Margaret Robertson (continued 4)

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!”

The father came home just in time to lay his little daughter in the grave; and then both father and mother sat down to wait. For what? For the gradual return of the rose to the cheek and the light to the eye of little Harry? Alas, no! It was not to be. A keener pang was to pierce the heart of the stricken mother. For to part with little Harry was a far harder trial to anticipate than even the loss of her baby had been to bear. But day by day it became more apparent to all that Harry’s end was hastening. The fever went away, but there seemed to be no power to rally in the little worn-out frame of the child. His father, for a little while, spoke hopefully of a change of air, and the sea-side; but he could not long so cheat himself with false hopes. The restlessness and irritability, which they had said to one another were hopeful signs, passed away. His smiles were more languid and constrained, and he soon failed to recognise the anxious, loving friends who ministered to his wants.

Before this the mother’s strength had quite failed; and the father, unused to the sight of suffering, shrank from looking on the last agony of his child. Through all his illness the little boy had clung to Christie—never quite at rest, even in the arms of his mother, unless his Christie was near. Her voice had soothed him, her hands had ministered to his comfort, her care had been lavished on him, through all those lingering days and nights. And now it was Christie who met his last smile and listened to his last murmured “Good-night!” Yes, it was Christie who closed his eyes at last, and straightened his limbs in their last repose. She helped to robe him for the grave, and to lay him in his little coffin; and all the time there was coming and going through her mind a verse she had learned long ago—

“Now, like a dew-drop shrined Within a crystal stone, Thou’rt safe in heaven, my dove; Safe in the arms of Jesus, The everlasting One!”

Chapter Eleven.

An unexpected visitor.

And now a sad silence fell on the household. The children were not to be brought home for some time, the doctor said; and their mother was not able to go to them; so Christie was left to the almost unbroken quiet of her forsaken nursery. She needed rest more than she was aware, and sank into a state of passive indifference to all things which would have alarmed herself had not her kind friend, Mrs Greenly, been there to insist that she should be relieved of care till her over-tasked strength should be in some measure restored. In those very quiet hours, thoughts of home came to her only as a vague and shadowy remembrance. The events of the winter, and even the more recent sufferings of the last month, seemed like a dream to her. Dearly as she had loved her little charges, she was hardly conscious of regret at their loss. It seemed like something that had happened long ago—their long suffering and departure. The very promises which had of late become so sweet to her, soothed her merely as a pleasant sound might do. She scarcely took note of their meaning or power during those days.

But this soon passed away, and with returning strength came back with double force the old longing to go home. She had sent a line to Effie when little Harry was taken ill, telling her how utterly impossible it would be for her to leave her place. Since then, about the time of the baby’s death, a neighbour had called, and by him she had sent the same message, assuring her sister that she was quite content to stay. But her old eagerness to get home came back, now that she found herself with little to occupy her, and she waited anxiously for the time when Mrs Lee might be spoken to on the subject.

In the meantime, Mrs Greenly was called away, and the duty of attendance upon Mrs Lee once more devolved on Christie. If anything could have banished from her heart all thought of home or all wish for change, the days that followed would have done so. Not an hour passed in which she was not made to feel that she was a comfort to her friend—for friends, in the highest sense, the mistress and her little maid were fast becoming. The readings and conversations which had been begun during their long watches together were renewed; and blessed seasons they proved to both. Christie never knew—never could know on earth—all the good she did Mrs Lee in those days. She was only conscious of an ever-increasing love for her and an ever-increasing desire to serve her.

If in the first agony of her bereavement there had been in the mother’s heart murmuring and rebellious thoughts, they were all stilled now. With more than the submission of a chastened child—with joy that had in it a sense of reconciliation and acceptance—she was enabled to kiss the Hand that had smitten her. She seldom spoke of her children; but when she did, it was with gratitude that they had been hers, and were still hers, in heaven. Seen by the new light that was dawning on her soul, the world, its hopes and fears and interests, looked to her very different. Humble submission and cheerful trust took the place of her old, anxious forebodings. Scripture truths, which formerly conveyed no distinct idea to her mind, came home to her now with power. They were living truths, full of hope and comfort. The promises were to her a place of rest and refuge—a strong tower, into which she could run and be safe. By slow degrees the light of the glorious Gospel of Jesus Christ dawned upon her soul; and to one fearful and doubtful of the future, as she had been, what blessed rest and refreshment was in the trust, that gradually grew strong, in the embrace of an Arm mighty to save! To know herself one of those to whom Jesus has given a right to say, “I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me,” was all that she needed for her consolation; and during those days the blessed knowledge came to her.

What part the simple words and earnest prayers of her little nurse had in bringing about this blessed change, God knows. The girl herself had little thought of the good which her entrance into the household had wrought. It might have helped her to a more patient waiting had she known how often her name was mingled with the thankful praises of Mrs Lee. She was not impatient, but a longing for home that would not be stilled mingled with the gladness that filled her heart at the thought of being useful.

Summer had come. June was half over, and the only glimpse of green she had had was the top of the mountain, far-away. Now and then Nelly brought home from the market a bunch of garden-flowers. But the sight of them only made her long the more for the fields where so many flowers that she knew had blossomed and faded unseen. More than once, when sent out by Mrs Lee to take the air, she had tried to extend her walk in one direction or another, till she should reach the country. But partly because she did not know the way, and partly because she grew so soon weary, she never succeeded. She had to content herself with the nearest street where there were trees growing, and now and then a peep through open gateways upon little dusty strips of grass or garden-ground.

Oh, how close and hot and like a prison the long, narrow streets seemed to her! How weary the street-noises made her! It was foolish, she knew, and so she told herself often, to vex herself with idle fancies. But sometimes there came back to her, with a vividness which for the moment was like reality, the memory of familiar sights and sounds. Sometimes it was the wind waving the trees, or the ripple of the brook over the stepping-stones; sometimes it was the bleating of the young lambs in the pastures far-away. She caught glimpses of familiar faces in the crowd, as she used to do in the home-sick days when she first came; and she could not always smile at her folly. Sometimes her disappointment would send her home sad and dispirited enough. Almost always the smile that met her as she entered Mrs Lee’s room brought back her content; but often it needed a greater effort to be cheerful than an on-looker could have guessed. Still, the effort was always made, and never without some measure of success.

One morning she rose more depressed than usual. A quiet half-hour with her little Bible was not sufficient to raise her spirits, though she told herself it ought to be; and she said to herself, as she went down-stairs, “I will speak to-day about going home.”

Mrs Lee was able to go down-stairs now. On this particular day a friend was to visit her, and Christie determined to say nothing about the matter till the visitor should be gone. But the prospect of a long day in the solitary nursery did not tend to brighten her face, and it was sadly enough that she went slowly down the street on an errand for Nelly when breakfast was over.

She did not look up to-day in her usual vain search for a “kenned face,” or she would never have passed by the corner so unheedingly. A pair of kind eyes, for the moment as grave and sad as her own, watched her as she came on, and after she passed. In a little while a very gentle hand was laid on her shoulder.

“What’s your haste, Christie, my lassie?”

With a cry she turned to clasp the hand of John Nesbitt. Poor little Christie! She was so glad, so very glad! It was almost like seeing Effie herself, she told him, amid a great burst of tears that startled the grave John considerably. For a moment her sobs came fast. The open streets and the wondering passers-by were quite forgotten.

“Whisht, Christie, my woman,” said John, soothingly, “that’s no’ the way we show our gladness in Glengarry.”

Drawing her hand under his arm, he held it firmly in his own. Christie made a great effort to control herself, and the face which she soon turned towards her friend had grown wonderfully brighter for the tears that fell.

“Effie bade me notice how you looked and what you said; and I’m afraid she’ll no’ be pleased to hear that I got such a tearful welcome,” said John, with his grave smile.

“Oh, Effie will understand. Why, it’s almost like seeing Effie herself to see you, John!” she repeated, giving him a tearful smile. She felt sure it was a true friend’s hand that pressed hers so warmly as she spoke.

“But where are you going, Christie?” asked John.

“Oh, I forgot; we are past the place.” But her face grew grave in a moment. “When did you come, John? and how long are you going to stay?”

“I came yesterday, and I shall stay no longer than I can help. I have had enough of this dusty town for once. I wonder how you ever stayed so long in it, Christie.”

“I wonder myself, whiles,” she said gravely; “but it won’t be long now.”

“Are they better at your house? Will they spare you to go home with me?”

“There is no one ill now. Did you hear—” But Christie’s voice was lost in the remembrance of little Harry and the baby.

“Yes, we heard. You must have had a sad time, poor lassie! But the remembrance of these precious little ones cannot be altogether sorrowful, Christie?”

“No; oh, no, indeed!” But she could say no more. As they drew near the house, she added:

“And shan’t I see you again, John?”

“Ay, lass, that you will. I’m by no means done with you yet. Are you busy to-day? because I would like your help. I promised to get some things for my mother, and I’m not good at choosing. Will you come with me? Do you think you can be spared?”

“I don’t know. I should like it. I can ask.”

In a minute she returned, with a face made radiant by Mrs Lee’s cheerful consent to spare her for as much of the day as she pleased; and it was arranged that John should call for her in half an hour.

If anything could have marred the delight with which her preparations were made, the sight of her faded bonnet and shawl might have done so. The rain and the snow had wet them, the sun had done its work on them, and the wind had taken liberties with them, many a time. And besides, they seemed too hot and heavy for such a summer day, even if they had not been shabby and grey. For Christie had had other things to think about of late than the getting of summer garments. Just for a minute a wish that they had been newer and fresher-looking, for John’s sake, came to her mind. It was only for a moment that she thought about it at all.

“For John cares little for such things,” she said to herself; “and there’s no matter for the shop-people and the rest.”

She was right. Looking into the brightened face that met him at the door, John failed to discover that the bonnet above it was dingy and brown. And if the rustiness of the little shepherd’s-plaid shawl that covered her shoulders marred in any degree the pleasure with which he drew her hand beneath his friendly arm, he gave no token that it did so. Christie gave a little sigh of satisfaction as she found herself out on the street once more.

“I have got so many things to ask about,” she said; “but I suppose I may as well wait till we have done with the shops. If I once begin, I’m afraid I shan’t be able to attend to anything else.”

The purchases were soon made. Indeed, Mrs Nesbitt’s commissions had not been very extensive. Christie had more to do on her own account. But she had planned so many times just what she was to get for each one at home, that it did not take her long to choose. Besides, her purse was not one of the fullest. Still, the little she had to do involved a good deal of running here and there; and her parcels increased in number and size to such an extent, that Christie at last said, laughing, she would have to forego the pleasure of taking them home herself, as her box would never hold half of them; John would need to try to find room for them in his.

“And are you not afraid they may call you extravagant at home, getting so many braw things?”

Christie laughed.

“I’m no’ sure. But then—unless it’s Aunt Elsie’s gown—there’s nothing dear. They are just prints; the frocks and the other things are all useful, except perhaps the playthings for the bairns; and they are useful too, for things that give pleasure have a use, I am sure.”

“It canna be doubted,” said her friend, laughing.

Christie’s face grew a little grave, after a rather lengthened examination of the pieces left in her purse.

“There is just one other thing; but I fear I ought not to have left it to the last. It’s for blind Alice. I have thought about it so long. It’s not very far, we might ask the price of it, anyway.”

It was true, the place was not very far; but it was a shop of greater pretensions than any they had entered yet. Christie had set her heart on a musical-box, which she knew would be a treasure to the blind child. But the cost! It was altogether beyond her means, even if she were to stay another month.

The disappointment was very great.

“Allie must have something that she can hear, you ken; and I had no thought that it would be so dear.”

“Why not send her a bird—a real canary?” said John, as they made a pause at a low window in a narrow street, where a great variety of cages were hanging.

“A bird?” repeated Christie. “I never thought of that. Are they very dear?”

“We can ask,” said John; and as Christie stood admiring the gay plumage of some strange bird, he put the question to the person in waiting. Christie did not hear his answer. John did not mean that she should.

“Could you spare two dollars, Christie?” said he.

“Two dollars!” she repeated. It was the wages of half a month.

“I have cheaper ones,” said the man, “but he is the best singer I have had for a long time. Or maybe you would like a pair?”

“A pair!” thought Christie to herself. If she could manage to get one she would be content! As if to verify the words of his owner, the bird, after hopping quickly from perch to perch, poured forth such a flood of melody as Christie had never heard from a bird’s throat before.

“Oh, how sweet!” exclaimed she. “To think of little Allie having music like that all the winter long! But how can you carry it, John?”

Oh, John could carry it easily—no fear; and touched by Christie’s eager delight, or by some more powerful cause, the man let the cage go with the bird.

So that was settled.

“We’re done now, I suppose,” said Christie, with a sigh, as they passed along the shady side of the street. The excitement of pleasure was passing out of her face; and more than ever before, since the first glimpse he got of it, did John Nesbitt realise what a pale, weary little face it was.

“I wish you were going home with me, Christie!”

“I wish I was, indeed! I wish I had spoken to Mrs Lee before! But I couldna leave her, John, till she got some one else, she is so delicate now. Sometimes I think I never could get courage to leave her at all, if she were to ask me to stay.”

“Ay, lass; but there’s more to be said about that. They’ll think at home that you’re forgetting them, if I tell them what you say.”

Christie laughed.

“I’m not afraid. I don’t think it would be right to leave her now; and seeing you has given me courage for another month at least. You can tell Effie that.”

“I shall have two or three things to tell her besides that,” said John, looking down on her with the grave smile which she liked so much to see. “I shall be sorry to tell her how pale and ill you look,” he added, his face growing grave as he looked.

“Oh, that’s only because I am tired just now; and besides, I was always ‘a pale-faced thing,’ as Aunt Elsie used to say. You are not to vex Effie by making her think that I am not well,” she said, eagerly. “I have not been used to walking far, lately, and I get tired very soon.”

They were entering the large square at the moment, and John said:

“Can we go in there among the trees? I see seats there. Let us sit down and rest a while.”

“Oh, yes! I have been here before. Nothing reminds me so much of home as the flickering of these shadows—not even the leaves themselves. And how sweet the flowers are! Do you ken, John, I didna see the leaves this year till they were full-grown? I can hardly believe that the spring has come and gone again.”

John Nesbitt was looking and listening, and all the time he was considering something very earnestly. He had not many dollars at his disposal, and the few he had he was not inclined to part with but for value received. He was saying to himself, at the moment, that if it should be decided that he was qualified for the work to which he had set himself apart, he should need them all, and more too, before his course of study should be finished. He had a vision, too, of a set of goodly volumes, bound in calf, on which his heart had been set a year or more. Untouched in his pocket-book lay the sum he had long ago set apart for their purchase; and there was very little in it besides.

“There must be a limit to the pleasure a man gives himself. I can only choose between them,” said the prudent John to himself. To Christie he said: “Have you ever been round the mountain? Would you like to go to-day?”

“Never but once—in the winter-time; but I should like to go, dearly.” And the eager, wistful look in the eyes that through all the pleasant spring-time had seen no budding thing, won the day.

“Well, I have never been round it either. So let us take one of these carriages that seem so plenty here, and go together. It is well worth the trouble, I have heard.”

Christie’s first look was one of unmixed delight, but soon it changed into one a little doubtful. She did not like to speak her thoughts; but in a little while she said, half smiling:

“Are you no’ afraid that they may think you extravagant at home?”

“Indeed, no! At least, I’m sure Effie wouldna, if she saw your face at this moment. It was well we had all those things sent home. Come.” And like a foolish fellow, he determined not to make a bargain for the carriage while the prudent little Christie was within hearing, and so had, I dare say, double to pay when he dismissed it. But the pleasure was not spoiled, for all that.

“How pleasant it is!” said Christie, as the absence of street-noises and the fresher breeze upon her cheek told her that they were leaving the city behind them. Her short-sighted eyes could not take in the view that charmed John so much. But she did not know how it could be more pleasant than the fresh air and the gentle motion of the carriage made it to her; and so she said, when at last she started up and looked about her:

“Is not this the way to the cemetery? Oh, let us go there a little while.”

And so they did. The carriage was dismissed. They were to stay a long time—as long as they liked; and then they could walk home, or perhaps they might get the chance of a returning carriage. At any rate, they would not be hurried.

How lovely the place looked to Christie’s unaccustomed eyes! They were not alone. There were groups here and there among the graves—some of them mourners, as their dress showed, others enjoying the loveliness of the place, untroubled by any painful remembrance of the loved and lost. Slowly they wandered up and down, making long pauses in shady places, lingering over the graves of little children which loving hands had adorned. Christie wandered over the little nameless graves, longing to find where her dear ones lay.

“How beautiful it is! It is a very sweet resting-place,” she said to herself, many times.

Yes, it was a very lovely spot. A strange feeling of awe stole over Christie’s spirit as she gazed around on the silent city. As far as the eye could reach it extended. Among the trees and on the sunny hill-sides rose many a stately monument of granite and marble, with, oh, so many a nameless grave between! Close at their feet lay a large unenclosed space, where the graves lay close together, in long, irregular lines—men and women and little children—with not a mark to tell who slumbered beneath. It was probably the burial-place of strangers, or of those who died in the hospitals. To Christie it had a very dreary and forsaken look. She shuddered as she gazed on the place.

“A friend’s grave could never be found among so many,” said she. “See! there are a few with a bit of board, and a name written on it; but most of them have no mark. I would far rather be laid in our own kirk-yard at home—though that is a dreary place, too, when the sun doesna shine.”

They moved on together; and in a place which was half in the sunshine and half in the shade, they sat down. In a little while the pleasant influence of the scene chased the dreariness from Christie’s thoughts, and she looked about with eyes that did not seem able to satisfy themselves with its beauty.

“How lovely it is here!” she repeated. “How green and fresh everything is! The very grass seems beautiful!” And she caressed with her hand the smooth turf on which they were seated.

“It’s a wonder to me how people can choose to live in the midst of a town, with nothing to see that’s bonny but a strip of blue sky now and then.”

“It’s a wonder to me,” said John, smiling.

“Oh, but I mean people that may live wherever they choose. There are people that like the town best. Where it is right to stay, I suppose one can be content in time. I think if I hadna home and the rest to think about and wish for, I might be willing to live here always. But at first—oh, I thought I could never, never stay! But I am not sorry I came. I shall never be sorry for that.”

There was something in her earnest manner, and in the happy look that came over her face as she spoke, that arrested the attention of John; and he said:

“You have been happy here, then, upon the whole?”

“Yes; upon the whole,” repeated she, thoughtfully; “but it wasna that I was thinking about.”

“Christie, do you know I think you have changed very much since you used to come and see my mother? You have changed; and yet you are the very same: there’s a paradox for you, as Peter O’Neil would say.”

His words were light, but there was a meaning in his grave smile that made Christie’s heart leap; and her answer was at first a startled look, and then a sudden gush of happy tears. Then came good John Nesbitt’s voice entreating a blessing on “his little sister in Christ”; and this made them flow the faster. But, oh, they were such happy, happy tears! and very happy was the hour that followed.

Now and then there comes an hour, in the intercourse of friends with each other, which reveals to each more of the inner and spiritual life of the other than years of common intercourse could do; and this was such an hour. I cannot tell all that was said. The words might seem to many a reader tame and common-place enough, but many of them Christie never forgot while she lived, and many of them John Nesbitt will not cease to remember to his dying day.

Christie had no thought of showing him all that was in her heart. She did not think that the friend who was listening so quietly to all the little details of her life among strangers—her home-sickness, her fears and weariness, her love and care for the children and their mother—was all the time thanking God in his heart for all the way by which this little lamb had been led to take refuge in the fold. She knew by the words he spoke, before he rose to go, that he was much-moved. They came back to her many a time afterwards, brightening the sad days, and comforting her when she was in sorrow. They helped her to the cheerful bearing of a disappointment near at hand.

As for John, he was far from thinking the day lost that he had devoted to the pleasure of Christie. If in the morning the hope of possessing at once the much-desired books had been given up with a sigh, it was the sigh, and not the sacrifice, that was regretted now. With a sense of refreshment unspeakable there came to his remembrance the Saviour’s promise that the giving of a cup of cold water to one of His little ones should have its reward. To have supported those weary feet, if ever so little, in the way, to have encouraged the faint heart or brightened the hope of this humble child, was no unworthy work in the view of one whose supreme desire it was to glorify Him who came from heaven to earth to speak of hope to the poor and lowly. Nor was this all. He was learning, from the new and sweet experiences which the child was so unconsciously revealing to him, a lesson of patient trustfulness, of humble dependence, which a whole library of learned books might have failed to teach him.

The shadows were growing long before they rose to go.

“You’ll be very tired to-morrow, I’m afraid,” said John, as they went slowly down the broad, steep way that leads from the cemetery. “I’m afraid your holiday will do you little good.”

“It has done me good already. I’m not afraid,” said Christie, cheerfully. “Only I’m sure I shall think of twenty things I want to ask you about when you are fairly gone.”

“Well, the best way will be to collect your wits and ask about them now,” said John, laughing.

And so she did. Matters of which her sister’s letters and chance callers had only given her hints were recalled, and discussed with a zest that greatly shortened the way. They were not very important matters, except as they were connected with home life and home friends; but if their way had been twice as long, the interest would not have failed.

“But, John,” said Christie, at last, “what was it that Davie McIntyre was telling me about Mr Portman’s failure? Is it really true? and has he left his wife and little children and gone—nobody knows where?”

“Yes, it is too true,” John said, and added many painful particulars, which he never would have given if he had had his wits about him. Christie’s next question recalled them, with a shock which was not altogether pleasant.

“Was it not Mr Portman who had Aunt Elsie’s money? Then she has lost it, I suppose?”

“Yes, it’s too true,” said John, with an uncomfortable conviction that Effie would far rather her little sister had not heard of it yet. He did not say so, however, and there was a long silence.

“I wonder what Effie will do?” said Christie, at last.

“Now, Christie, my woman,” said John, rather more hastily than was his habit, “you are not going to vex yourself about this matter. You know, if anybody can manage matters well, your sister Effie can; and she has a great many friends to stand between her and serious trouble. And I don’t believe she intended that you should know anything about this—at any rate, until you were safe at home.”

Christie was sure of that. There was no one like Effie. John could tell her nothing new about her goodness. But if it had been needful that they should be separated before, it was still more necessary now that she should be doing her part; and she intimated as much to John.

“But you must mind that Effie was never clear about your leaving home. If she had had her way, you never would have left.”

“I am very glad I came,” was all that Christie replied, but in a little while she added, “John, I think, on the whole, you may as well take all the things home with you, if you can. The sooner they get them the better; and something may happen to hinder me.”

“Christie,” said John, gravely, “Effie has set her heart on your coming home this summer. It would grieve her sorely to be disappointed. You are not going to disappoint her?”

“I don’t know,” said Christie, slowly. “I’m sure Effie would rather I should do what is right than what is pleasant.”

“But you are not well, Christie. You are not strong enough to live as you have been living—at least, without a rest. It would grieve Effie to see how pale and thin you are.”

“I am not very strong, I know, but I shall have an easier time now; and if Mrs Lee should take the children to the country or the sea-side, I should be better. I am sure I wish to do what is right. It is not that I don’t wish to go home.”

Christie’s voice suddenly failed her.

“It seems like a punishment to me,” she added, “a judgment, almost. You don’t know—Effie dinna ken even—how many wrong feelings I had about coming away. I thought nothing could be so bad as to have to depend on Aunt Elsie, and now—” Something very like a sob stopped her utterance.

“Whisht, Christie!” said John. “God does not send trouble on His people merely to punish; it is to do them good. You must take a more comforting view of this trouble. I am afraid the pleasure of the day is spoiled.”

“No! oh, no!” said Christie eagerly. “Nobody could do that. There are some pleasures that canna be spoiled. And besides, I am not going to vex myself. It will all come right in the end, I am quite sure. Only just at first—”

“Thou shalt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee, because he trusteth in Thee,” whispered John.

“I know it;” and that was all she could say.

Chapter Twelve.

Sisters in Christ.

Christie found, on reaching home, that Mr Lee had returned, and when John called in the morning she was able to tell him it was decided that the family should go to the sea-side for a month.

“And considering all things, John, I am glad that Mrs Lee wants me to go too. I shall have time for a long visit at home when I come back again, before summer is over. The sea air will make me strong. You know we lived near the sea at home. And I should like to take a pair of red cheeks home to Glengarry.”

John was not altogether satisfied with her cheerful words; but there seemed nothing better for any of them but to make the best of it.

“It might be far worse for you, my lassie,” he said, cheerfully. “I would have liked to take you home with me to Glengarry, for your sake and theirs. But if you’ll promise not to let the look come back that I saw first in your face, I’ll leave you with a good heart, and tell no sad tales to Effie and the rest.”

It was all that she could do, even now, to keep a bright face, but she did; and John went away, taking with him the remembrance of it at its very brightest.

The next few days were too busy to give time for regretful thoughts. The children came home, and there was the making of their dresses, and all the necessary preparations for a journey and a lengthened absence from home.

Christie had only time for a hurried letter to Effie, telling her of their plans. She wrote quite cheerfully. She was not strong, and the runnings to and fro of the day often made her too weary to sleep at night. But she was useful, she knew, and Mrs Lee’s gentle kindness proved that she appreciated her efforts to do her duty, and that helped to make her work pleasant and easy. And there was, besides, an excitement in the prospect of a change of scene. Looking forward to a sight of the sea, to feeling the sea-breeze again, to getting away from the heat and dust and confinement of the city, was enough to help her through the day’s toils and troubles. And so she felt and wrote cheerfully, notwithstanding the disappointment that had been so hard to bear.

But a disappointment which she was to feel still more bitterly awaited her. The preparations for departure were nearly-completed. Mrs Lee had so far recovered as to be able to go out, and they looked forward to leaving within a day or two.

One afternoon, while Mrs Lee was superintending the packing that was going on in the nursery, her husband came in. Christie had hardly seen him since little Harry died. He looked grave enough as he came in. He did not speak to her, but in a little while she heard him mention her name, and her heart stood still, as she heard him say:

“You don’t mean to tell me that you are to have no one to take care of the children and wait on you while you are away, but that child? Why, she looks as though she needed to be taken care of herself. I can never think of permitting such a thing.”

Christie felt, rather than saw, the look of entreaty that passed over Mrs Lee’s face as she laid her hand upon her husband’s arm. Meeting Christie’s startled gaze, she said:

“Go down and ask Nelly if the clean things are ready for this other trunk. I will ring when I want you.”

Very quietly Christie obeyed; but before she closed the door, she heard Mr Lee say, in his quick, careless manner:

“It is quite absurd to think of it! A rush of a girl like that!”

Christie’s heart failed. She knew that Mrs Lee seldom found courage to differ from her husband in any point where yielding was possible, and she felt that there was little hope that she would do so now.

She was mistaken, however. Mrs Lee spoke very earnestly to her husband. She told him of all that Christie had been to her and the children through all the long, dreary winter and spring. She told him of the faithful, loving service that had never flagged through weakness and weariness. She assured him of the perfect confidence she placed in her, saying she could not name one, even among her friends, to whom she would so willingly leave the children in case of illness or absence from them. She spoke with tears of little Harry’s love for her, and of Christie’s untiring devotion to him through all his long illness, till her voice lost itself in sobs of sorrow at the memories thus awakened.

Mr Lee did not listen unmoved. All unconsciously, his wife was giving him a glimpse of her own sad experiences during the last few months. Careless as he had grown, he could not listen without a pang, which was half sorrow and half shame.

“My poor Letty!” he said, gently; “you have had a sad time. You have indeed suffered much.”

“Yes,” she said, tearfully; “it has been a sorrowful time. But it is over now. I would not have my loved ones back again even if I could. I am glad for their sakes. Nothing can harm them where they are; and I shall see them again.”

There was a long pause. Then Mr Lee returned to the subject:

“But about your nurse. She really is a very sickly-looking girl. She seems to me like one far gone in a decline. I am very sorry, as you have found her so useful. But I cannot consent that you should go with no more efficient help.”

“But I don’t think she is ill,” said Mrs Lee, doubtfully. “She never complains. She was always delicate-looking. I remember when she first came, I quite hesitated about engaging her, she looked such a fragile little creature. But no one would have thought her otherwise than strong, and efficient too, who saw her through all our troubles.”

“Well, to me she looks frightfully ill just now,” said Mr Lee. “You must at least speak to the doctor about her.”

“She is tired now,” replied Mrs Lee. “She has worn herself out—first with me when I was ill and then with the children. A month at the sea-side will quite revive her.”

Mr Lee was not convinced.

“I feel that I ought to take her. She has wearied herself for us—injured her health, perhaps. I ought to take her, even if we take another servant.”

Mr Lee alluded to the additional expense.

“Besides,” he added, “it is doubtful when we may return. We may not return here at all. We may see England before we see this place again. It would never do for you to take the responsibility of such a girl as that—to say nothing of taking her so far from her home and friends.”

Mrs Lee sighed. She had become accustomed during her married life to frequent and sudden changes. She had learned not to be surprised at them now. Her sigh was for the little graves she must leave behind her, perhaps never more to look on them again. And Christie! Would it be right, in view of these possibilities, to take her away? Knowing them, would she be willing to go? Yes; she felt sure that Christie would not leave them willingly. But she must not think of herself in this matter; she must consider what was best for the poor girl. Would Christie’s friends, would that sister she loved so well, consent to let her go away, uncertain where she was to go or when she was to return? No; even if Christie herself was willing, she must not think of taking her away.

Yet who was to supply her place? Oh, how wearily she sighed! how she shrank from this new trial! She knew that to her husband this would seem a very little thing indeed; and she kept her sad thoughts to herself, as she had done many a time before.

“I don’t know how I can tell her,” she said. “It seems so unkind to change our plans at this late hour. She will be disappointed, I am sure.”

“Oh, I will tell her, if that will do,” said her husband. “I dare say she will be sorry to part from the children and you. You have been very kind to her, I am quite sure. You must make her some little present—a frock, or something; and I’ll tell her our plans.”

“How little you can know about it!” sighed Mrs Lee.

But the matter was considered settled. Nothing more was said about it till the following day, when Mr Lee told his wife he had engaged a woman to go with them—a very suitable person, highly recommended to him by one of his friends.

In the meantime, Christie, having heard no more of the matter, let the remark which had so startled her quite pass out of her mind; and she was in no way prepared for the announcement which Mr Lee made on the second morning, of the change in their arrangements. She was grieved and hurt; so grieved that she could hardly restrain her tears, so hurt that she had the power to do so, and to answer, quietly, “Very well, sir.”

She finished what she was doing in the room and then went out, without another word and without looking towards Mrs Lee.

“You see, she takes it very quietly,” said Mr Lee. “Be sure and make her some little present, as I said before, and it will be all right.”

Mrs Lee sighed.

“It is I who have the most cause for regret,” she said, sadly; “but it is vain to speak of it. You could never, never know.”

Christie went about the house all day very quietly, but no less busily than usual. Her thoughts were by no means pleasant, however.

“It was my vanity that made me think I was of use to her and that she cared for me,” she said to herself, bitterly. “And now I must go home, when I was growing content to stay. If I had only taken John’s advice, and gone with him! Well, I suppose I was too full of my own plans, and this is the way I am to be taught wisdom and humility. I will try to be content. But it will not be very easy, I am afraid.”

Mrs Lee was out a good deal during the day, so that she scarcely saw her till the children had gone to bed. Then she came into the nursery to make some last arrangement of little garments; and in spite of herself, Christie trembled to find herself left alone with her.

“I must speak to her,” she said. “Oh, if I only need not! If I could just say good-bye, and nothing more!”

Mrs Lee sat lost in thought, not seeming to heed her, and Christie stitched away as though there were nothing in the world more important than that little Ned’s buttons should be sewed on firmly. They were finished at last, and the little garment laid with the rest. Instead of coming to her seat again, she stood a little behind Mrs Lee, and said, in a low voice:

“Is it to-morrow, ma’am?”

“Yes; we leave to-morrow, early in the day,” said Mrs Lee.

By a great effort, Christie said, hurriedly:

“About my things, ma’am—my frock and hat? I am afraid I have not enough to pay for them and take me home.”

She had not time to say more. Suddenly turning, Mrs Lee laid her hand on her arm.

“Hush, Christie! It is not a matter of wages between you and me to-night. Money could not pay what I owe to you. We’ll speak of that by and by. Sit down, now, my poor, weary child.”

She placed herself on a low stool at a little distance, and let her head fall on her hand.

“Are you thinking to go home?” asked Mrs Lee.

“I don’t know. I suppose so. I have nowhere else to go.” Christie’s voice was husky, but she was able to command it.

“And did you think I would leave you with nowhere to go?” asked Mrs Lee, gravely. “But would it not be best to go? You are not strong, Christie.”

“Perhaps it would be better to go, but I wish I could get a place for a little while.” And Christie told her of the new misfortune that had befallen them, in the loss of her aunt’s income.

Mrs Lee sighed, and after a pause, said:

“I was at Mrs Seaton’s to-day, near the mountain. There is illness in the family, and a young infant. More help is required in the nursery. You remember the twins, the pretty boys we used to see in the carriage. One of them is ill—never to be better, I fear. The other you will have the care of for the present. They are quite in the country. I think it will be good for you to be there. I think you will like it too.”

Christie thanked her as well as she was able.

“It seems unkind to you that we should change our plans at so late an hour. I should have considered sooner. But I thought more of my children, and of having you still with them, than I did of what would be best for you.”

Christie tried to say how glad she would be to go even now. Mrs Lee shook her head.

“You are not strong, and you are very young. It would be wrong to take you I know not where. It may be a long time before we return here. We may never return.” She was silent for a moment, and then continued:

“Yes, it would be wrong to take you so far from your home to share our uncertain fortunes. If you were but as strong as you are faithful and patient! But it cannot be.”

Christie ceased to struggle with her tears now, but they fell very quietly.

“As for wages,” said Mrs Lee, lifting the lid of Christie’s work-box and dropping in it a little purse, “money could never cancel the debt I owe you. I am content to owe it, Christie. I know you will not grudge your loving service to my darlings.

“And I owe you more than that,” she added, after a pause. “Christie, when the time comes when all these chafings and changes shall be over, when seeing the reason of them we shall bless God for them, we shall be friends then, I humbly hope. And you must tell your sister—no, you could never tell her. I wish I had seen your friend, John Nesbitt, when he was here; but I will write. And Christie, my brave girl, look up. See what I have for you.”

Something glistened in the light, and Christie received into her hand a locket, hung by a black ribbon. Upon being opened, there was a face—a lovely child’s face—“little Harry!”

Yes, it was little Harry’s face, copied from a miniature taken about the time when she first saw him. On the other side, encircled by a ring of the baby’s golden hair, was written, in fair characters, by the mother’s hand:

“To Christie. From the children.”

“And now, Christie,” said Mrs Lee, when the tears that would come at the sight of the picture had been wiped away, “our good-bye to-morrow must be a brief and quiet one. To-night I must say, ‘God bless you.’ Don’t let the world spoil you as you grow older. You won’t, I know. You have a talisman against its power. May God make you a blessing to many, as He has made you a blessing to me! Good-bye, my dear child. If we never meet on earth, I humbly hope we may meet in heaven!”

It was not like a parting between mistress and maid. Mrs Lee kissed her earnestly, while her tears fell on her face, and when Christie said “Good-bye,” she clung to her as she had not clung even to Effie. It was like the farewell of sisters who know that they must meet death before they look on each other’s faces again.

Not one of the many grateful thoughts which filled Christie’s heart had she the power to utter. But they were not needed. After so many months of loving service—after so many nights of anxious watching, shared so gladly for the love she bore to her and her little ones—words could have been of little value.

The “good-bye” in the morning was brief and quiet, as Mrs Lee had wished—so brief that not till the carriage that took them away had disappeared, did Christie realise that they were gone; and the walls of the deserted nursery echoed to many a bitter sob ere she bade farewell to the place where she had passed so many changeful hours.

Chapter Thirteen.

Christie’s new home.

It was a very lovely scene, and all the lovelier for the light of a fair summer morning upon it. There was a broad, sunny lawn, with a margin of shade, and just one mass of flitting shadows beneath the locust-tree near the gate. Beyond, there were glimpses of winding walks and of brilliant garden-flowers, and farther on, the waving boughs of trees, and more flitting shadows; the cedar hedge hid the rest. The house that stood beyond the sunny lawn was like a house in a picture—with a porch in front, and galleries at the sides, and over the railings and round the pillars twined flowering shrubs and a vine, with dark shining leaves. A flight of stone steps led up to the open porch, and on the uppermost one sat a young girl, reading. One hand rested on her book, while the other slowly wound and unwound the ribbon of a child’s hat that lay beside her. Her head was bent low over her book, and Christie could not see her face for the long, bright curls that shaded it. So intent was she on her reading that she did not hear the sound of footsteps; and Christie stood admiring the pretty picture which the young girl and the flowers and the drooping vine-leaves made, without caring to speak.

She might have stood long enough before the young reader would have stirred, had not some one advanced from the other side.

“Miss Gertrude, the carriage will be round in ten minutes.”

“Yes, I know,” said the young girl, without raising her eyes. “I am quite ready to go.”

“But Master Clement is going; and nurse is busy, and he won’t let me dress him; and if you please, Miss Gertrude, Mrs Seaton begs that you will come and coax him, and try to get him away without waking his brother.”

The young lady rose, shutting her book with an impatient gesture; and then she saw Christie.

“Good morning,” she said. “Do you wish to see any one?”

“I wish to see Mrs Seaton. Mrs Lee sent me,” said Christie.

“Oh, the new nurse for Clement. I dare say he won’t go into town to-day, Martha. It was only to get him out of the way—the young tyrant. Show this girl to Mrs Seaton’s room. She wished to see her as soon as she came.” And then she sat down and took up her book again.

“If you please, Miss Gertrude, Mrs Seaton wishes to see you at once. Perhaps you will be so obliging as to go up-stairs with her. Master Clement has kept me so long that I fear I shall not have the things ready to send with Peter.”

Miss Gertrude rose, but with not the best grace in the world, and Christie followed her into the house and up-stairs. At the first landing a door opened, and a little boy, half-dressed, rushed out.

“Tudie, let me go with you; I want to go.”

“Naughty boys who won’t let Mattie dress them mustn’t expect to be taken anywhere. You are not to come with me. You will wake Claude.”

“Oh, Claude’s awake, and crying to be dressed. Let me go with you,” pleaded the child.

“No; you are not to come. Remember, I tell you so; and I am not Mattie, to be trifled with.”

Miss Gertrude spoke very gravely. Her brother, a spirited little lad of five or six years of age, looked up into her face with defiance in his eyes. Then he gave a glance down the long hall, as if meditating a rush in that direction; but he thought better of it.

“I’ll be good, Tudie. I won’t make a noise,” said he.

“Stay where you are,” said Miss Gertrude, decidedly. She led the way down the long hall, then up a flight of steps, and opened the door of a large room. It seemed quite dark at first, but soon Christie was able to distinguish the different things in it. The furniture of the room was covered with green stuff, and there was on the floor a soft green carpet, with bright flowers scattered over it. The curtains on the windows and on the bed were of white muslin, but the hangings above were green. The paper on the walls was white, with a border of brown acorns and green oak-leaves. It was a very pretty room; and the coolness and the softened light made it seem altogether delightful to Christie after her long, dusty walk.

On the bed was a lady, dressed for an outdoor walk, but her hands were pressed over her eyes as though she were in pain. A little boy lay tossing fretfully on the sofa, but his peevish cry ceased for a moment as they entered the room. Miss Gertrude seated herself beside him, and said, without approaching the bed—

“Here is the young girl that Mrs Lee sent.”

The lady took her hand from her eyes, and raised herself up. Seating herself in a large chair by the bed, she beckoned to Christie to come towards her.

“You came from Mrs Lee, did you?” said she.

Christie came forward. The lady observed her for a moment.

“Mrs Lee told me you were young, and not very strong,” said she; “but I had no idea you were quite such a child.”

“I am past fifteen,” said Christie.

“And do you mean to tell me that Mrs Lee trusted her children to you—that infant too—through all her illness?”

“Mrs Greenly was in the house nearly all the winter, and she was in the nursery very often. That was all the help I had,” said Christie, with a slight change of colour.

“And was it you who took care of little Harry, and who was with him when he died?”

The remembrance of that sorrowful time was too vivid for Christie to bear this allusion to it unmoved. She grew quite pale, and took one step forward towards a little table, and laid her hand upon it. Miss Gertrude, who had been watching her with great interest, rose and brought forward a chair, looking towards her mother, without speaking.

“You look tired,” said Mrs Seaton. “Did you walk? Sit down and rest.” Christie gladly obeyed.

“Mrs Lee speaks very highly of you—very highly indeed. You must have been very useful to her; and I dare say she was very kind to you.”

Remembering all they had passed through together, Christie could hardly restrain her tears. But, as the lady seemed to expect an answer, she said, with some difficulty—

“She was very kind to me, and I loved her dearly—and the children.”

It is possible Mrs Seaton did not consider much love necessary between mistress and maid. She did not look as though she did, as Christie could not help thinking as she glanced towards her.

“And you got on nicely with the children, did you? Of course you will have little to do here in comparison with what you must have had there. But my wilful Clement, I am afraid, you will find too much for you. He is a masterful lad.”

She did not speak regretfully, as though the child’s wilfulness grieved her very much, but rather the contrary. And, indeed, one could hardly wonder at the pride in her voice as Master Clement rushed in among them. He was a child that any mother would own with pride—a picture of robust health and childish beauty. His brown curls were sadly disordered. One arm was thrust into the sleeve of his frock, in a vain attempt to finish the dressing which Mattie had commenced. One foot was bare, and he carried in his hand his stocking and shoe. He walked straight up to his sister, saying gravely:

“Baby is crying, and I came to tell mamma.”

She did not answer him, but laying down Claude’s head on the pillow, she began to arrange his disordered dress. He submitted quite patiently to the operation, only saying, now and then, as he turned round to look in her face:

“Am I naughty, Tudie? Are you going to punish me?”

She did not answer him. Indeed, there was no occasion. He did not seem at all afraid of the punishment, whatever it might be. When she had tied on his shoe, he slipped from her, and flung himself on the sofa beside his brother. He did not mean to be rough with him, but the little fellow uttered a peevish cry, and pushed him away.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you. Don’t cry.”

His little brown hand was laid softly on Claude’s pale cheek, and their brown curls mingled as their heads were laid on the same pillow. What a contrast they presented! Christie could hardly persuade herself these were the little lads that she and the Lee children used to admire so much—partly because they were so pretty, and partly because they were so much alike. They were alike still. One could hardly have told, as they lay together, to which head the tangled mass of brown curls belonged. Their eyes were the same, too, but little Claude’s were larger, and they drooped with a look of weariness and pain sad to see in any eyes, but very, very sad to see in the eyes of a child. His forehead was larger, too,—or it seemed larger, above his thin, pale cheeks. But not even his wan cheeks or weary eyes struck so painfully to Christie’s heart as did the sight of his little, wasted hand, white as the pillow on which it lay. It seemed whiter and more wasted still when it was raised for a moment to stroke his brother’s rosy cheek. Oh, how very sad it seemed! And his mother! She closed her eyes, and laid herself back in her chair, with a sigh that was almost a groan.

Clement was very gentle, or he meant to be very gentle, with his brother. He stroked his cheeks, and kissed him, calling him “little brother,” and “poor Claudie.” And the little fellow hushed his peevish cry, and tried to smile for a moment.

“I am going into town,” said Clement; “and then we are going to spend the day at Aunt Barbara’s. They are making hay there. May Claude go? It would make him quite well to play among the hay with me and Fanny and Stephen. Mamma, mayn’t he go? Tudie, do let Claudie go.”

“Mamma, mamma, let me go. Let Mattie dress me. Oh, I want to go among the hay!”

He came down from the sofa, and went towards his mother as fast as his trembling limbs could carry him. She met him and received him in her arms.

“My darling cannot go. He is not strong enough. Oh, Gertrude, how could you let Clement come in here?”

“Mamma, I am quite well. I should be quite well if I could play among the hay, as we used to do.”

Memories of health and strength enjoyed in summer sunshine were doubtlessly stirring at the boy’s heart, to which he could give no utterance. The look of wistful entreaty in his weary eyes went to his mother’s heart.

“My dear boy, if you only could? Oh, Gertrude! how could you be so thoughtless?” she repeated.

“I desired Clement to stay in the nursery, and he disobeyed me,” said Gertrude, gravely.

“And now are you going to punish me?” he asked.

“Go into the nursery, and I will tell you. Go at once.”

“Go away, naughty boy, and not vex your little brother,” said his mother, rocking in her arms the child, who was too weak and weary to resist.

“I didn’t vex Claude. Let him go with us. I’m not a naughty boy.” He looked as though he meditated taking up a position on the sofa.

“Go,” said his sister.

“How will you punish me, then?”

“I will tell you when I come to the nursery,” she said, opening the door for him.

Not very willingly, but quietly, he went; and in a little while they heard his merry voice ringing along the hall.

“I am very sorry,” said the young lady, coming back; “give me Claude. I will walk about with him; you are not able.”

“No, no,” said Mrs Seaton, though the little boy held out his arms to go to her. “Go; the carriage is waiting. You should have gone long ago.”

“Need we go?” she asked, looking at Christie. “Clement can be kept out of the way now.”

“Yes, yes; go,” answered she, hastily. “We have had vexation enough for one day. And I thought this dear child was so nicely settled for the day; and now he is getting quite feverish again.”

Miss Gertrude turned and went out without reply.

“My boy, my poor boy!” murmured the mother, as she rocked him in her arms, and her lips were pressed on his feverish brow. “Will he ever play among the hay again?”

She rocked him till his crying was hushed, and weary with struggling, he begged to be laid down. Christie arranged the pillows, and his mother placed him on the sofa. She would fain have lingered near him; but, weak from recent illness, she was obliged to lie down. In a little while he asked for water, and to his mother’s surprise, was willing to take it from Christie’s hands. He even suffered her to bathe his hands and feet, and when he grew restless again, let her take him on her lap. He was quite contented to stay there; and the last object the mother saw before she sank to sleep was her sick boy nestling peacefully in the arms of the little stranger maid. And it was the first object she saw when she waked, some three hours afterwards. Christie had not moved, except to let her hat and shawl fall on the floor, and little Claude was slumbering peacefully still. He awoke soon, however, refreshed and strengthened, and not at all indignant at finding himself in a stranger’s arms, as his mother feared he might be. He suffered her to wash and dress him, as he had suffered no one but his mother to do for the last three weary weeks. It was very well that he was inclined to be friendly, for Mrs Seaton found herself much too ill to do the accustomed duty herself; and it was with something very like gratitude stirring at her heart that she said to Christie, when all was done:

“You are fond of children, are you not? You are very gentle and careful, I see.”

The little boy quarrelled with his dinner, as usual; but upon the whole the meal was successful, his mother said; and as a reward for being good, he was promised a walk in the garden by and by.

In the meantime Christie went down-stairs to her dinner, under the care of the friendly Mattie, whom she had seen in the morning. She was very kind, and meant to make herself very agreeable, and asked many questions, and volunteered various kinds of information as to what Christie might expect in her new place, which she might far better have withheld. Christie had little to say, and made her answers as quietly and briefly as possible.

When she went up-stairs again, she found affairs in not quite so cheerful a state as when she had left them. The doctor had been in, and though he had greatly applauded the scheme for sending little Claude into the garden, he had utterly forbidden his mother to leave her bed to go with him. It could not be permitted on any account; and she had so entirely devoted herself for the last few weeks to the care and amusement of the child that he could not, at first, be prevailed on to go without her. He would not look at Mattie, nor at Mrs Grayson, the housekeeper. After much gentle persuasion on her part, and many promises as to what he would see and hear out in the pleasant sunshine, he suffered Christie to bring his hat and coat and put them on.

“I think you may trust me with him, ma’am,” said Christie. “I will be very gentle and careful with him. Poor wee boy!” she added, looking into the face that seemed more wan and thin under the drooping plumes of his hat. But his mother dismissed them with a sigh.

It was not a very easy thing to amuse the exacting little fellow for a long time, but it was perhaps a very good thing for Christie that it fell to her lot to do so. A longer indulgence in the musings which had occupied her during three hours passed in the darkened room would not have been good for her, at any rate; and there was no chance for that here. She was suffering very keenly from her parting with Mrs Lee and her children, and as she had felt the clinging arms of little Claude about her neck, she had said to herself, almost bitterly, that she would not allow herself to love any one—any stranger—so dearly again. Yes, the pain was very hard to bear, and she felt very lonely and sad as she paced slowly up and down the long walks of the garden.

It was a very quiet place, however, quite out of reach of all disturbing sounds, and Christie could not help wondering that she did not enjoy it more, till she remembered what good reason she had for being very weary, and she was content to wait for a full enjoyment of the pretty garden.

“I dare say I shall like to stay here after a little,” she said to herself. “There is one thing sure, it was no plan of mine to come. I have had enough of my own plans. I’ll just try and be as useful and happy as I can, and wait till I see how things will turn. I am afraid Effie may not like my staying, but I can only just wait, and it will all come right.”

And she put her good resolutions into practice then and there. She was very patient with her little charge. She amused him, till he quite forgot his shyness with her. She brought him flowers, and translated the talk of the two little birds who were feeding their young in the old pear-tree, till he laughed almost merrily again. The time soon passed, and it was a very weary but very happy little face that he held up to kiss his mother that night, and he was soon slumbering quietly in his little cot by her side.

Then Christie betook herself to her place in Master Clement’s nursery. She found that noisy young gentleman quiet for the night, and gladly laid herself down. In spite of her weariness, her long walk and her afternoon in the open air had done her good. She was asleep before any lonely or home-sick thoughts had time to visit her, and she slept as she had not slept for weeks, without waking till the twittering of the birds in the pear-tree roused her to begin her new life.

Christie had never to measure her strength with that of the “masterful” Clement. It happened quite otherwise—fortunately for her, though sadly enough for Mrs Seaton. The doctor, at his next visit, very decidedly assured her that her proposed visit to the sea-side must no longer be delayed, unless she intended to remain an invalid during the rest of the summer. Her health, her life even, depended on a change of air and freedom from anxiety. The good she could do her sick boy by staying at home would be very little in comparison to the harm she would do herself. She ought to have gone weeks since. Her infant and nurse might go with her, but none of the other children. It would do her more harm than good to be troubled with the boys on the journey or at a strange watering-place, and as for them, home was the best place for both. He assured her that her anxiety for Claude was unnecessary. He was in no immediate danger. It might be months, or even years, before he would be quite well again. He might never be so strong and healthy as his brother. But there was no danger for him. Quiet and constant care were what he needed; and they could be found best at home.

“Come here, my little man,” said he, “and let me prove to your mother that you are going to be quite well again, and that very soon, too.”

Claude had been sitting on the balcony into which the windows of the green room opened, and he came forward, led by Christie, at the doctors desire. After a minute’s talk with the child, his eye fell on her.

“What! are you here? I thought you had been far enough away by this time. How came you to leave your charge?”

Christie came forward shyly, looking at Mrs Seaton.

“Mr Lee thought her not strong enough,” said Mrs Seaton. “There was no other one to go; and she hardly seemed fit for the charge of all.”

“Humph! He has made a mistake or two before in his lifetime—and so has she, for that matter,” said the doctor, with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Mrs Lee didn’t know when they would come back again, and she didn’t like to take me so far-away,” said Christie; “and I was very sorry.”

“And so you are to be Claude’s nurse, it seems?”

Christie looked at Mrs Seaton.

“She came, in the meantime, to go out with Clement and to help in the nursery generally. I have kept Claude with me altogether of late.” And as Christie took the little boy to the balcony again, she added, “I don’t see how I can leave him. Poor little fellow! He will let no one care for him but me.”

The doctor shook his head.

“That may be very well for him, but it is very bad indeed for you. Indeed, it must not be. Let me make a plan for you. You can quite safely leave him with this new nurse. I would recommend her among a thousand—”

“A child like that!” interrupted Mrs Seaton.

“A child in appearance, I grant, but quite a woman in sense and patience. She has surprised me many a time.”

“But she has had no experience. She cannot know—”

“Oh, that is the best of it. She will do as she is bidden. Save me from those ‘experienced’ persons who have wisdom enough for ten! I can trust this little maid that she will do exactly as I bid her. She is a very conscientious person—religiously inclined, I should think. At any rate, she is just the nurse I should choose from all the sisterhood for your poor little boy—just the firm and gentle attendant he needs now. Trust me. I know her well.”

It is possible that in speaking thus the doctor’s first wish was to set the mind of the mother at rest about leaving her child, but he could say what he did without doing any violence to his conscience. He really had admired and wondered at Christie’s management of the little Lees during his frequent visits to their nursery.

“And besides,” he added to himself, “the poor little fellow will be better when away from his mother’s unbounded indulgence for a while. It will be better for all concerned.”

So the matter was arranged—not without many misgivings on Mrs Seaton’s part, however. Her directions as to Christie’s management of the boy were so many and so minute that the poor child was in danger of becoming bewildered among them. To all she could only answer, again and again:

“I will be very careful, ma’am;” or, “I will do my best.”

It was well for Mrs Seaton that there was but little time left, or her heart, and Christie’s too, might have failed. At the very last moment the mother had a mind to change her plans.

“After all,” she said, “perhaps it would have been wiser to send him to his aunt’s. Her children are noisy and troublesome, to be sure; but I should have felt easier about him. Mind, Gertrude, you are to write every day till your father returns. And, Christie, remember, you are to obey the doctor’s directions in all things. He is to call every day. And don’t let Clement fret him. And, Gertrude, be sure to write.”

Chapter Fourteen.

New friends.

The house seemed very quiet after Mrs Seaton went away. For that day and the next, Christie and her little charge were left to the solitude of the green room and the garden. Miss Gertrude and Clement had gone to visit their aunt, and not knowing when they might return, Christie was beginning to wonder what she should do during the long hours that her little charge slept or amused himself quietly without her. There were no books in the green room—at least, there were none she cared for. In the nursery there were a few story-books for little children—fairy tales, and rhymes, with pictures of giants and dwarfs and little old women, among which Christie recognised some that had been great favourites long ago. But after the first glance she cared no more for them.

On the morning of the third day, when Claude was taking his nap, the time began to hang heavy on her hands. She took her Bible and read a chapter or two, but in spite of herself she grew dull and dreary. The stillness of the house oppressed her. The other servants were busy in a distant apartment. She seemed quite shut in from all the world. Just opposite the window was a large locust-tree, which hid the garden from her; and the only sound that reached her was the murmur of the wind among its branches, and the hum of the bees that now and then rested a moment among the few blossoms that still lingered on them. Her thoughts turned homewards.

“I might write to Effie,” she said to herself. But she was not sufficiently in the mood for it to go to her trunk for her small store of paper and pens; and she sat still, with her head leaning on her hands and her eyes fixed on the swaying leaves, vaguely conscious that the indulgence of her present mood was not the best thing for her.

She was not permitted to indulge it long, however. The little boy stirred and tossed in his crib, and she went to arrange the coverlet over him; and as she was moving listlessly about the room, something glistened in a stray sunbeam and caught her short-sighted eyes, and from the cushions of the great easy-chair, where it had lain since the first day of her coming, she drew the book that Miss Gertrude had been reading when she watched the pretty picture she made as she sat beneath the drooping leaves.

With a cry of delight, she recognised her old favourite, “The Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life.” The very same! though this was glittering in blue and gold, a perfect contrast to the little, brown-covered book, with the title-page lost, which had made Christie forget her bread and her cooling oven on that unhappy day. But the remembrance of the old time and the old favourite came back all the more vividly because of the contrast. The memory of the old times came back. Oh, how long ago it seemed since that summer afternoon when she lay on the grass and read it for the first time! Yet how vividly it all came back! The blue sky, with the white clouds passing over it now and then, the sound of the wind among the low fir-trees, the smell of the hawthorn hedge, the voices of the children in the lane beyond, seemed once more above her and around her. And then the sound of her mother’s gentle chiding, when she found her sitting there after the shadows had grown long, came back. Her voice, her smile, the very gown and cap she wore, and the needlework she carried in her hand, came sensibly before her. Yet how long ago it seemed! Christie remembered how many times she had taken it with her to the fields, when the incompleteness of their fences during the first year of their stay on the farm had made the “herding” of the sheep and cows necessary that the grain might be safe. She had read it in the woods in spring-time, by the firelight in the long winter evenings, and by stealth on Sundays, when the weather had kept her from the kirk. It was associated in her remembrance with many things pleasant and many things sad; and no wonder that for a while she turned over the leaves, catching only here and there a glimpse of the familiar words, because of the tears that hid them.

Sitting on the floor, with the book held close to her face, she read, and forgot all else. The little lad tossed and murmured, and mechanically she put forth her hand and rocked him in his crib; but she neither heard nor saw when the door opened and some one came in.

It was Miss Gertrude. A look of surprise passed over her face as she caught a glimpse of the reader on the floor, but it gave place to interest and amusement as she watched her. Her absorbed look never changed, even when she rocked and murmured soothing words to the restless child. She read on—sometimes smiling, sometimes sighing, but never lifting her eyes—till Miss Gertrude came forward and spoke.

“Well, how have you been getting on?”

Christie started, as if it had been Aunt Elsie’s voice she heard; and at the look of astonishment and dismay that spread itself over her face, the young lady laughed.

“How has Claude been, all these days?” she asked, softly, as she bent over the crib.

“He has been quite well and quite good, I think,” said Christie, trying to collect her scattered wits.

“Has the doctor been here?” asked Miss Gertrude.

“Yes; he was here this morning. He asked when you were coming home, but I couldn’t tell him.”

“Well, I’m here now; and I’m going to stay, too! If the doctor thinks he is going to banish Clement and me from home for the next month, he will find himself mistaken. For my part, I don’t see the use of his coming here so often, just to shake his head and look grave over poor little Claude. Of course the child’s mother wishes it; but it is all nonsense.”

Christie looked at her in astonishment. But that the words were so quietly and gravely spoken, she would have thought them uncalled for, not to say impertinent, from a girl scarcely older than herself. They needed no reply, however, and she made none.

She did not then know that Mrs Seaton was not Gertrude’s own mother, and that she was only half-sister to the two little boys, upon whom she looked as mere children, whilst she felt herself a young lady.

“Have you been lonely here?” she asked, in a few minutes.

“A little. It is very quiet,” said Christie, hesitatingly. “But I like it.”

“Is Claude fond of you?” asked Gertrude, gravely.

Christie smiled a little.

“He does not object to me. I dare say he will be fond of me in time. I am sure he will be very glad to see you and his brother. It is very quiet for him to be left alone with me.”

“But the doctor wishes him to be quiet,” said Gertrude; “and his mother won’t have him vexed on any account. I have seen her quite tremble when his brother has come near him; and after all it is no wonder.”

“Clement is so strong,” said Christie; “but he will learn to be gentle with his brother in time. How very much alike they used to be! We used to see them driving together. We didn’t know their names, but we always called them the two pretty boys.”

“Yes, they were very much alike; and it will grieve Clement, when he is older, to know— Did you never hear about it? They were playing together, and Claude fell. The doctor thinks that fall was the cause of his illness. His mother can’t bear to think so, it is so sad; and besides, it seems to make his illness more hopeless. I am afraid he will never be strong and well again.”

“Oh, don’t say so,” said Christie, sadly, quite shocked at what she heard. “Please God, he will be well again. He is only a child; and children outlive so much. For two or three years no one thought I should live to grow up. But I am quite well now.”

“You are not a giant yet, nor very strong either. At least you don’t look so,” said Gertrude.

“But I shall grow strong here in the country. I am better already since I came. Do you really think that little Master Claude will never be strong and well again?”

“I don’t know. I cannot tell. But Aunt Barbara says the doctor is not at all hopeful about it, though he speaks hopefully to mother. Aunt Barbara thinks if the poor little fellow should live, he may be deformed, or lame for life. I think it would be much better for him to die now, than to live to be deformed or a cripple.”

“I don’t know. I can’t tell,” said Christie, looking with a vague wonder from the sleeping child to the sister who spoke so quietly about his great misfortune. “It is well we have not to decide about these things. God knows best.”

“Yes, I suppose so. It is in vain to murmur, whatever may happen. But there is a deal of trouble in the world.” And the young lady sighed, as though she had her share of it to bear.

Christie’s astonishment increased. Looking at the young lady, she said to herself that it was doubtful whether she knew in the least what she was talking about.

“Troubles in the world? Yes, doubtless there are—plenty of them! But what could she know of them?”

“Are you fond of reading?” asked Gertrude, after a little time, her eye falling on the book which Christie still held.

“Yes,” said Christie; “I like to read. This is the book you left the other day. I only found it a little while ago.”

“Have you read much of it? There are some pretty stories in it, I think.”

“Oh, yes; I read the book long ago. It was one of our favourites at home. I like to read anything about home—about Scotland, I mean.”

“And so do I,” said Gertrude. “I knew you were Scotch when I heard you speak. Is it long since you came? Have you been here long? Tell me all about it.”

In the short half-hour before Claude awoke, there was not time to tell all about it, but the young girls told each other enough to awaken a mutual interest.

Miss Gertrude’s mother had died when she was quite young, and she had been committed to the care of an aunt, with whom she had continued to reside for some time, even after the second marriage of her father. She had had a very happy home, and had been educated with great care. Looking back on those days now, she could see no shadow on their calm brightness. She had had her childish troubles, I suppose, but she forgot them all as she went on to describe to Christie her merry life with her young cousins and her friends. Her aunt’s death had broken all those pleasant ties, and she had come to Canada, which must be her home till she was grown up. When she should be of age, she told Christie, and could claim the fortune her mother had left her, she was going home again to live always. She did not like Canada. It did not seem like home to her, though she was living in her father’s house. She longed for the time when she should be her own mistress.