herself or to interest herself in what was passing. Her sisters meant kindly in claiming no help about the household work from her, but they made a mistake in so doing. Active work, that would have really tired her, and left her no time for melancholy musings, would have been far better for her. As it was, she could apply herself to no employment, not even her favourite reading. Her time, when not immediately under her aunt's eye, was passed in listless wanderings to and fro, or in sitting with folded hands, thinking thoughts that were unprofitable always, and sometimes wrong. Fits of silence alternated with sudden and violent bursts of weeping, which her sisters could neither soothe nor understand. Indeed, she did not understand them herself. She struggled with them, ashamed of her folly and weakness; but she grew no better, but rather worse.

She might well rejoice when, at the end of a fortnight, Effie came home. The wise and loving elder sister was not long in discovering that the peevishness and listlessness of her young sister sprang from a cause beyond her control. She was ill from over-exertion, and nervous from over-excitement and grief. Nothing could be worse for her than this confinement to Aunt Elsie's sick-room, added to the querulousness of Aunt Elsie herself.

"You should let Christie help with the milking, as she used to do," she said to Sarah. "It would be far better for her than sitting so much in Aunt Elsie's room. She seems ill and out of sorts."

"Yes, she's out of sorts," said Sarah, with less of sympathy in her tone than Effie had shown. "There's no telling what to do with her sometimes. She can scarcely bear a word, but bursts out crying if the least thing is said to her. I dare say she is not very well, poor child!"

"She seems far from well, indeed," said Effie, gravely. "And I'm sure you, or I either, would find our spirits sink if we were to spend day after day in Aunt Elsie's room. You don't know what it is till you try it."

Sarah shrugged her shoulders.

"I dare say we should. But Christie doesna seem to mind much what Aunt Elsie says. I'm sure I thought she liked better to be there than to be working hard in the kitchen or dairy."

"She may like it better, but it's no' so good for her, for all that. You should send her out, and try and cheer her up, poor lassie! She's no' so strong as the rest of us; and she suffers much from the shock."

That night, when the time for bringing home the cows came, Effie took her sun-bonnet from the nail, saying carelessly:

"I'm going to the pasture. Are you coming, Christie?"

"For the cows?" said Christie, tartly. "The bairns go for them."

"Oh, but I'm going for the pleasure of the walk. We'll go through the wheat, and down by the brook. Come."

Christie would far rather have stayed quietly at home, but she did not like to refuse Effie; and so she went, and was better for it. At first Effie spoke of various things which interested them as a family; and Christie found herself listening with pleasure to all her plans. At the side of the brook, where they sat down for a while, as they usually did, they spoke of their father and mother; and though Christie wept, it was not that nervous weeping which sometimes so exhausted her. She wept gently; and when Effie spoke of the love that should bind them all closely together, now that they were orphans, she prayed inwardly that God would make her more patient and loving than she had lately been. Her heart was lighter than it had been for days, when they rose to go.

They went to the kirk together the next day too. They did not walk; so there was no lingering in the kirk-yard or at the half-mile corner. But the day was fine and the air pleasant; and the motion of the great wagon in which they drove, though not very easy, was agreeable for a change, and Christie enjoyed it all. I am afraid she did not enjoy the sermon better than usual. She had a great many wandering thoughts, and she had to struggle against overpowering drowsiness, which she did not quite succeed in casting off. But she enjoyed the kind greetings and looks of sympathy that awaited them in the kirk-yard, though they brought many tears to Effie's eyes, and sent them gushing over her own pale cheeks. She was glad of old Mrs Grey's sweet, cheerful words, and of the light pressure of blind Allie's little hand. She was glad when she heard Mrs Nesbitt ask Effie to bring her sister over to pass a week with her, and more glad still when Effie made the promise, saying the change would do her good. Altogether, the day was a pleasant one, and Christie went home better and more cheerful than she had been since her father's death.

But before the week was over she had fallen back into the old way again; and when Effie came home on Saturday, she found her as wan and listless and peevish as ever. Something must be done without delay, thought the elder sister. So, that night, as she sat with Annie and Sarah in her aunt's room, when all the little ones had gone to bed, she said:

"Aunt Elsie, I am going to take Christie back with me, to stay a week with Mrs Nesbitt."

Aunt Elsie looked astonished and somewhat displeased.

"Why should you do the like of that?" she asked.

"Oh, just for a change. She's not very well, I think, and a little change will do her good."

"Folk canna ay get changes when they would like them," said Aunt Elsie, coldly. "I see nothing more than usual the matter with her. If she's no' well, home's the best place for her. I see no cause why Mrs Nesbitt should be troubled with the likes of her."

"Oh, Mrs Nesbitt winna think it a trouble. Christie will be no trouble to her. I know she canna well be spared. You'll miss her; but she'll be all the better a nurse when she comes home strong and cheerful."

"I beg you winna think about me in making your plans for pleasuring," said her aunt, in a tone which always made those who heard it uncomfortable. "I'll try and do without her services for a while. She thinks much of herself; and so do you, it seems."

There was an unpleasant pause, during which Effie congratulated herself on the forethought that had sent Christie safely to bed before the matter was discussed. Annie, as she generally did in similar circumstances, started another subject, hoping to avert anything more unpleasant. But Effie wanted the matter decided, and Aunt Elsie had something more to say.

"It's my belief you mean to spoil the lassie, if she's no spoiled already, petting and making a work with her as though she were really ill. Ill! It's little any of you ken what it is to be ill."

"I don't think she's very ill," said Effie, gently; "but she's nervous and weary and out of sorts, and I think maybe a change—"

"Nervous!" repeated Aunt Elsie, contemptuously. "It was better days when there was less said about nerves than I am in the way of hearing now. Let a bairn be cross, or sulky, and, oh! it's nervous she is, poor thing! Let her have a change. I know not, for my part, what the world is coming to. Nervous, indeed!"

"I didna mean to excuse Christie's peevishness—far from it," said Effie. "I know you have not a cheerful companion in her. But I do think she is not well; and as Mrs Nesbitt asked her, I thought perhaps you wouldna mind letting her go for a while."

"It matters little what I may think on that or any other subject," said Aunt Elsie, in a tone which betrayed that anger was giving place to sadness. "Helpless as I am, and burdensome, I should take what consideration I can get, and be thankful. I needna expect that my wishes will govern any of you."

This was very unjust, and the best way to make her feel that it was so was to keep silence; and not a word was said in reply. In a little time she said, again—

"I dinna see how you can think of taking the child away anywhere, and a printed calico all that she has in the way of mourning, and her father not buried a month yet."

"It would matter very little at Mrs Nesbitt's," said Effie, congratulating herself on her aunt's softening tone, but not seeming to notice it.

"Times are sorely changed with us, when the price of a gown more or less is felt as it is," said Aunt Elsie, with a sigh. "I have seen the day—" And she wandered off to other matters. Effie chose to consider the affair of Christie's going settled. And so it was. No further objection was made; and they went together the next afternoon.

If Effie could have chosen among all the pleasant homes of Glengarry, she could have found no better place for her young sister than Mrs Nesbitt's. It was quiet and cheerful at the same time. Christie could pursue her own occupations, and go her own way, no one interfering with her, so long as her way was the right way and her occupation such as would do her no injury. But there were no listless wanderings to and fro, no idle musings, permitted here. No foolish reading was possible. If a shadow began to gather on the child's brow, her attention was claimed immediately, either by Jean, the merry maid-of-all-work, or by Mrs Nesbitt herself. There were chickens to feed, or vegetables to be gathered, or the lambs were to be counted, or some other good reason was found why she should betake herself to the fresh air and the pleasant fields or the garden.

The evenings were always bright. There was no danger of being dull where Mrs Nesbitt's merry boys were. Her family consisted of four sons. John, the eldest, was just twenty-three—though, for some reason or other, the young Redferns were in the habit of thinking him quite a middle-aged man. Perhaps it was because he was usually so grave and quiet; perhaps because of a rumour they had heard that John meant, some day, to be a minister. He taught a Sabbath-class too, and took part in meetings, like a much older man than he was.

The other lads were considerably younger. Lewis, the second son, was not yet eighteen; Charles was twelve, and little Dan not more than nine. They were neither grave nor quiet. The house was transformed into a very different place when they crossed the threshold from the field or the school. In a fashion of her own, Christie enjoyed their fun and frolic very much. She told Effie, when she came to see her, that she had heard more laughter that week than she had heard in Canada in all her life before. As for them, they wondered a little at her shyness and her quiet ways; but they were tolerant, for boys, of her fancies and failings, and beguiled her into sharing many a ramble and frolic with them.

Once she went to her sister's school, which was three miles from the Nesbitt farm, and once she spent a day with Mrs Nesbitt at old Mrs Grey's, and they brought little Allie home with them. The little blind girl was a constant wonder and delight. She was as cheerful and happy as were any of the merry Nesbitt boys; and if there was less noise among them when she was one of the circle, there was no less mirth. To say that she was patient under her affliction would not be saying enough; she did not seem to feel her blindness as an affliction, so readily and sweetly did she accept the means of happiness yet within her reach. To Christie, the gentle, merry little creature was a constant rebuke, and all the more that she knew the little one was unconscious of the lesson she was teaching.

There was no service in the kirk the next Sabbath, so, instead of going home as usual, Effie, for Christie's sake, accepted Mrs Nesbitt's invitation to spend it at her house. She saw with delight the returning colour on her little sister's cheek, and noticed the change for the better that had taken place in her health and spirits, and inwardly she rejoiced over the success of her plan. "She shall have another week at this pleasant place, if possible—and more than that." And she sighed to think how much the poor girl might have to try both health and spirits when these pleasant weeks should be passed. But she did not let Christie hear her sigh. She had only smiles and happy words for her.

It was a very pleasant Sabbath for Christie—the very pleasantest she could remember to have passed. She could not agree with Charlie Nesbitt that it was "a little too long." She enjoyed every moment of it. She enjoyed the early walk, the reading, the singing, and the walk to John Nesbitt's Sabbath-class in the afternoon. It was rather far—three miles, nearly—and the walk tired her a little. But all the more for that did she enjoy her rest on the low sofa after tea.

It was a very pleasant place, that parlour of Mrs Nesbitt's—so neat, so cool, so quiet. There was not much to distinguish it from other parlours in Laidlaw; and, in general, they were prim and plain enough. There was a small figured carpet, crimson and black, upon the floor. It did not quite reach the wall on one side, for Mrs Nesbitt's Scottish parlour had been smaller than this one; and the deficiency was supplied by a breadth of drugget, of a different shade of colour, which might have marred the effect somewhat to one more fastidious than Christie. For the rest, the chairs were of some common wood and painted brown, the sofa was covered with chintz to match the window-curtains, and there was a pale blue paper on the walls. For ornaments, there were two or three pictures on the walls, and on the mantel-piece a great many curious shells and a quaint old vase or two. There was a bookcase of some dark wood in the corner, which was well filled with books, whose bindings were plain and dark, not to say dingy. There were few of Christie's favourites among them; so that the charm of the room did not lie there. There was another small cabinet, with a glass door—a perfect treasury of beautiful things, in Christie's estimation, old china and glass, and an old-fashioned piece or two of plate; but the key was safely kept in Mrs Nesbitt's pocket.

Perhaps it was the charm of association that made the place so pleasant to Christie. Here, every day, she had been made to rest on the chintz sofa, and every day she had wakened to find a kind face beaming upon her and to hear a kind voice calling her by name. I think almost any place would have been pleasant with Mrs Nesbitt going about so gently and lovingly in it. Some thought of this came into Christie's mind, as she lay musing there that Sabbath afternoon. The fading light fell on the soft grey hair that showed beneath the widow's snowy cap, and on the placid face beneath, with a strangely beautifying power. The sweet gravity that was on her silent lips was better worth seeing, Christie thought, than other people's smiles. Her eyes had no beauty, in the common acceptation of the term. They seemed like eyes that had been washed with many tears. But the sadness which must have looked from them once had given place to patience and gentle kindness now.

"How nice and quiet it is here!" whispered Christie to her sister, who sat beside her, leaning her head upon her hand.

Effie quite started, as she spoke.

"Yes; it is a very peaceful place. I get rid of all vexing thoughts when I come in here." And she turned her eyes to Mrs Nesbitt's placid face.

"Vexing thoughts!" repeated Christie. "I dare say Effie has many a one." And she sighed too; but almost before she had time to ask herself what Effie's vexing thoughts might be, she was asleep. A voice, not Effie's nor Mrs Nesbitt's, soon awoke her. The twilight had deepened, and up and down the darkening room John Nesbitt was walking, with a step quicker than was usual. Christie fancied there was something like impatience in his step. He soon came and leaned on the window, close to the place where Effie sat, and Christie heard him say, in a voice which was not quite steady:

"Is it all over, then, Effie?"

Effie made a sudden movement of some kind, Christie could not tell what, and after a moment she said:

"It would be better for you, John."

He did not wait to hear more. Soon, however, he came back again.

"And will it be better for you, Effie?" he asked, gravely and gently, yet with strong feeling.

"I must think of many a one before myself in this matter," she said; and soon after added, "Don't make this trouble harder to bear, John."

There was a long silence; but John did not resume his walk, and by and by Effie spoke again.

"Do you never think of your old wish to finish your studies?"

"My father's death put an end to that," he answered, sadly.

"I don't know why," said Effie. "Of course at the time it must have done so; but you are young, and your brothers are growing up to take your place with your mother and on the farm, and I think it would be like putting your hand to the plough and looking back, to give up all thought of entering the ministry. You have your life before you, John."

He did not answer.

"If it were for no other reason than that," continued Effie, "I could not consent to burden you in the way you propose; and besides—your mother—"

She turned, and caught the astonished eyes of Christie peering out of the darkness, and paused.

"Effie," said Christie, when they were in their own room, and the candle was out, "what were you saying to John Nesbitt to-night?"

"Saying?" repeated Effie.

"Yes—in the parlour. Does he want us to come and live here? I thought he did by what he said."

"Some of us," said Effie, after a pause. "John is very kind, and so is his mother. But of course it is not to be thought of."

"Must we leave the farm, Effie?" asked Christie, anxiously.

"I hardly know; I cannot tell. Aunt Elsie must decide."

"Is it not ours, Effie? Was my father in debt?"

"Not for the farm; but it was paid for, or partly paid for, with money that belonged to Aunt Elsie. I canna explain it. She sold her annuity, or gave up her income, in some way, when we came here. And in the letter that father wrote, he said that he wished that in some way, as soon as possible, she should get it back."

"But how?" asked Christie, wondering.

"I hardly know. But you know, Christie, Aunt Elsie is not like other people—mean; it would make her more unhappy to feel that she was dependent than it would make most people. And we must, in some way, manage to do as father wished. If he had lived, it would have been different. She doesna think that I know about it. She didna see father's letter."

"Then the farm will be Aunt Elsie's?" said Christie.

"Yes; and if we could manage it well, we might live on as we have been living; but I am afraid we canna."

Christie had her own thoughts about all living on Aunt Elsie's farm; but she said nothing.

"I suppose we shall have to let the farm, or sell it, and get the money invested, in some way, for Aunt Elsie."

"And what then?" asked Christie, in a suppressed tone.

"I am sure I canna tell," said Effie; and the tone of her voice betrayed more anxiety than her words did. "Not that there is any great cause for anxiety," she added. "There is always work to do for those who are willing; and we'll try and keep together till the bairns are grown up."

"Will Aunt Elsie go home to Scotland, do you think, Effie?" asked Christie.

"Oh, no! I don't think she will. She doesna like this country altogether, I know; but now that she has grown so helpless, she will not care to go back. She has no very near friends there now."

"Do you think Aunt Elsie would take the money if the farm was sold?" asked Christie, again.

"As to that, it has been partly hers all along. When the farm was bought, my father gave Aunt Elsie a mortgage, or something—I don't understand exactly what—but it was as a security that her money was to be safe to her. If we had been able to carry on the farm, there would have been little difference; though there are some other debts too."

"And if we leave the farm, where can we go?" asked Christie.

"I don't know; I lose myself thinking about it. But God will provide. I am not really afraid, when I have time to consider. The bairns must be kept together in some way. We must trust till the way is opened before us."

But there was something very unlike Effie's usual cheerfulness in her way of speaking. Christie could plainly see that. But she mistook the cause.

"Effie," she said, after a little pause, "it winna be very pleasant to think that we are depending on Aunt Elsie. I dinna wonder that you sigh."

"Whisht, Christie! It's not that, child. I don't think you are quite just to Aunt Elsie. She has done much, and given up much, for us since mother died. Her way is not ay pleasant; but I think she would be easier to deal with as the giver than as the receiver. I mean, I shall be very glad if it can be arranged that she shall have her income again. But we won't speak more of these things to-night, dear. We only vex ourselves; and that can do no good."

But Effie did not cease to vex herself when she ceased to speak, if Christie might judge from the sighs that frequently escaped her. Just as she was dropping to sleep, her sister's voice aroused her.

"Christie," she said, "you are not to say anything to any one about— about John Nesbitt's wanting me to come here. Of course it's impossible; and it mustna be spoken about."

"I couldna help hearing, Effie."

"No; I know, dear. But it's not to be spoken about. You must forget it."

"Did Mrs Nesbitt want it too?" asked Christie.

"I don't know. Mrs Nesbitt is very kind; but you mustna say anything to her about this matter—or to any one. Promise me, Christie."

Christie promised, wondering very much at her sister's eagerness, and thinking all the time that it would be very nice to live with Mrs Nesbitt and her sons, far pleasanter than to live on the farm, if it was to be Aunt Elsie's. Christie felt very unsubmissive to this part of their trouble. She thought it would be far easier to depend for a home and food and clothes on their kind neighbours, who were friends indeed, than on the unwilling bounty of her aunt. But, as Effie said, Christie by no means did justice to the many good qualities of her aunt, and was far from properly appreciating her self-denying efforts in behalf of them all.

After that night, Effie did not often allude to their future plans when with Christie. It was best not to vex themselves with troubles that might never come, she said. They must wait patiently till the harvest was over, and then all would be settled.

The summer passed on, with little to mark its course. Christie had more to do about the house and in the garden than in the spring, and was better and more contented for it. But she and her sisters sent many an anxious glance forward to the harvest-time.

They did not have to wait so long, however. Before the harvest-time their affairs were settled. An opportunity, which those capable of judging thought very favourable, occurred for selling it; and it was sold. They might have occupied the house for the winter; but this would only have been to delay that which delay would make no easier. It was wiser and better in every way to look out for a home at once.

About six miles from the farm, in the neighbourhood where Effie's school was, there stood on the edge of a partially-cleared field a small log-house, which had been for several months uninhabited. Towards this the eyes of the elder sister had often turned during the last few weeks. Once, on her way home from school, she went into it. She was alone; and though she would have been very unwilling to confess it, the half-hour she passed there was as sorrowful a half-hour as she had ever passed in her life. For Effie was by no means so wise and courageous as Christie, in her sisterly admiration, was inclined to consider her. Looking on the bare walls and defective floors and broken windows, her heart failed her at the thought of ever making that a home for her brother and sisters.

Behind the house lay a low, rocky field, encumbered with logs and charred stumps, between which bushes and a second growth of young trees were springing. A low, irregular fence of logs and branches, with a stone foundation, had once separated the field from the road; but it was mostly broken-down now, and only a few traces of what had been a garden remained. It was not the main road that passed the house, but a cross-road running between the main roads; and the place had a lonely and deserted look, which might well add to the depression which anxiety and uncertainty as to their future had brought on Effie. No wonder that very troubled and sad was the half-hour which she passed in the dreary place.

"I wish I hadna spoken to Aunt Elsie about this place," she said to herself. "She seemed quite pleased with the thought of coming here; but we could never live in this miserable hovel. What could I be thinking about? How dreary and broken-down it is!"

There were but two rooms and a closet or two on the ground-floor. Above, there might be another made—perhaps two; but that part of the house was quite unfinished, showing the daylight through the chinks between the logs. Floor there was none.

"It could never be made comfortable, I am afraid," she said, as she made her way down the creaking ladder. "I could never think of bringing the bairns here." And it was with a heavy heart that she took her way home.

But her courage rose again. Before many days had passed she had decided to try what could be done with the place. The house, such as it was, with a little square of garden-ground, could be got for a rent merely nominal. It was near her school. She could live at home, and the little ones could go to school with her. Thus they could be kept together, and their education not be neglected. With what she and her sisters could earn they could live comfortably for some years in this quiet place. She could not fulfil her promise to her father to keep the little ones together, elsewhere; for she must not give up her school. Her salary was not large, but it was sure; and here they would be under her own eye. The price of the farm had been well invested in her aunt's name, though Aunt Elsie herself was not yet aware of the fact. Effie was not sure whether she would remain with them or return home. But whatever she did, her income must be quite at her own disposal. The sisters must work for themselves and the little ones. If their aunt stayed with them, well; but they must henceforth depend on their own exertions.

When Effie had once decided that the little log-house on the cross-road was thenceforward to be their home, her naturally happy temper, and her earnest desire to make the best of all things for the sake of the others, made it easy for her to look for hopeful signs for the future, and to make light of difficulties which she could not fail to see. Under her direction, and by her assistance, the little log-house underwent an entire transformation before six weeks were over. Nothing was done by other hands which her own or Sarah's and Annie's could do. The carpenters laid new floors and mended broken windows; the plasterers filled the chinks and covered the walls of what was to be their chamber; but the girls themselves scrubbed and whitewashed, papered and painted, cleaned away rubbish from without and from within, and settled their various affairs with an energy and good-will which left them neither time nor inclination for repining. In a little while it would have been impossible to recognise in the bright and cheerful little cottage the dismal place in which, at her first visit, Effie had shed some very bitter tears.

Aunt Elsie did not leave them. She quite resented the idea of such a thing being possible. She had little faith in the likelihood of the children being kept together and clothed and fed by the unassisted efforts of the sisters, and assumed the direction of affairs in the new home, as she had always done in the old. Effie's words with regard to her proved true. She was far easier to do with when she found herself in a position to give rather than to receive assistance. Her income was not large. Indeed, it was so small that those who have never been driven to bitter straits might smile at her idea of a competence. It would have barely kept her from want, in any circumstances; but joined to Effie's earnings it gave promise of many comforts in their humble home. So ample did their means seem to them at first, that they would fain have persuaded each other that there need be no separation—that all might linger under the shelter of the lowly roof. But it could not be. Annie and Sarah both refused to eat bread of their sister's winning, when there was not work enough to occupy them at home; and before they had been settled many weeks, they began to think of looking for situations elsewhere.

At first they both proposed to leave; but this Effie could not be prevailed upon to consider right. Helpless as Aunt Elsie was and seemed likely to continue, there was far more to do in their little household, limited as their means were, than it was possible for Christie to do well. The winter was coming, already the mornings were growing short. She herself could do little at home without neglecting her school; and her school must not be neglected. And besides, though Effie did not say much about it, she felt that almost any other discipline would be better for her nervous, excitable sister, than that she would be likely to experience with none to stand between her and the peculiar rigour of Aunt Elsie's system of training. So she would not hear of both Annie and Sarah leaving them. Indeed, she constantly entreated, whenever the matter was discussed, that neither of them should go till winter was over. There was no fear but that the way would be opened before them. In the meantime, they might wait patiently at home.

And the way was opened far sooner than they had hoped or than Effie desired. A lady who had been passing the summer in the neighbourhood had been requested by a friend in town to secure for her the services of a young woman as nurse. Good health and a cheerful temper, with respectability of character, were all that was required. Then Annie and Sarah began seriously to discuss which of them should go and which should stay at home. Strange to say, Aunt Elsie was the only one of them all who shrank from the idea of the girls "going to service" or "taking a place." It was a very hard thing for her brother's daughters, she said, who had been brought up with expectations and prospects so different. She would far rather that Sarah who was skilful with the needle, and had a decided taste for millinery and dressmaking, should have offered herself to the dressmaker of the neighbouring village, or even have gone to the city to look for such a situation there. But this plan was too indefinite to suit the girls. Besides, there was no prospect of present remuneration should it succeed. So the situation of nurse was applied for and obtained by Annie. Sarah's needle could be kept busy at home, and perhaps she could earn a little besides by making caps and bonnets for their neighbours. While they awaited the lady's final answer, the preparations for Annie's departure went busily on.

The answer came, and with it a request that another nurse might be engaged. A smaller girl would do. She would be expected to amuse, and perhaps teach reading to two little girls. If such a one could be found, permission was given to Annie to delay her departure from home for a week, till they should come together.

There was a dead silence when the letter was read. Annie and Sarah looked at each other, and then at Effie. Christie, through all the reading, had never taken her eyes from her elder sister's face. But Effie looked at no one. The same thought had come into the minds of all; and Effie feared to have the thought put into words. But Aunt Elsie had no such fear, it seemed; for after examining the letter, she said, in a voice that did not betray very much interest in the subject:

"How would you like to go, Christie?" Christie said nothing, but still looked at Effie.

"What do you think, Effie?" continued her aunt.

"Oh, it's of no use to think about it at all! There's no need of Christie's going. She is not strong enough. She is but a child."

Effie spoke hastily, as though she wished the subject dropped. But Aunt Elsie did not seem inclined to drop it.

"Well, it's but a little girl that is wanted," she said. "And as for her not being strong enough, I am sure there canna be any great strength required to amuse two or three bairns. I dare say it might be the very place for her."

"Yes; I dare say, if it was needful for Christie to go. There will be many glad to get the place. You must speak to the Cairns' girls, Annie."

"Would you like to go, Christie?" asked her aunt, with a pertinacity which seemed, to Effie at least, uncalled for.

But Christie made no answer, and looked still at Effie.

"There is no use in discussing the question," said Effie, more hastily than she meant to speak. "Christie is far better off at home. There is no need of her going. Don't speak of it, Aunt Elsie."

Now Aunt Elsie did not like to have any one differ from her—"to be dictated to," as she called it. Effie very rarely expressed a different opinion from Aunt Elsie. But her usual forbearance made her doing so on the present occasion the more disagreeable to her aunt; and she did not fail to take her to task severely for what she called her disrespect.

"I didna mean to say anything disrespectful, Aunt Elsie," said she, soothingly, and earnestly hoping that the cause of her reproof might be discussed no further. But she was disappointed.

"Wherefore should I no' speak about this thing for Christie? If it's no disgrace for Annie to go to service, I see no season why it should not be spoken of for Christie."

"Disgrace, aunt!" repeated Effie. "What an idea! Of course it is nothing of the sort. But why should we speak of Christie's going when there is no need?"

"For that matter, you may say there is no need for Annie's going. They both need food and clothes as well as the rest."

Effie took refuge in silence. In a little while her aunt went on:

"And as for her being a child, how much younger, pray, is she than Annie? Not above two years, at most. And as for health, she's well enough, for all that I can see. She's not very strong, and she wouldna have hard work; and the change might do her good. You spoil her by making a baby of her. I see no reason why the bread of dependence should be sweeter to her than to the rest."

"It would be bitter enough, eaten at your expense," were the words that rose to Christie's lips in reply, Effie must have seen them there, for she gave her no time to utter them, but hastily—almost sharply—bade her run and see what had become of the girls and little Willie. Christie rose without speaking, and went out.

"Aunt," said Effie, quietly, when she was gone, "I don't think it is quite kind in you to speak in that way to Christie about dependence. She is no more dependent than the rest of the children. Of course, when she's older and stronger she'll do her part. But she is very sensitive; and she must not be made unhappy by any foolish talk about her being a burden."

Effie meant to soothe her aunt; but she failed, for she was really angry now, and she said a great many words in her anger that I shall not write—words that Effie always tried to forget. But the result of it all was that Annie's departure was delayed for a week, till Christie should be ready to go with her.

But I should be wrong in saying that this decision was the result of this discussion alone. There were other things that helped Effie to prevail upon herself to let her go. It would be better and pleasanter for Annie to have her sister near her; and Christie was very desirous to go. And, after all, the change might be good for her, as Aunt Elsie said. It might improve her health, and it might make her more firm and self-reliant. Going away among strangers could hardly be worse for her than a winter under the discipline of her aunt. Partly on account of these considerations, and partly because of Christie's importunities, Effie was induced to consent to her going away; but it was with the express understanding that her absence was to be brief.

As the time of their departure drew near, she did not grow more reconciled to the thought of her sister's going. She felt that she had been over-persuaded; and in her heart there was a doubt as to whether she had done quite right in consenting.

The last night, when all the others had gone to bed, and Effie was doing some household work below, Christie slipped down-stairs again.

"Effie," she said, eagerly, "do not take my going away so much to heart. I am sure it is for the best, and I shall grieve if you grieve. Do think that it's right."

"You foolish lassie! Did you come down-stairs with bare feet to tell me that? How cold your hands are! Come and sit down by the fire. I want to speak to you."

Christie sat down, as she was bidden, but it was a long time before Effie spoke—so long that Christie said at last:

"What is it, Effie?"

Her sister started. "I have nothing to say but what I have said before, Christie. You are not to stay if you don't like. You are not to let any thought of any one or anything at home keep you, unless you are quite content and quite strong and well. And, at any rate, you are to come home in the spring."

Effie had said all this before; and Christie could only repeat her promise.

"I am afraid you think I am wrong to go away, Effie?"

"No, dear; I don't think you are wrong. I am sure your motives are good. I wish you were not going; but there is no use in saying so now. I hope it will turn out for the best to you and to us all. I will try and not be anxious about you. God will keep you safe, I do not doubt."

"Effie," said Christie, "do you remember what you said to me once about God's hearing prayer, and how He always hears the prayers of His people in the best way, though not always in the way they wish and expect?"

"Yes, I mind something about it. And how all things work together for good to His people and for His glory at the same time. Yes, I mind."

"Well," said Christie, softly, "if folk really believe this, it will be easy for them to leave their friends in God's hands. They can ask Him for what they need, being sure that they will get what is best for them, and that He canna make a mistake."

There was a few minutes' silence; and then Effie said:

"Christie, if I were sure that you are one of God's people—one of the little lambs of His flock—I would not fear to let you go. Do you think you are?"

"I don't know, Effie. I am afraid not. I am not like what the Bible says God's people ought to be. But I am sure I wish to be."

"Christie," said her sister, earnestly, "you must never let anything hinder you from reading your Bible every day. You must not rest till you are sure about yourself."

"Effie," she said, in a low voice, and very seriously, "I think God did once hear a prayer of mine. It was a good while ago—before father died. It was one of my bad days; I was worse than usual; and when I came back from the pasture I sat down by the brook—under the birch-tree, you mind—and I went from one thing to another, till I said to myself, 'I'll see if there's any good in praying.' And so I prayed Aunt Elsie might not scold me when I went home; and she didna. But I didna care for that, because you were at home that night. But I prayed, too, that you might bring me a book. I meant 'The Scottish Chiefs,' or something; but you brought my Bible. I have thought, sometimes, that was one of the prayers answered in a better way than we ask or expect."

The last few words were spoken in a very husky voice; and as she ceased, her head was laid on Effie's lap. There were tears in Effie's eyes too—she scarcely knew why. Certainly they were not for sorrow. Gently stroking her sisters drooping head, she said:

"Perhaps it was so, Christie. I believe it was; and you are right. We need not fear for one another. We will trust in Him."



CHAPTER SIX.

CHRISTIE'S NEW HOME.

So Annie and Christie went away; and the days that followed their departure were long and lonely at the cottage. They had never been long separated, and the absence of two of their number made a great blank in their circle. All missed them, but none so much as Effie; for mingled with regret for their absence was a feeling very like self-reproach that she had permitted Christie to go. It was in vain that she reasoned with herself about this matter, saying it was the child's own wish, and that against her aunt's expressed approbation she could have said nothing to detain her.

She knew that Christie was by no means strong, that she was sensitive (not to say irritable), and she dreaded for her the trials she must endure and the unkindness she might experience among strangers. She was haunted by a vision of her sister's pale face, home-sick and miserable, with no one to comfort or sympathise with her; and she waited with inexpressible longing for the first tidings from the wanderers. The thought of her was always present. It came with a pang sometimes when she was busiest. She returned from school night by night with a deeper depression on her spirits, till Aunt Elsie, who had all along resented in secret her evident anxiety, could no longer restrain the expression of her vexation.

"What ails you, Effie?" said she, as the weary girl seated herself, without entering the house. "You sit down there as if you had the cares and vexations of a generation weighing you down. Have matters gone contrary at the school?"

"No. Oh, no," said Effie, making an effort to seem cheerful. "Everything has gone on as usual. I had two new scholars to-day. They'll be coming in, now that the autumn work is mostly over. Have not the bairns come in?"

"I hear their voices in the field beyond," said her aunt. "But you havena told me what ails you. Indeed, there's no need. I know very well. It would have been more wise-like to have kept your sisters at home than to fret so unreasonably for them now they are away."

Effie made no answer.

"What's to happen to them more than to twenty others that have gone from these parts? It's a sad thing, indeed, that your father's daughters should need to go to service, considering all that is past. But it can't be mended now. And one thing is certain: it's no disgrace."

"No, indeed," said Effie. "I don't look on it in that light; but—"

"Yes; I ken what you would say. It's ay Christie you're thinking about. But she'll be none the worse for a little discipline. She would soon have been an utter vexation, if she had been kept at home. You spoiled your sister with your petting and coaxing, till there was no doing with her. I'm sure I dinna see why she's to be pitied more than Annie."

Effie had no reply to make. If she was foolish and unreasonable in her fears for Christie, her aunt's manner of pointing out her fault was not likely to prove it to her. She did not wish to hear more. Perhaps she was foolish, she thought. Good Mrs Nesbitt, who was not likely to be unjust to Christie, and who was ready to sympathise with the elder sister in what seemed almost like the breaking-up of the family, said something of the same kind to her once, as they were walking together from the Sabbath-school.

"My dear," she said, "you are wrong to vex yourself with such thoughts. Your aunt is partly right. Christie will be none the worse for the discipline she may have to undergo. There are some traits in her character that haven a fairly shown themselves yet. She will grow firm and patient and self-reliant, I do not doubt. I only hope she will grow stronger in body too."

Effie sighed.

"She was never very strong."

"If she shouldna be well, she must come home; and, Effie, though I would never say to an elder sister that she could be too patient and tender to one of the little ones—and that one sometimes wilful and peevish, and no' very strong—yet Christie may be none the worse, for a wee while, no' to have you between her and all trouble. My dear, I know what you would say. I know you have something like a mother's feeling for the child. But even a mother canna bear every burden or drink every bitter drop for her child. And it is as well she canna do it. If Christie's battle with life and what it brings begins a year or two earlier than you thought necessary, she may be all the better able to conquer. Dinna fear for her. God will have her in His keeping."

Effie strove to find a voice to reply; but she could only say:

"Perhaps I am foolish. I will try."

"My dear," continued her friend, kindly, "I dinna wonder that you are careful and troubled, and a wee faithless, sometimes. You have passed through much sorrow of late, and your daily labour is of a kind that is trying to both health and spirits. And I doubt not you have troubles that are of a nature not to be spoken of. But take courage. There's nothing can happen to you but what is among the 'all things' that are to work together for your good. For I do believe you are among those to whom has been given a right to claim that promise. You are down among the mist now; I am farther up the brae, and get a glimpse, through the cloud, of the sunshine beyond. Dinna fret about Christie, or about other things. I believe you are God-guided; and what more can you desire? As the day wears on, the clouds may disperse; and even if they shouldna, my bairn, the sun still shines in the lift above them."

They had reached the cross-road down which Effie was to take her solitary way; for the bairns had gone on before. She stood for a moment trying to make sure of her voice, and while she lingered Mrs Nesbitt dropped a kiss, as tender as a mother's, on her brow, and said, "Good-night!" A rush of ready tears was the only answer Effie had for her then. But she was comforted. The tears that spring at kind words or a gentle touch bring healing with them; and when Effie wiped them away at last, it was with a thankful sense of a lightened burden, and she went on her way with the pain that had ached at her heart so many days a little softened.

Yes; Effie had trials that would not bear speaking about, and least of all with John Nesbitt's mother. But they were trials that need not be discussed in my little tale. Indeed, I must not linger longer at the cottage by the wayside. I may not tell of the daily life of its occupants, except that it grew more cheerful as the winter passed away. The monthly letter brought them good tidings from the absent ones; and with duties, some pleasant, some quite otherwise, their days were filled, so that no time was left for repining or for distrustful thoughts.

I must now follow the path taken by Christie's weary little feet. Sometimes the way was dusty and uneven enough, but there were green spots and wayside flowers now and then. There were mists and clouds about her, too, but she got glimpses of sunshine. And by and by she grew content to abide in the shadow, knowing, as it was given her to know, that clouds are sent to cool and shelter and refresh us. Before content, however, there came many less welcome visitors to the heart of the poor child.

Can anything be more bewildering to unaccustomed eyes than the motley crowd which business or pleasure daily collects at some of our much-frequented railway stations? To the two girls, whose ideas of a crowd were for the most part associated with the quiet, orderly gatherings in the kirk-yard on the Sabbath-day, the scene that presented itself to them on reaching Point Saint Charles was more than bewildering; it was, for a minute or two, actually alarming. There was something so strange in the quick, indifferent manner of the people who jostled one another on the crowded platform, in the cries of the cabmen and porters, and in the general hurrying to and fro, that even Annie was in some danger of losing her presence of mind; and it was with something like a feeling of danger escaped that they found themselves, at last, safe on their way to the house of Mrs McIntyre, a connection of some friends of that name at home.

The sun had set long before, and it was quite dark as they passed rapidly through the narrow streets in the lower part of the town. Here and there lights were twinkling, and out from the gathering darkness came a strange, dull sound, the mingling of many voices, the noise of carriage-wheels and the cries of their drivers, and through all the heavy boom of church-bells. How unlike it all was to anything the girls had seen or heard before! And a feeling of wonder, not unmingled with dread, came upon them.

There was no time for their thoughts to grow painful, however, before they found themselves at their journey's end. They were expected by Mrs McIntyre, and were very kindly received by her. She was a widow, and the keeper of a small shop in a street which looked at the first glimpse dismal enough. It was only a glimpse they had of it, however; for they soon found themselves in a small and neat parlour with their hostess, who kindly strove to make them feel at home. She would not hear of their trying to find out their places that night, but promised to go with them the next day, or as soon as they were rested. Indeed, she wished them to remain a few days with her. But to this Annie would by no means agree. The delay caused by Christie's coming had made her a week later than her appointed time, and she feared greatly lest she should lose her place; so she could not be induced to linger longer. Her place was still secure for her; but a great disappointment awaited Christie. The lady who had desired the service of a young girl to amuse her children had either changed her mind or was not satisfied with Christie's appearance; for after asking her many questions about her long delay, as she called the three days beyond the specified week, she told her she was afraid she could not engage her. She added to the pain of Christie's disappointment by telling her that she did not look either strong enough or cheerful enough to have the care of children; she had better apply for some other situation.