Coming as they did, the little tuft of wild flowers pleased Christie better than the fairest bouquet of hothouse exotics could have done.

Effie laughed.

"Buttercups are not great favourites with us at home," she said. "They generally grow best on poor, worn-out land."

"They are the very first I have seen this summer," said Christie, with moist eyes.

They were all silent a little while.

"We were just speaking about you when you came in," said she to Miss Gertrude.

"Were you? Well, I hope you dealt gently with my faults?" she said, blushing a little as she noticed the glance which passed between the sisters.

"We had not got to your faults," said Christie.

"Well, you must be merciful when you do. See, Christie, I have got something else for you," she added, as she drew out a little book bound in blue and gold. "I thought of you when I read this. There is a good deal in the book you would not care about, but you will like this." And she read:

"Of all the thoughts of God that are Borne inward unto souls afar Along the Psalmist's music deep, Now, tell me if that any is, For gift or grace, surpassing this—? He giveth His beloved sleep."

And so on to the end. "Do you like it?" she asked.

"Yes," said Christie. But her eyes said much more than that.

"It reminded me of the time I found you sleeping among all the noises that were going on in the ward. There was talking and groaning and moving about, and you were quite unconscious of it all.

"'God makes a silence through them all,'"

she repeated:

"'And never doleful dream again Shall break his blessed slumbers, when He giveth His beloved sleep.'"

There was a silence of several minutes, and then Christie said:

"Miss Gertrude, when you came in I was telling Effie that I thought you had changed since I first knew you."

"And were you telling her that there was much need of a change?" said Miss Gertrude, with a playfulness assumed to hide the quick rush of feeling which the words called forth.

"Do you mind how we used to speak of the great change that all must meet before we can be happy or safe? You don't think about these things as you used to do. Miss Gertrude, has this change come to you?"

"I don't know, Christie. Sometimes I almost hope it has," said she. But she could not restrain the tears. Effie saw them; Christie did not. Her eyes were closed, and her hands were clasped as if in prayer.

"I was sure it would come," she said, softly. "I am very glad."

She did not speak again during Miss Gertrude's stay, and I need not repeat all that passed between the young lady and Effie. There were some words spoken that neither will forget till their dying day.

Before she went away, Gertrude came and kissed Christie; and when she was gone Effie came and kissed her too, saying:

"You ought to be very happy, Christie, with all your trouble. God has been very good to you, in giving you a message to Miss Gertrude."

"I am very happy, Effie," answered she, softly. "I almost think I am beyond being troubled any more. It is coming very near now."

She lay still, with a smile on her face, till she fell into a quiet slumber; and as she sat watching her, Effie, amid all her sorrow, could not but rejoice at the thought of the blessed rest and peace that seemed coming so near now to her little sister.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

HOME AT LAST.

Yes, the time was drawing very near. Effie could no longer hide from herself that Christie was no stronger, but rather weaker every day. She did not suffer much pain, but now and then was feverish, and at such times she could get no rest. Then Effie moved and soothed and sang to her with patience inexhaustible. She would have given half her youthful strength to have revived that wasted form; and one day, as she was bathing her hands, she told her so.

Christie smiled, and shook her head.

"You will have better use for your strength than that, Effie. I am sure the water in the burn at home would cool my hands, if I could dip them in it. Oh, if I could just get out to the fields for one long summer day, I think I should be content to lie down here again for another six months! In the summer-time, when I used to think of the Nesbitts and the McIntyres in the sweet-smelling hay-fields, and of the bairns gathering berries in the woods, my heart was like to die within me. It is not so bad now since you came. No, Effie, I am quite content now."

Later in the day, she said, after a long silence:

"Effie, little Will will hardly mind that he had a sister Christie, when he grows up to be a man. I should like to have been at home once more, because of that. They will all forget me, I am afraid."

"Christie," said her sister, "why do you say they will forget you? Do you not think you will live to see them again?"

"Do you think so, Effie?" asked Christie, gravely.

Instead of answering her, Effie burst into tears, and laid her head down on her sister's pillow. Christie laid her arm over her neck, and said, softly:

"There is nothing to grieve so for, Effie. I am not afraid."

Effie's tears had been kept back so long, they must have free course now. It was in vain to try to stay them. But soon she raised herself up, and said:

"I didna mean to trouble you, Christie. I know I have no need to grieve for you. But, oh! I cannot help thinking you might have been spared longer if I had been more watchful—more faithful to my trust!"

"Effie," said Christie, "move me a little, and lie down beside me. I have something to say to you, and there can be no better time than now. You are weary with your long watching. Rest beside me."

Her sister arranged the pillow and lay down beside her. Clasping her wasted arms about her neck, Christie said:

"Effie, you don't often say wrong or foolish things, but what you said just now was both wrong and foolish. You must never say it or think it any more. Have I not been in safe keeping, think you? Nay! do not grieve me by saying that again," she added, laying her hand upon her sister's lips, as she would have spoken. "It all seems so right and safe to me, I would not have anything changed now, except that I should like to see them all at home. And I dare say that will pass away as the end draws near. It will not be long now, Effie." She paused from exhaustion, only adding: "I am not afraid."

The much she had to say was not said that night. The sisters lay silently in each other's arms, and while Christie slumbered, Effie prayed as she had never prayed before, that she might be made submissive to the will of God in this great sorrow that was drawing nearer day by day.

After this they spoke much of the anticipated parting, but never sadly any more. Effie's prayers were answered. God's grace did for her what, unaided, she never could have done for herself. It gave her power to watch the shadow of death drawing nearer and nearer, without shrinking from the sight. I do not mean that she felt no pain at the thought of going back to her home alone, or that she had quite ceased to blame herself for what she called her neglect of her suffering sister. Many a long struggle did she pass through during the hours when Christie slumbered. But she never again suffered a regretful word to pass her lips; she never for a moment let a cloud rest on her face when Christie's eyes were matching her. She had soothing words for the poor child's restless moments. If a doubt or fear came to disturb her quiet trust, she had words of cheer to whisper; and when—as oftenest happened—her peace was like a river, full and calm and deep, no murmurs, no repining, fell from the loving sister's lips to disturb its gentle flow.

And little by little, as the uneventful days glided by peace, and more than peace—gratitude and loving praise—filled the heart of Christie's sister. What could she wish more for the child so loved than such quiet and happy waiting for the end of all trouble? A little while sooner or later, what did it matter? What could she wish more or better for any one she loved? It would ill become her to repine at her loss, so infinitely her sister's gain.

The discipline of these weeks in her sister's sick-room did very much for Effie. Ever since their mother's death, and more especially since their coming to Canada, a great deal had depended on her. Wise to plan and strong to execute, she had done what few young girls in her sphere could have done. Her energy had never flagged. She delighted to encounter and overcome difficulties; she was strong, prudent, and far-seeing, and she was fast acquiring the reputation, among her friends and neighbours, of a rare business woman.

It is just possible that, as the years passed, she might have acquired some of the unpleasing qualities so apt to become the characteristic of the woman who has no one to come between her and the cares of business or the shifts and difficulties incident to the providing for a family whose means are limited. Coming in contact, as she had to do, with a world not always mindful of the claims of others, she found it necessary to stand her ground and hold her own with a firmness that might seem hardly compatible with gentleness. Her position, too, as the teacher of a school—the queen of a little realm where her word was law—tended to cultivate in her strength and firmness of character rather than the more womanly qualities. It is doubtful whether, without the sweet and solemn break in the routine of her life which these months in her sister's sick-room made, she would ever have grown into the woman she afterwards became. This long and patient waiting for God's messenger gave her the time for thought which her busy life denied her.

Now and then, during the quiet talks in which, during her more comfortable hours, they could still indulge, there was revealed to Effie all the way by which God had led her sister; at the same time there was revealed all that He had permitted her to do for His glory, and at this she was greatly moved. She had only been a little servant-maid, plain and humble and obscure. There was nothing to distinguish her in the eyes of those who saw her from day to day. Yet God had greatly honoured her. He had made her a messenger of grace to one, to two—perhaps to more. When that little, worn-out frame was laid aside, it might be, thought Effie, that the immortal spirit, crowned and radiant, should stand nearer to the throne than some who were held in honour by the wise and the good of this world.

Sitting there, listening and musing, Effie saw, more clearly than she ever could have seen in the bustle of her busy life, how infinitely desirable it is to be permitted to do God's work in the world. Those were days never to be forgotten by her. She grew thin and wan with confinement and watching, but as the time drew near when her present care should cease and she should go home again, her face wore a look of peace beautiful to see.

"Effie," said Christie one day, after she had been silently watching her a little while, "you are more willing that I should go now, I think?"

Effie started.

"I shall be willing when the time comes, my dear sister, I do not doubt," she said, with lips that smiled, though they quivered too. "I cannot help being willing, and glad, for your sake."

"And you ought to be glad for your sake too," said Christie. "You will have one less to care for, to be anxious about, Effie, and I shall be safe with our dear father and mother in the better world. I never could have helped you much, dear, though I would have liked to do so. I never should have been very strong, I dare say, and—I might have been a burden."

"But if you had been running about in the fields with the bairns all this time, who knows but you would have been as strong as any of them?" said Effie, sadly.

But Christie shook her head.

"No; I have had nothing to harm me. And sometimes I used to think if I had stayed at home I might have fallen back into my old fretful ways, and so have been a vexation to myself and to Aunt Elsie; and to you even, Effie, though you never used to be vexed with me."

"No, Christie, that could never have happened. God is faithful, and with His grace, all would have been well with you. There would have been no more such sad days for you."

"No such day as that when you came home with the book-man and gave me my Bible," said Christie, smiling, "I wonder why I always mind that day so well? I suppose because it was the beginning of it all."

Effie did not ask, "The beginning of what?" She knew well that she meant the beginning of the new life which God, by His Word and Spirit, had wrought in her heart. Soon Christie added:

"I wouldn't have anything changed now. It has all happened just in the best way; and this quiet time will do you good too, dear."

"I pray God it may!" said Effie, letting both tears and kisses fall upon her sister's face.

"And you must tell Annie and Sarah and the bairns that they must be sure to come to us—our father and mother and me, and to Jesus—the Mediator—of the new covenant," she slowly said; and overcome with weariness, she sank into a quiet sleep.

Christie grew weaker every day. She did not suffer much, and slept most of the time. Sometimes she was feverish and restless, and then Effie used to fancy that her mind wandered. At such times she would tell of things that happened long ago, and speak to Effie as she might have spoken to her mother during her childish illnesses, begging to be taken into her arms and rocked to sleep.

But almost always she knew her sister, even when she had forgotten where she was. Once she said there was just one place in the world where she could rest, and begged to be laid on the sofa in Mrs Nesbitt's parlour at home. Often she begged her to let her dip her hands in the burn to cool them, or to take her where it was pleasant and cool, under the shadow of the birch-tree in the pasture at home. But a single word from Effie was always enough to soothe her, and to call up the loving smile.

Christmas came and went, and the last day of the old year found her still waiting, but with many a token that the close was drawing near. Gertrude came that day, and lingered long beside her, awed by the strange mysterious change that was beginning to show itself on her face. Christie did not notice her as she came in, and even Effie only silently held out her hand to her as she drew near.

"She will never speak again," said the nurse, who had been watching her for several minutes.

All pain, all restlessness, seemed past. Effie, bending over her, could only now and then moisten her parched lips and wipe the damp from her forehead. Poor Effie! she saw the hour was at hand, but she was very calm. "She has not spoken since daybreak," she said, softly. "I am afraid she will never speak again." But she did.

After a brief but quiet sleep she opened her eyes. Gertrude knew that she was recognised. Stooping down to catch the broken words that came from her parched lips, she distinctly heard:

"I was sure always—from the very first—that God would bless you. And now—though I am going to die—you will do all for Christ—that I would like to have done."

Effie was refreshed and strengthened by two or three hours of quiet sleep. The day passed, the evening came and went, and Christie gave no sign of pain or restlessness.

"It will be about the turn of the night," said the nurse, raising the night-lamp to look on her face. But it was not. At the turn of the night she awoke, and called her sister by name. Effie's face was on the pillow beside her, and she kissed her softly, without speaking. Christie fondly returned her caress. She seemed strangely revived.

"Effie," she said, "do you remember something that our mother used to sing to us—?

"'No dimming clouds o'ershadow thee, No dull and darksome night, But every soul shines as the sun, And God Himself is light.'"

Yes, Effie remembered it well, and she went on, with no break in her voice, as Christie ceased:

"'No pain, no pang, no bitter grief, No woeful night is there; No sob, no sigh, no cry is heard; No will-awa', no care!'"

And many a verse more of that quaint, touching old canticle did she sing, all the time watching the smile of wonderful content that was beautifying the dying face.

"You are quite willing now, Effie?" she said, softly.

"Quite willing," said Effie, softly.

"And it is coming very near now!"

"Very near, love. Very near now!"

"Very near!" She never spoke again. She lingered till the dawn of the new year's morning, all the time lying like a child slumbering in the nurse's arms, and then she died.

They did not lay her to rest among the many nameless graves which had seemed so sad and dreary to her in the beautiful burial-place one summer day. The spotless snow near her father's grave was disturbed on a winter's morning, and Christie was laid to rest beside him.

There she has lain through many a summer and winter, but her remembrance has not perished from the earth. There are loving hearts on both sides of the sea who still cherish her memory. Gertrude—no longer Miss Gertrude, however—in the new home she has found, tells the little children at her knee of her little brother Claude and his nurse, who loved each other so dearly on earth, and who now are doubtless loving each other in heaven; and in a fair Canadian manse a grave and beautiful woman often tells, with softened voice, the sad yet happy tale of the sister who went away and who never came home again, but who found a better home in her Father's house above.

THE END.