"She's weary with her journey—poor thing!" suggested Mrs McIntyre, kindly. "And she's a stranger here, besides—poor child!"

"A stranger!" Yes, Christie had just parted from Annie at the door of a large house in the next street, bravely enough; but it was all the poor girl could do now to restrain an outburst of tears.

"How old are you?" asked the lady, again.

Christie had just courage enough to tell her; but it was Mrs McIntyre who answered the next question.

"Are your parents living?"

"No—poor thing! She is an orphan. There is a large family of them. She came down with her sister, hoping to get a place. The elder sister is trying to keep the little ones together."

Christie made a movement as if to silence the speaker. The lady looked at a gentleman who sat at a distant window seeming to read.

"What do you think?" she asked.

He rose, and walked in a leisurely manner down the room, nodding to Mrs McIntyre as he passed. As he returned, he paused, and said something in an undertone to the lady. Christie caught the words.

"If anything was to happen to her, she would be on your hands. She seems quite without friends."

Christie was on her feet in a moment. Her chair was pushed back with a motion so sudden that the gentleman turned to look at her. She was anything but pale now. Her cheeks were crimson, and there was a light in her eyes that bade fair to be very soon quenched in tears.

"I am very sorry that I—" She could utter no more. Laying her hand on Mrs McIntyre's arm, she said, huskily, "Come." Her friend rose.

"Perhaps if you were to try her for a month—" she suggested.

But Christie shook her head.

"But where can you go? What can you do?" said Mrs McIntyre, in a low voice.

Where, indeed? Not to the house she had just seen Annie enter; she had no claim there. Not home again, that was not to be thought of. She turned a helpless glance to the persons who seemed to hold her destiny in their hands. The lady looked annoyed; the gentleman, who had observed the girl's excitement, asked:

"Were you ever at service before?"

"Oh, no!" said Mrs McIntyre, intending to serve Christie's cause. "The family looked forward to something very different; but misfortunes and the death—"

She stopped, intending that her pause should be more impressive than words.

Other questions followed—Could she read and write? Could she sew? Had she ever been in the city before?—till Christie's courage quite rose again. It ended in nothing, however, but a promise to let her know in a day or two what was decided.

In the silence that followed the closing of the streetdoor after them, Christie felt that Mrs McIntyre was not well pleased with the termination of the interview: and her first words proved it.

"You needna have been so sensitive," she said. "It will be a long time before you get a place where everything will be to your mind. You needna expect every lady to speak to you as your own sisters would. I doubt you'll hear no more from these people."

But she was a good-natured and kind-hearted woman; and a glance at Christie's miserable face stopped her.

"Never mind," she added; "there are plenty of folk in the town will be glad to get a well-brought-up girl like you to attend to their children. But you must look cheerful, and no' take umbrage at trifles."

Christie could not answer her. So she walked along by her side, struggling, with a power which she felt was giving way rapidly, with the sobs that were scarcely suppressed. She struggled no longer than till she reached the little chamber where she and Annie had passed the night. The hours that she was suffered to remain there alone were passed in such an agony of grief and home-sickness as the poor child never suffered from before. She quite exhausted herself at last; and when Mrs McIntyre came to call her to dinner, she found her in a troubled sleep.

"Poor child!" she said, as she stood looking at her, "I fear we must send her home again. She is not like to do or to get much good here."

But she darkened the room, and closed the door softly, and left her. When Christie awoke the afternoon was nearly gone. Her first feeling was one of utter wretchedness; but her sleep had rested and refreshed her, and her courage revived after she had risen and washed her face and put her dress in order. When she was ready to go down, she paused for a moment, her hand resting on the knob of the door.

"I might try it," she murmured; and she fell on her knees by the bedside. It was only a word or two she uttered:

"O God, give me courage and patience, and help me to do right."

Her tears fell fast for a moment; but her heart was lightened, and it was with a comparatively cheerful face that she presented herself in the little back parlour, where she found Mrs McIntyre taking tea with a friend.

"Oh, you are up, are you?" she said, kindly. "You looked so weary, I couldna bear to call you at dinnertime; but I kept your dinner for you. Here, Barbara; bring in the covered dish." And she placed a seat for the girl between her and her friend.

Christie thanked her, and sat down, with an uncomfortable feeling that the friends had been discussing her before she had come in. And so it soon appeared. The conversation, which her entrance had interrupted, was soon resumed.

"You see, I don't well know what his business is," said the visitor. "But, at any rate, he doesn't seem to have much to spend—at least in his family. His wife—poor lady!—has her own troubles. He's seldom at home; and she has been the most of the time, till this illness, without more than one servant. When she's better, I dare say she'll do the same again. In the meantime, I have promised to look for one that might suit. The one she has leaves to-morrow. My month's out too, then, and she's to let me go; though how she's to battle through, with that infant and all the other children, is more than I can tell."

Mrs McIntyre shook her head.

"She would never do for the place. She doesna look strong; and the house is large, you say?"

"Far larger than they need. I said that to her, one day. But she said something about keeping up a certain appearance. She's not one that a person can speak freely to, unless she likes. How old are you, my girl?" she suddenly asked, turning round to Christie.

"I was fourteen in June," she replied; and turning to Mrs McIntyre, she asked, "Is it a place for me?"

Mrs McIntyre looked doubtful.

"It's a place for some one; but I doubt it's too hard a place for you."

Christie sent a questioning look to the visitor, who said:

"Well, in some respects it's a hard place. There is plenty to do; but Mrs Lee is a real gentlewoman, mindful of others, and kind and pleasant-spoken. I should know; for I have sick-nursed her twice, besides being there, now and again, when the children have been ill."

"But think upon it. The only nurse, where there's an infant and four other children as near each other as they can well be. She's not fit for the like of that," said Mrs McIntyre.

"The eldest is but seven," said Mrs Greenly. "But, for that matter, Mrs Lee is nurse herself; and Nelly, the housemaid, is a kind-hearted girl. She might make a trial of it, anyway."

"We'll see what your sister says," said Mrs McIntyre to Christie. "She'll be round on the Sabbath. Or maybe you might go there and see her before that time."

Mrs Greenly shook her head.

"But I doubt if I can wait for that. I must see the other girl this afternoon; and if she should suit the place there would be no more to be said. What do you think yourself, my girl?"

Christie had been too little accustomed to decide any matter for herself, to wish to decide this without first seeing her sister. So she only asked if Mrs Greenly passed near the street where Annie lived. Not very near, Mrs McIntyre said; but that need not interfere. Barbara should go with her there, if Mrs Greenly would consent to put off seeing the other girl till the next morning. Mrs McIntyre could not take the responsibility of advising Christie to accept the situation. It was better that her sister should decide. But Christie had decided in her own mind already. Any place would be better than none. But she needed Annie's sanction that Effie might be satisfied—and, indeed, that she might be satisfied herself; for she had little self-reliance.

She saw Annie, who shrank from the thought of Christie's having to trespass long on Mrs McIntyre's hospitality; and Christie dwelt more on Mrs Greenly's high praise of Mrs Lee than on the difficulties she might expect among so many children with insufficient help. So the next afternoon Christie and her little trunk were set down before the door of a high stone house in Saint —- Street. She had to wait a while; for Mrs Greenly, the nurse, for whom she asked, was engaged for the time; but by and by she was taken up-stairs, and into a room where a lady was sitting in the dress of an invalid, with an infant on her lap. She greeted Christie very kindly; but there was a look of disappointment on her face, the girl was sure.

"She seems very young, nurse, and not very strong," she said.

"She is not far from fifteen, and she says she has good health. She has been very well brought up," said Mrs Greenly, quickly, giving Christie a look she did not understand.

"How old are you?" asked Mrs Lee, seeming not to have heard the nurse.

"I was fourteen in June. I am very well now, and much stronger than I look. I will try and do my best."

There was something in the lady's face and voice that made Christie very anxious to stay.

"Have you ever been in a place before?" the lady asked again.

Christie shook her head; but Mrs Greenly took upon herself in reply.

"Dear, no! It's only lately that her father died. There is a large family of them. The oldest sister is trying to keep the little ones together, Mrs McIntyre tells me; and two of the sisters have come to the city to take places. The elder one is at Mrs Vinton's, in Beaver Hall."

Remembering the consequences of such a communication on a former occasion, Christie trembled; but she was soon relieved.

"Poor child!" said the lady. "So you have never been from home before?"

"No, ma'am," said Christie, eagerly. "But I was very glad to come. I was sorry to leave them all; but I wished to do my part. I will do my best for you and the children."

"You needn't fear that the children will learn anything wrong from her, ma'am," she heard Mrs Greenly say. "She has been well brought up."

But she heard no more; for the pattering of little feet on the stairs told of the approach of children. The door opened, and a little girl, six or seven years old, entered, followed by two little boys, who were younger. The girl went directly to her mother, and began stroking the baby's face. The boys, looking defiantly at Mrs Greenly, as though to assure her that they would not submit to be sent away, took their stand behind their mother's chair. The mother's hand was gently laid on the little girl's head.

"Where is Harry?" she asked.

"He's asleep in Nelly's clothes-basket. She said we were not to make a noise to wake him, so we came up here. Bridget has gone away."

"Yes, I know. And has Letty been trying to amuse her brothers, to help mother?"

The child shook her head.

"Harry played with the clothes-pins, and then he fell asleep. And Tom and Neddie are both bad boys. They wouldn't obey me. Won't you let me take the baby now?"

"Baby's asleep, and you mustn't make a noise to wake her," said the nurse, in an ominous whisper. "And your mother's very tired, and must lie down and sleep too. And you are going, like a nice young lady, into the nursery, to see how quiet you can keep them."

She laid her hand on the child's arm as she spoke; but it was shaken off abruptly, and the pretty face gathered itself into a frown. Her mother's hand was laid on her lips.

"Mother," entreated the child, "I will be so good if you will let me stay. There's nothing to do in the nursery, and I'm so tired of staying there!"

"But your brothers," said Mrs Greenly. "They won't stay without you, and your mother will be worse if she don't get rest. Indeed, ma'am, you are quite flushed already," said she, looking at Mrs Lee; "quite feverish. You are no more fit to be left than you were a fortnight ago. You must have rest. The children must go."

"Let us go to the yard, then," pleaded one of them.

"It has been raining. Neddie must not go out," said the weary mother. "Is not my little daughter going to be good?" she pleaded.

"Oh, do let me stay. I will be so good. Send the boys away to Nelly in the kitchen, and let me stay with you."

On a table near the bed stood a tray, with several vials and glasses on it. At this moment the whole was put in jeopardy by the enterprising spirit of little Tom, who was determined to make himself acquainted with their various contents. Neddie was endeavouring to raise himself to the window-seat, using the curtains as a ladder to assist his ascent. There was a fair prospect of confusion enough.

"This will never do," said the nurse, hastily, as she removed the tray and its contents, and reached the window just in time to save the wilful Neddie from a fall. "Do you know," she added, suddenly changing her tone, "what Nelly brought from market to-day? Apples! They are in the side-board down-stairs. And here are the keys. Who would like one?"

The boys suspended their mischievous operations, and listened. Letty did not move.

"Let me stay," she whispered.

"Come, Miss Letty, like a good child. Your mother must sleep, or she will be ill, and the baby too. Come! I know what your quietness is— fidgeting about like a mouse. Your mother would have a better chance to sleep with all the boys about her. Come away."

"Go, Letty; go with nurse. Be a good child," pleaded her mother, on whose cheek a bright colour was flickering. "My darling would not make mamma ill, and baby sister too?"

"Nurse, try me this once. I will be so quiet."

But nurse was not to be entreated; and the reluctant child was half led, half dragged from the room, screaming and resisting. Her mother looked after her, weary and helpless, and the baby on her lap sent up a whimpering cry. Mrs Lee leaned back on her chair, and pressed her hands over her eyes.

Christie rose.

"Will you trust me with the baby? I will be very careful."

The lady started; she had quite forgotten her. Christie stooped over the baby with eager interest.

"Are you fond of children?" asked Mrs Lee.

"I love my brother and my little sisters. I have never been with other children." There were tears in Christie's eyes as she raised them to look in Mrs Lee's face, called forth quite as much by the gentle tones of her voice as by the thought of 'the bairns' at home.

"I am afraid you could do nothing for baby," said Mrs Lee. "Nurse will be here presently. Perhaps you could amuse the children; but they miss me, and are fretful without me."

"I will try," said Christie, eagerly. "Are they fond of stories? I am very good at telling stories. Or I can read to them. I will do my best."

She went down-stairs, and guided by the sound of children's voices, entered the dining-room. The little girl had thrown herself on the sofa, where she was sobbing with mingled grief and rage. The boys, on the contrary, were enjoying the prospect of eating the apples which Mrs Greenly was paring for them.

"The baby is crying. The lady wants you. She says I am to try and amuse the children," said Christie.

"Well, I wish you joy of your work," said Mrs Greenly, whose temper was a little ruffled by her encounter with Miss Letty. "For my part, I have no patience with children who don't care whether their mother gets better or not. Children should love their parents and obey them."

"I do love my mamma!" cried Letty, passionately, between her sobs. "Go away, naughty nurse!"

"I'm just going, my dear," said the nurse. "And mind, my girl," she added, to Christie, "these children are to be kept here, and they are to be kept quiet too. Mrs Lee's wearied out of her very life with their noise. That useless Bridget was just as good as nobody with them."

So she went up-stairs, and Christie was left to manage with the children as best she might. While the apples lasted there was little to be said. Letty did not heed hers, though it lay on the sofa, within reach of her hand, till Tom made some advances in that direction. Then it was seized and hidden quickly, and Tom's advances sharply repelled. Tom turned away with a better grace than might have been expected, and addressed himself to Christie.

"Are you Bridget?" he asked.

"No," she said, gravely; "I'm Christie."

"Are you going to stay here?"

"Would you like me to stay?"

"No," said the boy; "I wouldn't. I like my mamma to dress me. Biddy brushes too hard."

"But I am Christie. I'll brush very gently till your mother gets better again. Wouldn't you like me to stay? My home is very far-away."

"How far?" asked Neddie, coming forward and standing beside his brother.

"Oh, ever so far—over the river, and over the hills, and past the woods; away—away—away down in a little hollow by the brook."

The children looked at her with astonished eyes. She went on:

"There are birds'-nests there, and little birds that sing. Oh, you should hear how they sing! And there are little lambs that play all day long among the clover. And there are dandelions and buttercups, and oh! I can't tell you how many pretty flowers besides. Whose dog is that?" she asked, suddenly, pointing to a picture on the wall.

"It's my mamma's," said Neddie.

"Is it? He's a very pretty dog. What's his name?"

"He hasn't got any name. He's a picture," said Tom.

"Oh, yes; he has a name. His name is—Rover. Is not that a pretty name? Come and sit down by the window, and I will tell you a story about a dog named Rover. You like stories, don't you?"

They came slowly forward and stood beside her.

"Well, Neddie," she said to Tom. "Are you Neddie?"

"No; I'm Tom. That's Neddie."

"Oh! that's Neddie, is it? Well, Tom and Neddie, I'm going to tell you a story about Rover. Only we must speak low, and not disturb your mamma and baby sister. What's the baby's name, I wonder?"

"It's baby," said Neddie.

"Yes; but she must have another name besides baby."

"No, she hasn't," said Tom.

"Her name's going to be Catharine Ellinor," said Letty, forgetting her trouble for a moment. "That's grandmamma's name."

"Oh, that's a very pretty name!" said Christie. "She's a dear baby, I am sure." But Letty had no more to say.

"Tell us about Rover," said Tom.

"Oh, yes! I must tell you about Rover. 'Once upon a time—'" And then came the story. Never did dog meet with such wonderful adventures before, and never was a story listened to with greater delight. Even Letty forgot her vexation, and listened eagerly. In the midst of it Nelly entered, carrying little Harry in her arms. At the sight of him every trace of ill-humour vanished from Letty's face. Running to meet them she clasped her arms round her little brother.

"Where are his shoes, Nelly?" she said, stooping to kiss his rosy little feet.

"What a sweet child!" exclaimed Christie. "I hope he won't be afraid of me."

He was very lovely, with his flushed cheeks and tangled curls, and not in the least afraid of anything in the world. He looked out of his bright blue eyes as frankly and fearlessly at Christie as if she had been his nurse all his life. She placed him on her knee while Letty tied his shoes.

"Are you to be nurse?" asked her fellow-servant Nelly.

"I don't know. I would like the place," said Christie.

"You'll have your hands full," said Nelly, emphatically. Christie had nothing to say to this; and the boys became clamorous for the rest of the story.

In the meantime, the October sunshine, though it was neither very warm nor very bright, had dried up the rain-drops on the paved court behind the house, and Mrs Greenly, showing her face for a moment at the dining-room door, told Christie she might wrap the children up and take them out for a little time. With Nelly's help, the wrapping up was soon accomplished. The yard was not a very pleasant place. It was surrounded by a high wall, and at the foot of the enclosure was a little strip which had been cultivated. There were a few pale pansies and blackened dahlia-stalks lingering yet. In two corners stood a ragged and dusty fir-tree; and all the rest of the yard was laid over with boards.

"The children are not to sit down, for they would take cold," called out Mrs Greenly from an upper window. In a little while Christie had them all engaged in a merry game, and greatly were they delighted with it. Some tokens of disorder and riot were given by Tom and Letty; but on the whole the peace was kept. Their enjoyment was complete, and it was a merry and hungry group that obeyed Nelly's summons to the tea-table.

Christie's first afternoon was a decided success. There was nothing more said about her staying. She fell very naturally into her place in the nursery, and she and the little people there soon became very fond of each other. It was a busy life, and so far a pleasant one. When her position and duties were no longer new to her, she accommodated herself to them with an ease which would have surprised Aunt Elsie, and even Effie, who had a higher opinion of Christie's powers than her aunt had. She was very earnest and conscientious in all she did, and Mrs Lee soon trusted her entirely. She must have left the children much to her care, even though she had less confidence in her; for she did not gain strength very fast. The baby was a fragile little creature, and rarely, night or day, during the first three months of her life, was her mother's care withdrawn from her. So the other children were quite dependent on their young nurse for oversight as well as for amusement; and considering all things, she did very well, for she tried to do everything as in the sight and fear of God.



CHAPTER SEVEN.

"CLOSER THAN A BROTHER."

But all the days of that dreary autumn were not so happy. Indeed, there were many times when Christie felt ready to give up in despair. Once it happened that for weeks together the rain kept the little ones in the house, and the only glimpse of the outer world which Christie could get was from the nursery window. For one accustomed to a country life this was no small deprivation, and though she was hardly conscious of the cause, her spirits (never very lively) were ready to sink under it. She became used to the confinement after a while, or rather, as she told Annie, she did not mind it. But the constant attention which the little ones claimed was a great strain on her cheerfulness. From early morning till the hour when the unwilling eyes of the last of them were closed in slumber, she had not a moment's respite. There was always something to be done, some one to be coaxed or cautioned or cared for.

The little Lees were not naughty children. On the contrary, they were very loving, affectionate little creatures. All of them, except, perhaps, Letty, were easily amused and governed. But, as is the case with all over-indulged children, they were inclined to be exacting when they had the power; and it was no wonder that, among so many of them, Christie sometimes grew weary even to exhaustion, and fancied that her strength and courage were quite spent.

And worse than all, there were times when home-sickness, that could not be resisted or reasoned away, assailed her. Almost always it was at night—in the evenings, now growing so long, when no sound save the gentle breathing of the sleeping children broke the reigning silence. It was not so bad at such times, however, for she could then let her weary head fall, and weep a part of her troubles away. But sometimes in broad daylight, when in her walks with the children she crushed beneath her feet the dead leaves of the trees, while the autumn wind sighed drearily through their bare boughs, a pang of bitter loneliness smote her. Among the crowds she met she was always fancying familiar faces. More than once she sprang forward with a cry to grasp the hand of one who looked on her with the unheeding eyes of a stranger. If at such a time any one had come to her with a message from Effie, saying, "Come home," she would probably have gone at all hazards—so dreary and lonely her life seemed to her.

It was not so with Annie. She made friends easily. She and Christie went to church; and but few Sabbaths passed before they met many who nodded and smiled to her bright-faced sister. But Christie was shy and quiet, and shrank from the notice of strangers; and up to the very last time that she passed through them, the busy streets of the city seemed a lonely place to her.

Christie never quite forgot the remedy tried for the first time beneath the boughs of the birch-tree by the brook. There were hours when it seemed to her now, as it seemed to her then, a cure for all the ills of life, a help in every time of need. There were times when, having nowhere else to go, she carried her burden to Effie's chief Friend, and strove to cast it from her at His feet. She did not always succeed. Many a time she lay down in the dark, beside little Harry, altogether uncomforted. It seemed to her that nothing could help her but going home again. But it was only now and then, at rare intervals, that it seemed possible for her to go. Almost always she said to herself, "I canna go home. I must stay a little while, at least." Sometimes she said it with tears and a sorrowful heart, but almost always she had courage to say it with firmness.

But now she was beginning to feel herself wrong in coming; or, rather, she began to see that her motive in coming was wrong. It was less to help Effie with the little ones, as she was now satisfied, than to escape from dependence on Aunt Elsie. Not that, even in her worst moments, Christie could make herself believe that her aunt did not gladly share the little that she had with her brother's orphans, or that she would share it less willingly with her than with the others. The unwillingness was on her part. And the root of this unwillingness was pride, and an unforgiving remembrance of what she called her aunt's harshness to her. Aunt Elsie had been at times more or less hard with all her nieces. But she had been so to Christie in a way different from the rest; and the child was willing to believe that the cause lay less in her waywardness than in her aunt's unjust partiality. With such feelings permitted, nay, at times willingly indulged, no wonder that she too often failed to find the peace she sought.

But gradually the home-sickness wore away. Daily she became more useful and more valued in the nursery. She felt that Mrs Lee trusted her, and this did much to make her content. She almost always was patient when the children were in their exacting moods, and was always firm in refusing any forbidden pleasure. From her "your mamma would be displeased," or her "it is not right," there was no moving her; and of this the children soon became aware. She never assumed authority over them. They would have resented this quickly enough. But if the reward of a story or a merry game before bed-time was forfeited by ill-conduct, it was felt as a severe disappointment. For any disobedience or other naughtiness in the nursery, the refusal of a kiss for good-night was punishment enough. All children are not so easily guided or governed as the little Lees were; and few children are placed so entirely apart from evil influences as they were in those days. They were quick and restless, and full of spirit, but, as I have said, they were affectionate and tractable; and though often, before the last little busybody was safely disposed of for the night, Christie believed her strength and patience to be quite exhausted, her love for them increased day by day.

So the first three months of her absence from home wore away, and the merry Christmas-time drew nigh. Till now, Christie had seen little of the master of the house. He was rarely in for many days together. His business took him here and there through the country; and even when he was in the city he was not much at home. Once or twice he came into the nursery. He seemed fond of his children in a careless, indifferent way; but the children were shy and not very happy in his presence. If Mrs Lee was not happier when he was at home, she was certainly more sad and silent for a few days after he went away, and sighed often when she looked at her children, as though she were burdened with many cares.

About Christmas-time a great change took place in the household. In the course of one of his many journeys Mr Lee met with a serious accident. It was not pronounced serious at the time of its occurrence, but it became so through neglect. It was painful as well as dangerous, and confined him to the house during the greater part of the winter. From this time Christie's duties became more arduous. Mrs Lee's time and attention were frequently required by her husband, and the fragile little Ellinor then became the special care of Christie. The nursery, too, was removed to a room in the attic; for Mr Lee at first could not, and at last would not, bear the noise of the children; and Christie's glimpse of the outer world extended only to roofs and chimneys now. The brief daily airings of the children were taken in a sleigh; and the doctor insisted that their mother should always share them. She was very delicate; and her husband, thoughtless and exacting, failed to perceive that her strength was too much tried. Mrs Greenly was engaged as his sick-nurse; but she could not be on the alert both night and day, and when she failed her place must be supplied by his uncomplaining wife. Night or day it was all the same. She was never sure of an hour's respite.

So Christie reigned alone in the attic-nursery, and controlled and amused the children, and mended, and managed, and looked cheerful through it all, in a way that excited the admiration and astonishment of Mrs Greenly, and the thankful gratitude of Mrs Lee. How she got through it all she hardly knew. On the days when the baby was her exclusive care, it was bad enough. But by teaching the children to hail the coming of the little one as a mark of their mamma's great confidence in them, she succeeded in making them share the responsibility with her. The boys would amuse themselves quietly for hours rather than disturb little Ellinor; and Letty (usually the most restless and wayward of them all) never grew weary of humming little songs, and otherwise amusing the baby, as she lay in the cot. So they went on better than might have been expected. But what with the close confinement in the house, and the climbing of two or three long flights of stairs, Christie grew pale and thin, and was many a time very weary.

She had one pleasant hour in the week. At ten on every Sabbath morning she called for her sister, and they went to church together. Not to the church they would have chosen at first. There they had difficulty in finding seats together; so they went elsewhere, with a friend of Annie's, and after a time they had no desire to change. They rarely saw each other during the week. Annie sometimes came into Christie's nursery; but the only real pleasure they had together was in the walk to and from church on Sabbath morning.

March was passing away. The snow was nearly gone, but there had been a shower during the night, and the pavements were wet, as Christie set out on her accustomed walk one morning. The wind blew freshly, too, and weary with the work of six days, she shrank from facing it, even for a little while, with her sister, so, at the street by which she usually went to the house where Annie lived, she paused.

"I'll wait in the church for her to-day," she said to herself. "I'm tired, and it's later than usual. She'll know if I'm not there by half-past ten, and she'll come down. At any rate, I'm too tired to go up the hill."

Yes, she was very tired. The fresh air did not brighten and enliven her as it usually did. The warm, moist wind that came in gusts from the south was not invigorating, and she went slowly up the church-steps, glad that her walk was over. There was no one in the church. Even the sexton was not visible; and Christie placed herself in her accustomed seat under the gallery, near the door, glad to rest in the pleasant stillness of the place. How quiet and peaceful it seemed! The sound of the moaning wind seemed to come from far-away, and the stillness within was all the deeper. After the noise and turmoil of six days, the silence was more grateful to her weary sense than the sound of sweetest music would have been; and closing her eyes, she leaned back, not to think, but to rest and be at peace.

Soon the congregation began to assemble, but her repose was too deep to be disturbed by the sound of footsteps or the rustling of garments. She neither stirred nor heard a sound till Annie laid her hand upon her arm. Then she awoke with a start, coming back to a realisation of time and place, with a flutter of confusion and pain.

"What ails you? Have you been sleeping? Are you not well?" whispered Annie, in alarm.

"Oh, yes, I'm well enough. I think I must have been sleeping, though," said Christie, scarcely able to restrain a laugh at Annie's astonishment.

"Sleeping! at this time of day, and in the kirk too!" exclaimed Annie.

"Well, never mind," said Christie, smiling, and holding down her head to hide her confusion. "Did you see David McIntyre? I'm almost sure I saw him in the street."

"Yes, I saw him. He brought this letter from Effie."

Christie took it from her.

"Don't read it now, in the kirk. There's nothing in it that will not keep. There is a little note for yourself inside. They are all well. Why didna you come up to-day? I have something to tell you."

Christie listened eagerly.

"I canna tell you now," said her sister. "See, the people are nearly all in. But I'll come down to-night, if I can."

At that moment a hard-featured man, a little in front, turned his sharp eyes towards them, with a look that was intended to warn and reprove; so nothing more was said.

As Annie was walking home with Christie, "I'm thinking of changing my place," she said.

"Changing!" repeated Christie. "I thought you were quite content."

"Oh, it's not that. Mrs Vinton wishes it. Her younger sister is going to be married, it seems, and her mother, who is an invalid—something like Aunt Elsie, I should think—wants some one to be with her always. She lives with a son, somewhere in the far West. Miss Emma—that's the sister—has been down. She thinks I should suit her mother, and Mrs Vinton is willing to spare me. I think I should like to go, for some things. The wages are higher."

"But so far-away," said Christie, in consternation; "and to leave me!"

"Yes, that's what disturbs me. You mustna stay when I go."

Christie shook her head. "I suppose there's the same need of my staying now that there was before," said she, quietly.

"But Effie was never quite willing that you should come, you know; and besides, your place is too hard for you."

"Just now it is, perhaps," interrupted Christie; "but Mr Lee is better, and we'll soon get into our old way again."

"But what I want is this," said Annie; "I want Sarah to come and take my place at Mrs Vinton's. I have told her about Sarah. And then you could go home and be with Effie."

"But I never could do what Sarah does at home," said Christie; "taking care of Aunt Elsie and all. It would be far harder than what I have to do now."

"But you would be at home, and you would have some one to look after you. I could never think of such a thing as leaving you here alone."

"But, Annie, Sarah would be alone," remonstrated Christie.

"Yes, I know; but it's quite different with Sarah. She's strong and healthy, and will hold her own with anybody; and besides, I'm sure Effie will never hear of your staying here alone. But there's time enough to think about it. If I go, I shall spend a week at home first. No; I can't go in," said Annie, as they came to Mrs Lee's door. "I must go home. I shall write to Effie. Now, don't fret about this, or I shall wish I hadna told you;" for Christie looked very grave indeed.

"We'll wait and see what Effie thinks," said she, sadly.

"Well, you have her letter; and I'll come down to-night, if I can, and we'll talk it over. But, for any sake, dinna look so glum, as Aunt Elsie would say."

Christie laughed a little at her sister's excitement, but it was a very grave face that bent over the baby's cot that afternoon. The south wind had brought rain, and when night came, the drops dashed drearily against the window-panes. Listening to it, as she sat with the baby in her arms and the others sleeping quietly about her, Christie said to herself, many times, that Annie could never venture out in such a night. Yet she started at every sound, and listened eagerly till it had died away again. Effie's letter had told her nothing new. They were all well and happy, and the old question was asked, "When is Christie coming home again?" But the letter, and even the little note, more precious still, could not banish from her mind the thought of what Annie had said to her; and it seemed to her that she could not possibly wait for another week to hear more. The baby was restless, its mother was detained down-stairs, and Christie walked about and murmured softly to still the little creature's cries. But it was all done mechanically, and wearily enough. Through the baby's cries and her own half-forced song, and through the dreary sounds of the wind and rain, she listened for her sister's foot upon the stairs. She could not have told why she was so impatient to see her. Annie could tell her no more than she had already told her during their walk from church. But since the possibility of getting home had been suggested, the old feelings had started within her. A sudden rush of home-sickness had come over her, and with it the old unwillingness to go home and be a burden. She could fix her thoughts on nothing else. Even after the baby had fallen into an uneasy slumber, she wandered up and down the room, hushing it in her arms as before.

There was a step on the stairs at last. It was not Annie, however, but Mrs Lee.

"I am afraid the baby has been fretful," she said, kindly, as she took the child in her arms. "You look tired, Christie."

"No; I'm not very tired." But she moved about the room, putting aside little frocks and shoes, keeping her face all the time from the light. She was very much afraid that if Mrs Lee were to speak so gently again her tears must flow; and this must not be if she could possibly help it. In the meantime, Mrs Lee had taken up a book, which lay on a table beside her. It was Christie's Bible; and when she had finished putting away the children's clothes worn through the day, and seated herself at a little distance, Mrs Lee said:

"You are fond of reading, Christie?"

Christie had many times asked permission to take a book into the nursery, when the children were asleep, and she answered:

"Yes, ma'am; I like to read, very much."

"And do you like to read the Bible? Some people seem to take great pleasure in it."

"Yes; I read it every day. I promised Effie I would."

Mrs Lee continued to turn over the leaves.

"Whose marks are these on the margin?" she asked.

"I suppose they are Effie's. John Nesbitt marked one or two for me, when I was staying at his mother's last summer. The rest are Effie's."

Mrs Lee read, "He shall cover thee with His feathers, and under His wings shalt thou trust."

"That was John's," said Christie, quickly. "One day a hawk came very near, and we saw the chickens run to take shelter with their mother; and in the evening John marked that passage, because, he said, it was just the right one for a feeble, frightened, faithless little creature like me. I was not well at the time."

Christie paused, partly because she thought she had said enough, and partly because it would not have been easy for her to say more just then.

"I don't think your friend could have known you very well," said Mrs Lee, smiling. "He would never call you feeble, or frightened, if he knew all you have done, and what a comfort you have been to me, this winter."

"Oh, he meant that I was not brave and cheerful, like Effie; and I am not."

"It is pleasant to have these tokens of your friend, any way," said Mrs Lee, musingly.

"There are other of his marks:—'Under the shadow of Thy wings will I make my refuge, until these calamities be overpast,'—and another about rejoicing under the shadow of His wings."

It was a troubled, tearful face that Christie laid down on her hands as she said this. Mrs Lee was still turning over the leaves, and took no notice of the sigh that escaped the little nurse.

"You read it to please your sister and your friend, do you? Or do you really love to read it? I have heard of those who find their chief happiness in believing what the Bible teaches. Do you?"

There was a pause, during which Christie slowly raised her face from her hands and turned it towards Mrs Lee. Then she said, with some hesitation:

"I don't know. I wouldn't be without the Bible for all the world; and yet I know I don't find all the comfort in it that some people do. I suppose it is because I am not sure that I am a Christian."

"A Christian?" repeated Mrs Lee.

"Yes; a child of God," said Christie, with a sigh. "If I were sure that I am a child of God, then all the promises in His Holy Word would be mine."

"I suppose you mean if you were always good and never committed any sin?" said Mrs Lee, inquiringly.

"No; not that, exactly. Even God's people fall into sin sometimes."

"What do you mean by being a child of God, then? We are all His children in a certain sense, are we not?"

Christie glanced doubtfully at Mrs Lee.

"I mean one who loves God supremely—one who is at peace with God, who has no will but His—one whose sins are forgiven for Jesus Christ's sake."

"And you think you are not one of these?" said Mrs Lee.

"I don't know. Sometimes I hope; but I am afraid not. I am sure I wish to be."

Mrs Lee looked as though she did not quite understand her; but she said nothing more. She laid down the book and rocked the baby gently on her knee. Her thoughts were not very happy, Christie fancied, if she might judge by her face, which grew grave and sad as she gazed on the child. One of the little boys made a sudden movement. Christie rose to replace the coverlet on him.

"How peacefully they sleep!" said their mother. "Ah me!" she added; "if they could always be as free from care! If I could get but one glimpse into their future! And yet perhaps it is better as it is."

"It is better to trust than to know, I once heard Effie say." Christie spoke shyly, and with hesitation, as though she were not quite sure that she should speak at all.

Mrs Lee smiled, and said, kindly:

"I see you are very fond of your sister Effie."

Christie's face spoke; but she did not trust her voice.

"I suppose she is the eldest of your family?"

"Yes. She's twenty-two. Oh, I wish you could see Effie! She is very different from what you would think from seeing me—or Annie, even."

"How so?" asked Mrs Lee, greatly amused at the eagerness of one usually so quiet and self-restrained.

"Oh, I can hardly tell you. She looks so different—from me, I mean. Annie's more like her. But it's not so much her looks. She is so brave and cheerful and strong. She is not afraid. And yet she is gentle, and has patience with us all."

"Is she one of those you were speaking about just now—a child of God?"

"Yes; she is," said Christie, gravely. "She doesn't say much about it; but I do believe it is that which makes the difference. No wonder that she is strong and brave and cheerful always, when she is quite sure that all things will work together for her good."

Christie spoke the last words rather to herself than to Mrs Lee. The lady listened with much interest, however. She had long ago learned to value her little nurse for her faithfulness and her desire to do right; but this glimpse she was getting of her inner life was something new.

"It's no wonder I love Effie," continued Christie, whose heart was opened. "When my mother died, I was sickly, and different from the rest; and she gave me to Effie as her special care. I think I should have died if it hadn't been for her. Oh, if I could only see her, just for one minute!"

Christie was in danger of forgetting all else for the moment. But she checked herself by a great effort, and said:

"I don't mean that I am discontented here, or that I would go home if I could. I know it is best I should be here."

"What do you mean by all things working together for good?" said Mrs Lee, by and by. "I suppose Christians have trials and sorrows as well as others?"

"Oh, yes! I don't mean that. But a Christian may be sure that even his trials are sent for the best. That is what John Nesbitt said to Effie and me once. He said, if we had a friend of whose love we could be sure, a friend who was wise and powerful and who had promised to bring us safely through our troubles, we should have no cause to fret and despond, though we might not understand all that happened by the way. We might be sure that in the end all would be well."

"If one could only have such a friend!" said Mrs Lee, with an audible sigh.

"Well, I suppose Jesus Christ is such a friend to those who love Him," said Christie, softly. "He's loving and powerful, and He has promised; and He cannot break His promise, we know. If we would but trust Him!"

Mrs Lee said nothing. The look of care that Christie had seen on her face many times since she came, and oftener than ever within the last few weeks, was settling on it now. She leaned her head on her hand, and sighed many times, as she sat gazing on the face of her baby, who had fallen asleep on her knee. Christie took up her book; but she could not help stealing a glance, now and then, at the mother and child.

Thinking of Mrs Lee's troubles, Christie for a time forgot her own; and it was not so difficult to wait till the next week to see her sister as she supposed it would be. She had to wait longer than that before their arrangements were made. Annie wrote to Effie; but as only a weekly mail reached them, and as even that one might fail, it was some time before they could expect to hear from her. The days passed very slowly. Effie's letter seemed a long time in coming.

In the meanwhile April came in, and as the days grew longer and milder, Christie's anxiety to hear grew more intense. It seemed to her that she must get away from the town and run home for a little while. The longing never left her. Her stories to the children were all about the buds that were beginning to show themselves, and the flowers and birds that would be coming soon. She told them how all living creatures were rejoicing in the return of spring, how glad the calves and the young lambs would be to find themselves in the pastures, that were now becoming green. She told them how the icy bands that had bound the little brooks through all the winter-time were broken now by the bright sunshine, and how by this time the water must have reached the hollow at the foot of the birch-tree and covered the turf seat there. She told them how the waters rushed and murmured when they rose so high that the green buds of the birch-tree dipped into them, and how the wind swayed the young willows, till she seemed to hear the sound, and grew faint with her longing to be there.

The letter came at last. Annie was to do as she thought best, Effie said. She could judge what was wisest, and what she would like, better than they could, who were so far-away; but as for Christie, she was to come home. Not to exchange with Sarah, however. Whether one of them would go back, or whether both were to stay at home, was to be decided afterwards; but in the meantime Christie was to come home.

"Think of it!" Effie said; "six long months away! Aunt Elsie, Mrs Nesbitt, old Mrs Grey—everybody said she must come home."

How the poor girl's heart leaped to meet the welcome that awaited her! Yes, she must go home, for a little while at least. Mrs Lee was grieved at the prospect of parting with her. Christie was almost vexed with herself that the thought of leaving her and the children should not be more painful to her. But there was too much joy in her heart to leave room for more sorrow.

"I didna think I should be so glad to go," she said to Annie many times during their last walk from church. Annie laughed.

"You have forgotten Aunt Elsie and all other vexations. Wait till you get home. It won't be all sunshine there, I can tell you."

But even the thought of Aunt Elsie had not the power of making Christie anything but glad. She was afraid of nothing, except that something might happen to hinder her going home.

"You foolish child!" said Annie, laughing. "What could happen?"



CHAPTER EIGHT.

"MAN PROPOSES, GOD DISPOSES."

But something did happen. That night, when Christie went home, she found Mrs Lee ill. She was not very ill, at least, not much more so than she had been for a long time. She had been quite unfit for the fatigue of nursing her husband, and now that he was better, her strength forsook her. There was a dull, low fever upon her. The doctor said Mrs Greenly must be sent for and the baby must be weaned. Christie's heart sickened as she heard all this. Could she leave the baby to a strange nurse? It would greatly add to the anxiety of the mother, and might hinder her recovery for a time, even to know that the children, and especially the delicate baby, must be left to the care of a stranger. Ought she to go home?

What a wakeful, miserable night she passed! She fancied she could bear to stay; but to disappoint Effie and all at home was very painful. Must she stay? It seemed so hard to change her plans now, both for her own sake and theirs.

But the morrow decided the matter for her. Letty was irritable all day and all night, and when the doctor came in the morning, he pronounced her symptoms to be those of scarlet fever. So Christie and the other children were banished to the attic-nursery again. She said not another word about going home, except to her sister.

"Tell Effie I couldna get away. It wouldna be right to leave; would it, Annie? I will try and not be very unhappy about it."

But the tears that rolled down her cheeks told how bitter the disappointment was to her. Annie would have lingered a week, even to the shortening of her visit at home, for the sake of having Christie go with her; but this was not to be thought of. The fever might go through the whole family. The doctor thought that most likely it would do so; and she could not better leave at the end of a week than now.

"And don't tell them I was so very much disappointed about it," she said, trying to smile, when Annie rose to go. "They must be all the more glad to see me when I come. I couldna go, Annie. Now, do you really think I could?"

They were up in the attic-nursery. Christie sat with the baby in her lap, while little Harry hung about her, begging to be taken up. The other boys were engaged in some noisy play near the window; but the confinement up-stairs had already made them irritable, and Christie's constant interference was required to keep the peace between them. How much worse it would be if an entire stranger were put in the place of her who had been their kind nurse all the winter! And the poor, anxious mother down-stairs too, how much worse for her!

"No, Christie, dear; considering all things, I think you do right to stay. But it is a great disappointment."

"Make Effie understand how it is." It was only by a great effort that she restrained a flood of tears till her sister had gone. Then they fell upon the baby's frock like rain. The boys looked on in astonishment, and little Harry burst out into a frightened cry, wakening the baby, who joined her voice to his.

"There! there! Hush, baby! hush! Harry, don't cry. Oh me! what shall I do?"

There was but one thing to do, and she tried faithfully to do it;—it was to forget herself and her disappointment, and devote herself to the little ones for the day. And so she did, for that day and many days, with better success than she had dared to hope for. Letty was in the other nursery, next to her mother's room, and for several days Christie saw neither of them. The baby missed her mother less than might have been expected, and submitted to her privation quietly enough. By passing the day down-stairs in the dining-room, or out in the yard when the weather was fine, Christie contrived to keep the boys amused and happy most of the time. Mr Lee was absent on one of his business journeys. It was uncertain when he would return; but Nelly was equal to all housekeeping emergencies, and no one spoke of his absence with regret. Mrs Greenly always considered Christie as under her special patronage, as she had been the means of bringing her to the house, and she strove to lighten her burden as much as possible. But it was a weary time, those first ten days after Annie went away.

Christie did not go to church the first Sabbath. It is doubtful whether she would have found the courage, even if she could have been spared. The next week was not so bad with them. Letty's illness, though severe, proved less so than had been feared at first; and though Mrs Lee grew no better, she did not grow worse. Before the second Sabbath, Letty was pronounced out of danger, and Nelly, taking pity on Christie's pale, weary face, offered to take her place with the children while she went to church.

She went early, as usual, and had time for the shedding of some very sorrowful tears before the congregation gathered. I am afraid there was a little bitterness mingled with the sorrow. The good she had done by staying did not seem worth the great sacrifice it had cost. Letty had not been very ill after all. The other children were well, and might have done with a stranger, and she might have been going to the kirk at home with Effie that very day. Besides, Mrs Greenly did not seem to think her staying a great matter—though she had more than once praised her for her care of the children. As for Mrs Lee, she had scarcely seen her; and when she had, she had not alluded to the change in her plans which sickness had made. What had cost her so much, she thought, was a small matter in their view; and it is no wonder that the pang of home-sickness that smote her, as she looked at her sister's empty seat in the kirk, was all the harder to bear because of this. She did not gain much good from the sermon that day. Heedless of some curious— perhaps pitying—eyes that were turned towards her, she leaned her head on her hand and thought her own dreary thoughts; and when the services were over, she rose and went away with the rest, although uncomforted.

The day passed slowly enough. It needed a greater effort than she could make to amuse the children and keep them interested, and they were noisy and trouble some. The baby, too, was fretful, and would by no means be content to sit still; and Christie wandered about with her, listless and miserable, till tea-time. After tea, thankful for the prospect of a little peace, she put the boys to bed, and seating herself by the baby's cot, went back to her sad, unprofitable thoughts again.

It was well for her—though she did not think so—that this moody fit did not last long. Mrs Greenly's step upon the stairs aroused her.

"Christie," said she, "are you reading? Just take your book and go and sit down-stairs, will you? Letty's asleep, and will need nothing, I dare say. If she does, you can call me. Mrs Lee will need nothing either. I don't know how it is that I am so overcome with sleep. I'll lie down and rest a minute or two, and I'll hear the children if they wake."

Christie took her book and went down, but she did not read. Instead of that, she seated herself in the dark on the stairs, and began her unprofitable musings again. Mrs Lee was not asleep. She was evidently feverish and uncomfortable, and turned about and sighed often and heavily. Christie had been told not to go into her room unless she was called, so she sat still a little, beguiled from her own sad thoughts as she took note of the uneasiness of the sick lady.

"Are you there, nurse?" said Mrs Lee, at last.

Christie rose, and went softly in.

"Oh, is it you, Christie? Are the children asleep? How's the baby to-night? I feel very weary and wakeful. I don't know what ails me."

"Shall I call nurse?" asked Christie.

"No. Oh, no. She could do nothing for me. Are you reading? Read to me a little. Perhaps it will quiet me and make me fall asleep."

While Christie brought the light and placed it where Mrs Lee's eyes would not be troubled by it, she said again:

"The children are quite well, nurse tells me. It was very well that you decided not to go home, Christie. I am very glad you stayed."

Christie said nothing.

"I am afraid your sister was disappointed," said Mrs Lee.

"Yes," said Christie. She could not say more. "Do you think you will go soon?"

"I don't know, ma'am." Poor Christie! Going or staying seemed a small matter to Mrs Lee. It would not bear talking about; so she said:

"What shall I read to you?"

"Oh, anything. It doesn't matter. Anything to pass the time."

Christie turned over a book or two that lay on the table, still at a loss what to choose.

"You had a book in your hand when you came in," said Mrs Lee, presently. "Read that."

It was the Bible; and opening it at random, Christie read. She read softly and slowly, psalm after psalm; and soothed by her voice, Mrs Lee lay and listened. After a time, Christie thought that she slept, and made a pause.

"Do you believe what you have been reading?" she asked, suddenly.

Christie started.

"It's the Bible," said she.

"Yes; I know. Of course you believe it in a general way. Everybody does. But do you take the good of it? That, for instance—'God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed.' Are you never afraid?"

Christie did not answer.

"Do you remember what you said to me the other night about your sister, and all things working for good to those who love God? Are you sure of it? And are you always content with what God sends you?"

Poor Christie! She sat conscience-stricken, remembering her murmuring spirit through the day.

"If I could be sure that I am one of those to whom God has given a right to His promises, I think I should be content with all He sends."

She spoke humbly, and in a broken voice.

"Oh, if one could be sure!" murmured Mrs Lee. "If there was any good or pleasant thing in this world of which one could be quite sure! Oh, how weary I am of it all!"

The charm of the reading was broken. She moved her head restlessly on the pillow. Christie went to her.

"Can I do anything for you? Let me bathe your hands and face." And she brought some fresh water. "Sometimes when my head used to ache badly, my mother brushed it softly."

"I thought your mother was dead," said Mrs Lee, raising herself up, and submitting to be tended after Christie's fashion.

"Yes, she died four years ago. I was but a child; but I remember her quite well."

"My mother is dead too," said Mrs Lee, with a sigh. "I wonder if she would have died if I had not left her? I was but a child—only sixteen—and we never can tell beforehand how things are to turn out. If I had only known! But, oh me! why do I vex myself with all these things to-night? It is too late now!—too late now!"

Christie was alarmed at her evident excitement. Laying her gently down on her pillow, and smoothing her hair, she said:

"If you please, ma'am, Mrs Greenly said I was not to speak to you, and that you must be kept quiet."

With a strange sound between a sob and a laugh, she said:

"Ah, yes! It is easy for her to say, 'Keep quiet;' but all her good nursing does not reach my troubles. Oh, me; how weary I am! My mother is dead, and I have no sister; and my brothers have quite forgotten me. But if we could only be sure that what your sister says is true, about the Friend that cares for us, and who will bring us safe through all troubles!"

"It's not Effie that says it," said Christie, eagerly, "It's in the Bible; and you may be quite sure it's true."

"I wouldn't care so much for myself; but these poor little children who have no one but me, and I so weak and helpless. My heart fails when I think of all they may have to bear. I suppose my mother had just such anxious thoughts about me. Oh, if she had known all! but she could not have helped me here."

"But the verse says, 'A very present help in trouble,'" said Christie, softly. "That's one difference between a heavenly Friend and all earthly friends."

"Yes," said Mrs Lee, languidly. Christie continued:

"The Bible says, too, 'The Lord is nigh unto all them that call upon Him, to all that call upon Him in truth.' And in another place, 'Wait on the Lord: be of good courage, and He shall strengthen thy heart.'"

"Yes; if, as you say, one could be sure that all these words were for us," said Mrs Lee. Christie faltered a little; but by and by she said:

"Well, the trust, like all other blessings, comes from Him. We can but ask Him for it. At any rate, it is to those who are in trouble that He promises help. It is to those who labour and are heavy-laden that Christ has promised rest."

"Rest!" echoed Mrs Lee, wearily. "Oh for rest!"

"Yes; and He says He will give it to those who come to Him," continued Christie. "We ought not to doubt Him. He has said, in twenty places, that He will hear prayer."

"I have a prayer-book. My mother gave it to me. But I have neglected it sadly."

"But the New Testament and the Psalms are full of promises to hear prayer." And Christie repeated many verses as they came to her mind:

"Him that cometh unto Me, I will in no wise cast out.

"Whatever ye ask in My name, it shall be done unto you.

"Ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye shall find.

"If ye, then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more shall your Father in heaven give His Holy Spirit unto those who ask Him.

"And the Psalm says:—

"And in the day of trouble great See that thou call on Me; I will deliver thee, and thou My name shalt glorify."

"Can't you sing?" asked Mrs Lee, coaxingly.

It was a long time before Christie could conquer her shyness so as to sing even with the children, but she had no thought of shyness now. She began the twentieth, and then the twenty-third Psalm, singing them to old Scotch tunes—rippling notes of strange, wild melody, like what we seldom hear in our churches nowadays. The child's voice had a clear, silvery sweetness, melting away in tender cadences; and breathing words suited to such times of need as come to all, whatever else may pass them by, it did more than soothe Mrs Lee, it comforted her.

"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."

And so she sang on, her voice growing softer and lower, till Mrs Lee fell asleep, and slept as she had not slept before for months, calmly as a child; and Christie stood beside her, listening to her gentle breathing, and saying to herself:

"I wonder if I have done her any good?"

Then she went back to her seat upon the stairs, and before she had sat there long in the darkness the blessed knowledge came to her that, whether she had done any good or not, she had gained much within the last two hours. In trying to comfort another she had herself been comforted.

"I can ask for the best blessing that God has to give, and keep asking till I get it. Why should I not?" And no bitterness was mingled with her tears, though they still fell fast. "I will try and do right, and trust, and have patience, and God will guide me, I know He will."

And so she sat in the dark, sometimes slumbering, sometimes thinking, till the baby's whimpering cry summoned her back to her usual care.

The next week was better in all respects than the last. Letty grew well rapidly, and her mother improved a little day by day. The doctor, looking now and then into the attic-nursery, gave them hope at last that the little ones might escape the fever for this time; and Christie's thoughts began to turn homeward again. But not so anxiously as before. The pain of parting from the children would be harder now. And during these days she began to feel a strange yearning tenderness for the poor young mother, scarcely less helpless and in need of care than they. It had come to be quite the regular thing now for Mrs Greenly to take an hour's rest in the attic-nursery when the children had fallen asleep, while Christie took her place in Mrs Lee's room.

New and wonderful were the glimpses which those twilight hours gave to Christie. She found that Mrs Lee, sitting in her drawing-room, or even in the nursery, giving directions about the care of the children, was a very different person from Mrs Lee lying in bed feverish or exhausted, looking back over the days of her childhood, or forward to a future that was anything but hopeful to her disenchanted eyes. Naturally reserved, the lady had made but few acquaintances in the city, and had not one intimate friend; and now, when weak and weary and desponding, it was a relief to her to speak to some one of the times and places and events over which memory had brooded in silence for so many years. She never dreamed what glimpses of her heart she was giving to her little nurse. She only saw the sympathy expressed by Christie's grave face or eager gesture; and she talked to her, sometimes regretfully enough, about her mother and her brothers and her childish days. Yet, sad as those memories were, they were scarcely so sad as the thoughts she sent out into the future. She did not often speak her fears; but her silence and her frequent sighs were to Christie more eloquent than words.

Christie rarely spoke at such times as these—never, except when a question was asked; and then her reply was generally prefaced with, "I have heard my father say," or, "Effie once told me," or, "I heard John Nesbitt saying." Ignorant as she knew herself to be on the most important of all subjects, she was yet far wiser than her mistress. Some of Christie's simple remarks and suggestions made an impression on her heart that wiser and more direct teachings might have failed to make.

As for Christie, in her sympathy for Mrs Lee's troubles, she almost forgot her own. In striving to relieve her from all anxiety about the children, she was ready to forget even her own weariness; and in the knowledge that she was doing some good to them all, she ceased to regret that Annie had gone home without her.



CHAPTER NINE.

LIGHT IN DARKNESS.

The week passed. Sunday morning came; and out of a broken, uneasy slumber, Christie was awakened by the fall of rain-drops on the window. In the midst of the trouble and turmoil of the week she had striven to be patient; but through it all she had looked forward to the two hours' respite of the Sabbath, and now it seemed to her that she could not be denied. Turning her aching eyes from the light, she did not, for a moment or two, try to restrain her tears. But she could not indulge herself long, if she had been ever so much inclined. For soon arose the clamour of childish voices, that must be stilled. So Christie rose, and bathed her hot eyes, and strove to think that, after all, the clouds were not so very thick, and they might break away in time for her to go.

"At any rate, there is no good in being vexed about it," she said to herself. "I must try and be content at home, if I canna go."

It was an easier matter to content herself than to her first waking thought seemed possible. She was soon busy with the little ones, quieting their noise as she washed and dressed them, partly for little Harry's sake, and partly because it was the Sabbath-day. So earnest was she in all this that she had no time to think of her disappointment till the boys were down-stairs at breakfast with their mother. Then little Harry seemed feverish and fretful and "ill to do with," as Mrs Greenly, who visited the attic-nursery with the baby in her arms, declared. Christie strove to soothe her fretful pet, and took him in her arms to carry him down-stairs. A gleam of sunshine met her on the way.

"It is going to be fine weather, after all," she said to Nurse Greenly, turning round on the first landing.

But nurse seemed inclined this morning to look on the dark side of things, and shook her head.

"I'm not so sure of that," said she. "That's but a single gleam; and I dare say the sky is black enough, if we could see it. And hearken, child, to the wind! The streets will be in a puddle; and with those pains in your ankles you'll never, surely, think of going out to-day?"

Christie's face clouded again; and so did the sky, for the gleam of sunshine vanished.

"I should like to go, indeed," said she; "and it's only when I am very tired that my ankles pain me."

"Tired!" repeated nurse. "Yes, and no wonder; and yet you will persist in carrying that great boy, who is far better able to carry himself. I don't wonder that you want to go even to the church, to be out of the reach of trouble for a while."

Christie laughed a little—she could not help it—at nurse's energy.

"I am afraid it is partly for the quiet that I want to go," said she, looking grave enough for a minute.

And she did go, after all, though the weather was so forbidding.

Christie's first thought, when she entered the church, was that their hall-clock had gone wrong and made her late; for already there was scarcely a vacant seat, and it was not without difficulty that she found her way to the place she was accustomed to occupy. There were strangers in the pew, and strangers before her and around her; and with a shy and wondering feeling Christie took up her hymn-book.

The great multitude that filled the seats and thronged the aisles were waiting impatiently to hear the sound of a voice hitherto unheard among them. Christie sent now and then a curious glance over the crowded seats and aisles, and up to the galleries, from which so many grave, attentive faces looked down; but even when the stillness which followed the hum and buzz of the coming in of the congregation was broken by the clear, grave tones of a stranger's voice, it never occurred to her that it was the voice of one whose eloquence had gathered and held many a multitude before. In a little while she forgot the crowd and everything else. At first she strained her short-sighted eyes in the direction of the voice, eagerly but vainly. But this soon ceased; and by the time the singing and the prayers were over, she only listened.

To many in the house that day, the word spoken by God's servant was as "a very lovely song of one that hath a pleasant voice and can play well on an instrument." To many it was a stumbling-block, and to many more foolishness. But to the weary child, who sat there with her head bowed down, and her face hidden in her hands, it was "Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God unto salvation." She forgot the time, the place, and the gathered multitude. She forgot her own weakness and weariness. She forgot even the speaker in the words he spoke. In a little while she grew unconscious of the tears she had tried to hide, and her hands fell down on her lap, and her wet cheeks and smiling lips were turned towards the face that her dim eyes failed to see.

I cannot tell what were the words that so moved her. It was not that the thoughts were new or clothed in loftier language than she was wont to hear. It was the old but ever new theme, set forth in the old true way, reverently and simply, by lips which—long ago touched by a coal from the altar—had answered to the heavenly voice, "Here am I; send me." It was God's love, intimated by many a sign and made visible by many a token, but first and best of all by this, that "He spared not His own Son, but gave Him up to die for us all."

No, the words were neither new nor strange; and yet they seemed to be both to her. It was not as though she were listening to spoken words. There seemed to be revealed to her, as in a vision, a glimpse of mysteries into which the angels desire to look. Her eyes were open to see God's plan of salvation in its glorious completeness, Christ's finished work in all its suitableness and sufficiency, His grace in all its fullness and freeness. Oh, that wondrous grace! Angels gaze from afar, while ascribing to its Author greatness and power and glory. But the redeemed have a higher and more thrilling song put into their mouths.

"Unto Him who loved us, and gave Himself for us!" they sing; and then and there this child had a foretaste of their unspeakable blessedness. It was as "the chiefest among ten thousand, and altogether lovely," that she saw Him now; and love supreme, and entire trust and peacefulness, took possession of her heart. Very sinful, and weak and unworthy she saw herself to be; but she saw also that the grace that can pardon, justify, purify, and save is the more glorious on that very account. Her sins no longer rose between her and God. They were removed from her "as far as the east is from the west." They were cast altogether behind His back, to be remembered against her no more for ever.

If before to-day Christie had been one of Christ's little ones—if she had had a place in the fold, and had now and then caught a glimpse of the green pastures and the still waters where the "Good Shepherd" leads His flock—it was to-day for the first time that she realised the blessedness of her calling. Her little Bible, and her murmured prayer night and morning, amid the sleeping children, had more than any other thing, more than all other things together, helped her quietly and cheerfully through the weary winter. Clinging now to one promise, and now to another, she had never been quite without the light and help that seemed to come from above. But to-day it was not a solitary promise. It was not even the sense that all the promises to God's people from generation to generation were hers to rely upon. It was the blessedness of the knowledge that began to dawn, like heaven's own light, upon her, the knowledge that she was no longer her own, but His who had bought her with a price—His to have and to hold, in sorrow and joy, through life and in death, henceforth and for ever. Now, "neither life, nor death, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, could separate her from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord."

Silently, with the thoughtful or thoughtless multitude, she passed from the house of prayer. Yet her soul was sending up a song of praise that reached the heaven of heavens. A forlorn little figure she must have seemed to any chance eye that rested on her as she picked her way among the pools that had settled here and there on the pavement. It was only by a great effort that she held her own against the wind and rain, that threatened to carry away her shawl, and rendered vain her attempts to shield her faded crape bonnet with a still more faded umbrella. If one among the crowd who met or passed her on her way took any notice of her at all, it must have been to smile at or to pity her. Yet over her angels in the high heavens were rejoicing. In her heart was the peace that passeth understanding, soon to blossom forth into joy unspeakable and full of glory.

Heedless alike of smiles and pity, she hastened along, unconscious of discomfort. Even the near approach to the house, and the thought of the peevish children and the dim attic-nursery, had no power to silence the song that her grateful soul was singing. She went up the stone steps without her accustomed sigh of weariness; and the face that greeted Mrs Greenly as she opened the door, though pale enough, and wet with rain-drops, was a very pleasant face for any one to see.

"You foolish child!" Mrs Greenly exclaimed, eyeing the little figure that stood on the door-mat. "You would have been better at home."

Something in Christie's face kept her from saying more.

"I am very glad I went—very glad," said Christie, stooping to take off her wet shoes, that she might not soil Nelly's spotless oilcloth; and as she gathered them up and faced Mrs Greenly again, she repeated, softly:

"I am very, very glad! You haven't needed me much, have you? How is wee Harry?"

Nurse took no notice of her question, but looking gravely at her, said:

"I wonder the wind didn't carry you away, poor child!"

"It very nearly did," said Christie, laughing. "I am very glad to be safe within doors again; but I am very glad I went, for all that."

"But you are wet through!" said nurse, laying her hand on her shoulder. "Go and change your clothes this very moment. Stay," she added, as Christie began to ascend the stairs. "If the children get a sight of you there will be an end of your peace. Go down to the kitchen, and I will bring down your things for you."

Christie looked wonderingly into her face.

"You are very kind. But you need not take the trouble. I'm not so very wet."

"Do as I bid you," said Mrs Greenly, impatiently. "You'll be ill with those pains in your ankles again. And you have a weary week before you, or I'm mistaken."

"What is it?" asked Christie, in alarm.

"It may be little, after all; but little Harry seems far from well, and his mother is naturally anxious. At any rate, I'm going to call for the doctor this afternoon, and if it should prove that he has taken the fever, why, I must stay for a week, and you have the prospect of a longer confinement in the attic-nursery."

It was too true. Little Harry was very ill—much worse than his sister had been at first. The doctor looked very grave when he saw him that afternoon, and positively directed that the other children should be kept away from the room. But Christie was not sent with them to the attic.

Having caught a glimpse of her passing the door, Harry could not be pacified till he found himself in her arms; and not even his mother could beguile him from her through all that long afternoon. He was very feverish, and seemed to suffer much, poor little fellow. Sometimes she soothed his restlessness by singing to him in a low voice, or by telling him the tales that had amused him many a time during the long winter. Sometimes she walked about with him in her arms; but she was not able to do this very long, and so she sat on a low chair, rocking him gently in her arms. The other children were down-stairs with Nelly. Mrs Greenly had gone out to make arrangements for a longer stay; and poor Mrs Lee, anxious and unhappy, went in and out of the nursery, unable to quiet herself or to take the rest she so much needed.

It was nearly dark when the doctor came in again, and the little boy had fallen into an uneasy slumber. The doctor started slightly when he saw Christie, and said, rather hastily—

"I thought I told you to keep away?"

The child stirred and murmured as the light was brought in, and Christie hushed him softly; but she made no reply. Mrs Lee spoke for her:

"But he was so restless, doctor, and seemed so uncomfortable after you went away; and we could do nothing to quiet him till Christie took him. He is very fond of her."

The doctor laid his hand on the hot forehead of the little patient, but his eye was on Christie.

"Have you ever had the fever?" he asked.

"I am not sure. I think I had it when I was a child. But I am not afraid of it."

"When you were a child! That could not have been a long time ago, I should imagine," said the doctor, smiling a little, as he looked into the earnest face turned towards him. "But I dare say you will do as well for Harry as Nurse Greenly herself could do."

"Is he in danger? Is he worse than Letty was?" asked his mother.

"Oh, no! He is by no means so ill as she was at one time," said the doctor, cheerfully. "And a fine rugged little fellow like Harry may get through much better than his sister. But, at the same time, this fever sometimes becomes more severe as the season advances, and it is as well to keep the other children away. Not that I think there is any particular danger for any of them—even the baby; but being weaned so young, and her teeth coming, it is as well to be cautious. So if Christie is to nurse Harry, she may as well have nothing to do with the baby—or the boys."

Mrs Lee looked still harassed and anxious.

"There is no harm done," continued the doctor, soothingly. "If Christie has to be with the other children, she should not be with Harry. But if Harry is so fond of her, perhaps she had better stay with him to-night, at any rate. I dare say you can manage without her up-stairs for one night?"

"Oh, yes! we can do very well," said Mrs Lee.

"When do you expect Mr Lee home?" asked the doctor.

Mrs Lee shook her head. "I have been expecting him every day for a week. He must come soon, now, or write. He has not yet heard of Letty's illness. I was so glad it was over before he came! and now Harry, and perhaps the others—" She stopped short, but soon added, "I hope nurse will not need to go."

"No, it's not likely; and even if she should, you will manage with some one for the other children. I am quite willing to trust my patients with this careful little person, since she is not afraid. The little fellow seems quite fond of her. I suppose you don't mind being kept awake a little for one night?" he said, as he again stooped over the flushed face of the little boy.

"Oh, no! And even if I go to sleep, I wake very easily. The least movement wakes me. I think you can trust me, ma'am; and I can call you or Mrs Greenly at any moment, you know."

"I have trusted her all the winter, as I have never been able to trust any one with the children before," said Mrs Lee to the doctor. "Christie has been very good to the children, and to me too. I am only afraid I have put too much on her—such a child as she is."

Christie's face, which had been pale enough before, crimsoned all over with pleasure at the words of Mrs Lee.

"I am quite strong; at least, I am much stronger than I look," she said.

"Well, you are to stay with little Harry to-night, at any rate, and I hope I may find him much better in the morning," said the doctor.

He gave some further directions about the child's drink and medicine, and went away. Christie heard him in the passage urging upon Mrs Lee the necessity of keeping herself quiet and taking rest. The child, he assured her, was in no danger; but he would not answer for the consequences to herself should she suffer her over-anxiety to bring on a return of the illness from which she had only just recovered. He did not leave her till he saw her resting on the sofa in her own room; and Christie did not see her again till the house had become quiet for the night. Mrs Greenly had paid one brief visit to the sick-room, and then, weary with the exertions of the week, betook herself to the attic-nursery to rest. Christie was left quite alone but her solitary musings were not so sad as they had been many a time. And sitting there in the dim light of the night-lamp, she said to herself, "I can never, never have such sad thoughts again."



CHAPTER TEN.

THE SHADOW OF DEATH.

It was past midnight when Mrs Lee entered the nursery again. Little Harry was on the bed, and his weary nurse was preparing to lie down beside him.

"He seems to be sleeping quietly," said his mother, as she bent over him, "Yes, ma'am—much more quietly than he did last night. I think he will have a good night," said Christie.

Mrs Lee seated herself on the side of the low bed, and listened to his quick, irregular breathing.

"I was beginning to hope that all the others might escape, now that Letty is so well," she said; "but if Harry gets over it I shall be glad. It is always well that children should have these diseases while they are at home, if they must have them—poor darlings!"

She looked grave, and even sad as she spoke; but her face was not so pale, and she did not look so hopeless as she had done when the doctor was present.

"I feel quite rested and refreshed," she said, after a few moments. "I have been asleep two or three hours. You had better go up-stairs and lie down awhile, and I will stay with Harry the rest of the night. You look very tired, Christie."

"I was just going to lie down here," said Christie. "Do you think you need to sit up, ma'am? He seems sleeping so quietly, and the least movement he can make will wake me. I can keep a light burning, and call you at any moment. I do not think you need to sit up."

"I am afraid you will not rest much with him, if his least movement will wake you," said Mrs Lee, doubtfully.

"Oh, I wake and sleep again very easily," said Christie, cheerfully. "I am used to it now."

Still Mrs Lee lingered, watching the child with anxious eyes, and now and then sighing deeply Christie sent many a pitying glance towards her wondering if any trouble that she knew nothing of was added to the anxiety with which she regarded her child. She longed to be able to comfort her. Her heart was full of sympathy for her—sympathy which she did not venture to express in words. She did not even let her looks express it, but took up her Bible, that she might not seem to be watching her. Mrs Lee roused herself at last, and turning to Christie, said:

"Mrs Greenly tells me that Mr G., the famous preacher, was in town to-day. And, by the bye, you must have heard him. He preached in —- Church this morning. You were there, I suppose?"

"Yes; I was there," said Christie, with great interest. "There was a strange minister preached; but I didn't know that he was a great man. That was the reason there was such a crowd of people, I suppose. I wondered why it was."

"You didn't like him, then? or you didn't think him a great man?" said Mrs Lee, smiling.

"Oh, yes," said she, eagerly; "I liked him. But I wasn't thinking about him as a great man; I wasn't thinking of him at all—only of what he said."

"He told you something new, then?" said Mrs Lee.

"No! Oh, no! Nothing new; nothing that I had not heard many times before. And yet it seemed to come to me as new!" she added, a strange, sweet smile passing over her face.

"What did he say that was new to you?"

"Some things he said that I shall never forget. He was telling us of God's love to man, shown in many ways, but most and best of all in the work of redemption. It wasn't new, what he said; and yet—I don't know how it was—I seemed to see it as I never saw it before." And again the same bright smile flashed over her countenance.

"The work of redemption?" repeated Mrs Lee; and there was a questioning tone in her voice that made Christie look at her doubtfully before replying.

"Yes; you know, 'God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth on Him might not perish, but have eternal life.' And 'All we like sheep have gone astray. We have turned every one to his own way; and the Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of us all.' And there are many more verses in the Bible like this. One of them says, 'When there was no eye to pity, or hand to save, God's eye pitied, and His own arm brought salvation.' I'm not sure that these are the exact words, but that is the meaning of the verse."

"Brought salvation!" repeated Mrs Lee. "That means that God's people will be saved, and will go to heaven when they die?"

"Yes," said Christie, hesitatingly. "It means that; but it means something more. We don't have to wait till we die to get the good of salvation. We shall be saved from the punishment of sin when we die, but we are saved here from its power. We come to hate what we once loved, and to see beauty and worth in things that before were uninteresting to us. What was hard to do and hard to bear becomes easy for Christ's sake. Somehow or other, everything seems changed. 'Old things pass away. All things become new.'"

She paused, and letting her cheek rest on the hand that held her Bible, she gazed into the glowing embers with eyes that seemed to see pleasant things far-away. Mrs Lee looked at her with wonder for a time, and then said:

"Has all this happened to you—this change you speak about?"

A sudden flow of tears was the only reply her question received at first. But soon she raised her head, and said:

"Sometimes—now and then—I have hoped so; and to-day, when God's great love to sinners was set forth, and the way of salvation shown to be so wise, so free, so suitable, it seemed foolish and unreasonable to doubt any more. I had heard all about it many and many a time before, but the words seemed to come home to my heart to-day. It was like the sudden shining out of a light in a dark place. Maybe I'll go back again to my old doubts and discontent. But I hope not; I believe not. I know He is able to keep me; and I think He will."

Mrs Lee had laid herself down by Harry, and was listening now, with her eyes shaded by her hand. She lay so long and so quietly that Christie thought she must have fallen asleep, and began softly to turn over the leaves of her Bible again; and she quite started when, in the course of half an hour, she spoke again.

"You said something about God's love in redemption. What did you mean by it? Tell me more of what the preacher said."

Christie hesitated a moment, and was at a loss what to say: "I can't mind all he said. That is, I can't mind the exact words. But he told us what a blessed thing it is for us that our salvation, from beginning to end, is God's own work, and how impossible it is that we could be saved if it depended on ourselves."

"Yes; even if one could begin one's life again. It would be all the same. We might avoid some errors and keep from falling into some mistakes; but after all, it would come to the same thing in the end, I dare say. There is no use in wishing for another chance."

Mrs Lee sighed; and Christie hesitated a moment, and then said: "We can do nothing to save ourselves, ma'am, and all else that we have to do grows easy, because of the grace which God gives, and because of a knowledge of Christ's love to us. It is easy to do the will of One who loves us, and whom we love."

There was a long pause after this, which Mrs Lee broke by saying: "What was it you said about 'no eye to pity, and no arm to save'?"

"Here it is," said Christie; and she eagerly read the words from her Bible, and many more besides—a verse here and a verse there, as her own judgment or Effie's marginal marks suggested: such as, "Surely He hath borne our griefs and carried our sorrows.

"He was wounded for our transgressions, and bruised for our iniquities.

"For when we were without strength, in due time Christ died for the ungodly.

"For scarcely for a righteous man will one die; yet peradventure for a good man some would even dare to die.

"But God commendeth His love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.

"Who shall lay anything to the charge of God's elect? It is God that justifieth. Who is he that condemneth? It is Christ that died; yea, rather, that is risen again, who is even at the right hand of God, who also maketh intercession for us. Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?"

"If we could be sure that we are among the children of God," said Mrs Lee, with a sigh. And soon after she added: "There are a great many things in the Bible that are hard to understand."

"Yes; I suppose so—I am sure of it," said Christie, gravely. "But the things most necessary for us to know and understand are easy for us; at least, with the help of the Holy Spirit they grow easy, I think. It is very plainly told us we are sinners and need a Saviour, that a Saviour has been provided, and those who come to Him He will in no wise cast out. These are the chief things; and besides these, we are assured of help and guidance and peace, all the way through to the end."

Christie spoke slowly, striving to put into as few words as possible these precious truths of the Bible.

"You seem to know a great deal about these things, and to take a pleasure in them," said Mrs Lee.

Christie shook her head. "I take pleasure in them, but I know very little. It is only lately that I have cared to learn. I am very ignorant."

Ignorant though she was, the child knew more of God's truth than her mistress; and many a word in season she spoke to her anxious heart during the long watches that they shared together in the sad times that followed that memorable day. They were words very simply and humbly spoken—rarely Christie's own. They were passages of Scripture, or bits from the catechism, or remembered comments upon them made, in her hearing, by her father, or by Effie and her friends.

Nothing could have been farther from Christie's thoughts than any intention of teaching. She did not dream how strange and new to her listener were the blessed truths that were beginning to present themselves so vividly to her own mind. She would have shrunk from the thought of presuming to teach, or even to suggest new trains of thought. In ordinary circumstances she might have found it difficult to converse long on any subject with Mrs Lee. But watching and anxiety, shared in the chamber over which hangs the shadow of a great dread, soon break down the barriers of reserve which a difference of age or position raises; and there seemed no inappropriateness in the grave, earnest words that now and then fell from the lips of the little maid. Indeed, weak in body and exhausted in mind as the troubles of the winter and spring had left her, Mrs Lee found positive rest and refreshment in the society which might at another time have seemed unsuitable; and mingled with the gratitude with which she saw Christie's devotion to the sick child was a feeling of respect and admiration for the character which was gradually developing before her eyes.

How long the days and nights seemed! Little Harry's robust frame and fine constitution availed him little. The fever raged with great violence; and the close of the week found the doctor still in doubt as to how it might end with him. His mother's strength and hopefulness had held out wonderfully till this time; but when the baby, the fair and fragile little Ellinor, was stricken down, faith, strength, and courage seemed to fail her. It was not long, however. The child's need gave the mother strength; and the baby needed nothing long. The other children were sent away to a friend's house in the country; and silence, broken only by the moans of the little ones or the hushed voices of their anxious nurses, reigned through the house, lately echoing to far other sounds.

Before three silent days had passed, the mother knew that her baby must die. In the presence of her unutterable sorrow Christie was mute. The awe which fell upon her in the dread presence left her no words with which to comfort the stricken mother. But in her heart she never ceased through all that last long night to pray, "God comfort her."

And she was comforted. Though her tears fell fast on the folded hands of her child as she said the words, they were humbly and reverently spoken:

"'Thy will be done.' It would have been harder to leave my child than to let her go!—and now one of my darlings is safe from all sorrow for ever!"