Chapter Five.

Chapter Five.Clouds and sunshine.When a great sorrow has just fallen upon us, we find it impossible to feel that all things about us are not changed. We cannot imagine ourselves falling into the old daily routine again. The death of one dear to us gives us a shock which seems to unsettle the very foundation of things. A sense of insecurity and unreality pervades all that concerns us. We shrink from the thought that the old pleasures will charm us again, that daily cares will occupy our minds to the exclusion of to-day’s sadness, that time will heal the wounds that smart so bitterly now.But it does; and as it passes, we find ourselves going the old rounds, enjoying the old pleasures, doing the duties which the day brings; and the great healer does his kindly office, to the soothing of our pain. It is not that our bereavement is no longer felt, or that we have forgotten the friend we loved. But the human heart is a harp with many strings. Though one be broken, there are others which answer to the touch of the wandering breezes; and though the music may be marred in some of its measures, it is still sweet.The young cannot long sit under the shadow of a great sorrow, if there be any chance rays of sunshine gleaming. Besides, the poor have no time to sit down and nurse their grief. When little more than a week had passed after Mr Redfern’s death, Effie was obliged to return to the ruling and guiding of her noisy little kingdom. She went sadly enough; and many an anxious thought went back to the household at home. But she could not choose but go. They had agreed among themselves that there should be no change till after the harvest should be gathered in, and in the meantime, all the help that she could give was needed. Her monthly wages were growing doubly precious in her estimation. They were the chief dependence at home.The sowing and planting had been on a limited scale this spring, and all outdoor matters, except what pertained to the dairy, could very well be attended to by James Cairns, their hired man, who was strong and willing. So Annie and Sarah were in the house, and the little ones went to school as soon as the summer weather came.As for Christie, little was expected from her besides attending to Aunt Elsie, and reading to her now and then. These were easy enough duties, one would think, considering how little attention Aunt Elsie was willing to accept from any one. But light as they were, Christie could not hide, and did not alwaystryto hide, the truth that they were irksome to her.Poor little Christie! How miserable she was, often! How mortified and ashamed of herself! This was all so different from what she had meant to be when Effie went away—a help and a comfort to all. There were times when she strove bravely with herself: she strove to be less peevish, and to join the rest in their efforts to be useful and cheerful; but she almost always failed, and every new failure left her less able and less willing to try again.But Christie was not so much to blame for these shortcomings as she had sometimes been. The great reaction from the efforts and anxieties before her father’s death, as well as the shock of that event, left her neither strength nor power to exert herself or to interest herself in what was passing. Her sisters meant kindly in claiming no help about the household work from her, but they made a mistake in so doing. Active work, that would have really tired her, and left her no time for melancholy musings, would have been far better for her. As it was, she could apply herself to no employment, not even her favourite reading. Her time, when not immediately under her aunt’s eye, was passed in listless wanderings to and fro, or in sitting with folded hands, thinking thoughts that were unprofitable always, and sometimes wrong. Fits of silence alternated with sudden and violent bursts of weeping, which her sisters could neither soothe nor understand. Indeed, she did not understand them herself. She struggled with them, ashamed of her folly and weakness; but she grew no better, but rather worse.She might well rejoice when, at the end of a fortnight, Effie came home. The wise and loving elder sister was not long in discovering that the peevishness and listlessness of her young sister sprang from a cause beyond her control. She was ill from over-exertion, and nervous from over-excitement and grief. Nothing could be worse for her than this confinement to Aunt Elsie’s sick-room, added to the querulousness of Aunt Elsie herself.“You should let Christie help with the milking, as she used to do,” she said to Sarah. “It would be far better for her than sitting so much in Aunt Elsie’s room. She seems ill and out of sorts.”“Yes, she’s out of sorts,” said Sarah, with less of sympathy in her tone than Effie had shown. “There’s no telling what to do with her sometimes. She can scarcely bear a word, but bursts out crying if the least thing is said to her. I dare say she is not very well, poor child!”“She seems far from well, indeed,” said Effie, gravely. “And I’m sure you, or I either, would find our spirits sink if we were to spend day after day in Aunt Elsie’s room. You don’t know what it is till you try it.”Sarah shrugged her shoulders.“I dare say we should. But Christie doesna seem to mind much what Aunt Elsie says. I’m sure I thought she liked better to be there than to be working hard in the kitchen or dairy.”“She may like it better, but it’s no’ so good for her, for all that. You should send her out, and try and cheer her up, poor lassie! She’s no’ so strong as the rest of us; and she suffers much from the shock.”That night, when the time for bringing home the cows came, Effie took her sun-bonnet from the nail, saying carelessly:“I’m going to the pasture. Are you coming, Christie?”“For the cows?” said Christie, tartly. “The bairns go for them.”“Oh, but I’m going for the pleasure of the walk. We’ll go through the wheat, and down by the brook. Come.”Christie would far rather have stayed quietly at home, but she did not like to refuse Effie; and so she went, and was better for it. At first Effie spoke of various things which interested them as a family; and Christie found herself listening with pleasure to all her plans. At the side of the brook, where they sat down for a while, as they usually did, they spoke of their father and mother; and though Christie wept, it was not that nervous weeping which sometimes so exhausted her. She wept gently; and when Effie spoke of the love that should bind them all closely together, now that they were orphans, she prayed inwardly that God would make her more patient and loving than she had lately been. Her heart was lighter than it had been for days, when they rose to go.They went to the kirk together the next day too. They did not walk; so there was no lingering in the kirk-yard or at the half-mile corner. But the day was fine and the air pleasant; and the motion of the great wagon in which they drove, though not very easy, was agreeable for a change, and Christie enjoyed it all. I am afraid she did not enjoy the sermon better than usual. She had a great many wandering thoughts, and she had to struggle against overpowering drowsiness, which she did not quite succeed in casting off. But she enjoyed the kind greetings and looks of sympathy that awaited them in the kirk-yard, though they brought many tears to Effie’s eyes, and sent them gushing over her own pale cheeks. She was glad of old Mrs Grey’s sweet, cheerful words, and of the light pressure of blind Allie’s little hand. She was glad when she heard Mrs Nesbitt ask Effie to bring her sister over to pass a week with her, and more glad still when Effie made the promise, saying the change would do her good. Altogether, the day was a pleasant one, and Christie went home better and more cheerful than she had been since her father’s death.But before the week was over she had fallen back into the old way again; and when Effie came home on Saturday, she found her as wan and listless and peevish as ever. Something must be done without delay, thought the elder sister. So, that night, as she sat with Annie and Sarah in her aunt’s room, when all the little ones had gone to bed, she said:“Aunt Elsie, I am going to take Christie back with me, to stay a week with Mrs Nesbitt.”Aunt Elsie looked astonished and somewhat displeased.“Why should you do the like of that?” she asked.“Oh, just for a change. She’s not very well, I think, and a little change will do her good.”“Folk canna ay get changes when they would like them,” said Aunt Elsie, coldly. “I see nothing more than usual the matter with her. If she’s no’ well, home’s the best place for her. I see no cause why Mrs Nesbitt should be troubled with the likes of her.”“Oh, Mrs Nesbitt winna think it a trouble. Christie will be no trouble to her. I know she canna well be spared. You’ll miss her; but she’ll be all the better a nurse when she comes home strong and cheerful.”“I beg you winna think about me in making your plans for pleasuring,” said her aunt, in a tone which always made those who heard it uncomfortable. “I’ll try and do without her services for a while. She thinks much of herself; and so do you, it seems.”There was an unpleasant pause, during which Effie congratulated herself on the forethought that had sent Christie safely to bed before the matter was discussed. Annie, as she generally did in similar circumstances, started another subject, hoping to avert anything more unpleasant. But Effie wanted the matter decided, and Aunt Elsie had something more to say.“It’s my belief you mean to spoil the lassie, if she’s no spoiled already, petting and making a work with her as though she were really ill. Ill! It’s little any of you ken what it is to be ill.”“I don’t think she’s very ill,” said Effie, gently; “but she’s nervous and weary and out of sorts, and I think maybe a change—”“Nervous!” repeated Aunt Elsie, contemptuously. “It was better days when there was less said about nerves than I am in the way of hearing now. Let a bairn be cross, or sulky, and, oh! it’s nervous she is, poor thing! Let her have a change. I know not, for my part, what the world is coming to. Nervous, indeed!”“I didna mean to excuse Christie’s peevishness—far from it,” said Effie. “I know you have not a cheerful companion in her. But I do think she is not well; and as Mrs Nesbitt asked her, I thought perhaps you wouldna mind letting her go for a while.”“It matters little what I may think on that or any other subject,” said Aunt Elsie, in a tone which betrayed that anger was giving place to sadness. “Helpless as I am, and burdensome, I should take what consideration I can get, and be thankful. I needna expect that my wishes will govern any of you.”This was very unjust, and the best way to make her feel that it was so was to keep silence; and not a word was said in reply. In a little time she said, again—“I dinna see how you can think of taking the child away anywhere, and a printed calico all that she has in the way of mourning, and her father not buried a month yet.”“It would matter very little at Mrs Nesbitt’s,” said Effie, congratulating herself on her aunt’s softening tone, but not seeming to notice it.“Times are sorely changed with us, when the price of a gown more or less is felt as it is,” said Aunt Elsie, with a sigh. “I have seen the day—” And she wandered off to other matters. Effie chose to consider the affair of Christie’s going settled. And so it was. No further objection was made; and they went together the next afternoon.If Effie could have chosen among all the pleasant homes of Glengarry, she could have found no better place for her young sister than Mrs Nesbitt’s. It was quiet and cheerful at the same time. Christie could pursue her own occupations, and go her own way, no one interfering with her, so long as her way was the right way and her occupation such as would do her no injury. But there were no listless wanderings to and fro, no idle musings, permitted here. No foolish reading was possible. If a shadow began to gather on the child’s brow, her attention was claimed immediately, either by Jean, the merry maid-of-all-work, or by Mrs Nesbitt herself. There were chickens to feed, or vegetables to be gathered, or the lambs were to be counted, or some other good reason was found why she should betake herself to the fresh air and the pleasant fields or the garden.The evenings were always bright. There was no danger of being dull where Mrs Nesbitt’s merry boys were. Her family consisted of four sons. John, the eldest, was just twenty-three—though, for some reason or other, the young Redferns were in the habit of thinking him quite a middle-aged man. Perhaps it was because he was usually so grave and quiet; perhaps because of a rumour they had heard that John meant, some day, to be a minister. He taught a Sabbath-class too, and took part in meetings, like a much older man than he was.The other lads were considerably younger. Lewis, the second son, was not yet eighteen; Charles was twelve, and little Dan not more than nine. They were neither grave nor quiet. The house was transformed into a very different place when they crossed the threshold from the field or the school. In a fashion of her own, Christie enjoyed their fun and frolic very much. She told Effie, when she came to see her, that she had heard more laughter that week than she had heard in Canada in all her life before. As for them, they wondered a little at her shyness and her quiet ways; but they were tolerant, for boys, of her fancies and failings, and beguiled her into sharing many a ramble and frolic with them.Once she went to her sister’s school, which was three miles from the Nesbitt farm, and once she spent a day with Mrs Nesbitt at old Mrs Grey’s, and they brought little Allie home with them. The little blind girl was a constant wonder and delight. She was as cheerful and happy as were any of the merry Nesbitt boys; and if there was less noise among them when she was one of the circle, there was no less mirth. To say that she was patient under her affliction would not be saying enough; she did not seem to feel her blindness as an affliction, so readily and sweetly did she accept the means of happiness yet within her reach. To Christie, the gentle, merry little creature was a constant rebuke, and all the more that she knew the little one was unconscious of the lesson she was teaching.There was no service in the kirk the next Sabbath, so, instead of going home as usual, Effie, for Christie’s sake, accepted Mrs Nesbitt’s invitation to spend it at her house. She saw with delight the returning colour on her little sister’s cheek, and noticed the change for the better that had taken place in her health and spirits, and inwardly she rejoiced over the success of her plan. “She shall have another week at this pleasant place, if possible—and more than that.” And she sighed to think how much the poor girl might have to try both health and spirits when these pleasant weeks should be passed. But she did not let Christie hear her sigh. She had only smiles and happy words for her.It was a very pleasant Sabbath for Christie—the very pleasantest she could remember to have passed. She could not agree with Charlie Nesbitt that it was “a little too long.” She enjoyed every moment of it. She enjoyed the early walk, the reading, the singing, and the walk to John Nesbitt’s Sabbath-class in the afternoon. It was rather far—three miles, nearly—and the walk tired her a little. But all the more for that did she enjoy her rest on the low sofa after tea.It was a very pleasant place, that parlour of Mrs Nesbitt’s—so neat, so cool, so quiet. There was not much to distinguish it from other parlours in Laidlaw; and, in general, they were prim and plain enough. There was a small figured carpet, crimson and black, upon the floor. It did not quite reach the wall on one side, for Mrs Nesbitt’s Scottish parlour had been smaller than this one; and the deficiency was supplied by a breadth of drugget, of a different shade of colour, which might have marred the effect somewhat to one more fastidious than Christie. For the rest, the chairs were of some common wood and painted brown, the sofa was covered with chintz to match the window-curtains, and there was a pale blue paper on the walls. For ornaments, there were two or three pictures on the walls, and on the mantel-piece a great many curious shells and a quaint old vase or two. There was a bookcase of some dark wood in the corner, which was well filled with books, whose bindings were plain and dark, not to say dingy. There were few of Christie’s favourites among them; so that the charm of the room did not lie there. There was another small cabinet, with a glass door—a perfect treasury of beautiful things, in Christie’s estimation, old china and glass, and an old-fashioned piece or two of plate; but the key was safely kept in Mrs Nesbitt’s pocket.Perhaps it was the charm of association that made the place so pleasant to Christie. Here, every day, she had been made to rest on the chintz sofa, and every day she had wakened to find a kind face beaming upon her and to hear a kind voice calling her by name. I think almost any place would have been pleasant with Mrs Nesbitt going about so gently and lovingly in it. Some thought of this came into Christie’s mind, as she lay musing there that Sabbath afternoon. The fading light fell on the soft grey hair that showed beneath the widow’s snowy cap, and on the placid face beneath, with a strangely beautifying power. The sweet gravity that was on her silent lips was better worth seeing, Christie thought, than other people’s smiles. Her eyes had no beauty, in the common acceptation of the term. They seemed like eyes that had been washed with many tears. But the sadness which must have looked from them once had given place to patience and gentle kindness now.“How nice and quiet it is here!” whispered Christie to her sister, who sat beside her, leaning her head upon her hand.Effie quite started, as she spoke.“Yes; it is a very peaceful place. I get rid of all vexing thoughts when I come in here.” And she turned her eyes to Mrs Nesbitt’s placid face.“Vexing thoughts!” repeated Christie. “I dare say Effie has many a one.” And she sighed too; but almost before she had time to ask herself what Effie’s vexing thoughts might be, she was asleep. A voice, not Effie’s nor Mrs Nesbitt’s, soon awoke her. The twilight had deepened, and up and down the darkening room John Nesbitt was walking, with a step quicker than was usual. Christie fancied there was something like impatience in his step. He soon came and leaned on the window, close to the place where Effie sat, and Christie heard him say, in a voice which was not quite steady:“Is it all over, then, Effie?”Effie made a sudden movement of some kind, Christie could not tell what, and after a moment she said:“It would be better for you, John.”He did not wait to hear more. Soon, however, he came back again.“And will it be better for you, Effie?” he asked, gravely and gently, yet with strong feeling.“I must think of many a one before myself in this matter,” she said; and soon after added, “Don’t make this trouble harder to bear, John.”There was a long silence; but John did not resume his walk, and by and by Effie spoke again.“Do you never think of your old wish to finish your studies?”“My father’s death put an end to that,” he answered, sadly.“I don’t know why,” said Effie. “Of course at the time it must have done so; but you are young, and your brothers are growing up to take your place with your mother and on the farm, and I think it would be like putting your hand to the plough and looking back, to give up all thought of entering the ministry. You have your life before you, John.”He did not answer.“If it were for no other reason than that,” continued Effie, “I could not consent to burden you in the way you propose; and besides—your mother—”She turned, and caught the astonished eyes of Christie peering out of the darkness, and paused.“Effie,” said Christie, when they were in their own room, and the candle was out, “what were you saying to John Nesbitt to-night?”“Saying?” repeated Effie.“Yes—in the parlour. Does he want us to come and live here? I thought he did by what he said.”“Some of us,” said Effie, after a pause. “John is very kind, and so is his mother. But of course it is not to be thought of.”“Must we leave the farm, Effie?” asked Christie, anxiously.“I hardly know; I cannot tell. Aunt Elsie must decide.”“Is it not ours, Effie? Was my father in debt?”“Not for the farm; but it was paid for, or partly paid for, with money that belonged to Aunt Elsie. I canna explain it. She sold her annuity, or gave up her income, in some way, when we came here. And in the letter that father wrote, he said that he wished that in some way, as soon as possible, she should get it back.”“But how?” asked Christie, wondering.“I hardly know. But you know, Christie, Aunt Elsie is not like other people—mean; it would make her more unhappy to feel that she was dependent than it would make most people. And we must, in some way, manage to do as father wished. If he had lived, it would have been different. She doesna think that I know about it. She didna see father’s letter.”“Then the farm will be Aunt Elsie’s?” said Christie.“Yes; and if we could manage it well, we might live on as we have been living; but I am afraid we canna.”Christie had her own thoughts about all living on Aunt Elsie’s farm; but she said nothing.“I suppose we shall have to let the farm, or sell it, and get the money invested, in some way, for Aunt Elsie.”“And what then?” asked Christie, in a suppressed tone.“I am sure I canna tell,” said Effie; and the tone of her voice betrayed more anxiety than her words did. “Not that there is any great cause for anxiety,” she added. “There is always work to do for those who are willing; and we’ll try and keep together till the bairns are grown up.”“Will Aunt Elsie go home to Scotland, do you think, Effie?” asked Christie.“Oh, no! I don’t think she will. She doesna like this country altogether, I know; but now that she has grown so helpless, she will not care to go back. She has no very near friends there now.”“Do you think Aunt Elsie would take the money if the farm was sold?” asked Christie, again.“As to that, it has been partly hers all along. When the farm was bought, my father gave Aunt Elsie a mortgage, or something—I don’t understand exactly what—but it was as a security that her money was to be safe to her. If we had been able to carry on the farm, there would have been little difference; though there are some other debts too.”“And if we leave the farm, where can we go?” asked Christie.“I don’t know; I lose myself thinking about it. But God will provide. I am notreallyafraid, when I have time to consider. The bairns must be kept together in some way. We must trust till the way is opened before us.”But there was something very unlike Effie’s usual cheerfulness in her way of speaking. Christie could plainly see that. But she mistook the cause.“Effie,” she said, after a little pause, “it winna be very pleasant to think that we are depending on Aunt Elsie. I dinna wonder that you sigh.”“Whisht, Christie! It’s not that, child. I don’t think you are quite just to Aunt Elsie. She has done much, and given up much, for us since mother died. Her way is not ay pleasant; but I think she would be easier to deal with as the giver than as the receiver. I mean, I shall be very glad if it can be arranged that she shall have her income again. But we won’t speak more of these things to-night, dear. We only vex ourselves; and that can do no good.”But Effie did not cease to vex herself when she ceased to speak, if Christie might judge from the sighs that frequently escaped her. Just as she was dropping to sleep, her sister’s voice aroused her.“Christie,” she said, “you are not to say anything to any one about—about John Nesbitt’s wanting me to come here. Of course it’s impossible; and it mustna be spoken about.”“I couldna help hearing, Effie.”“No; I know, dear. But it’s not to be spoken about. You must forget it.”“Did Mrs Nesbitt want it too?” asked Christie.“I don’t know. Mrs Nesbitt is very kind; but you mustna say anything to her about this matter—or to any one. Promise me, Christie.”Christie promised, wondering very much at her sister’s eagerness, and thinking all the time that it would be very nice to live with Mrs Nesbitt and her sons, far pleasanter than to live on the farm, if it was to be Aunt Elsie’s. Christie felt very unsubmissive to this part of their trouble. She thought it would be far easier to depend for a home and food and clothes on their kind neighbours, who were friends indeed, than on the unwilling bounty of her aunt. But, as Effie said, Christie by no means did justice to the many good qualities of her aunt, and was far from properly appreciating her self-denying efforts in behalf of them all.After that night, Effie did not often allude to their future plans when with Christie. It was best not to vex themselves with troubles that might never come, she said. They must wait patiently till the harvest was over, and then all would be settled.The summer passed on, with little to mark its course. Christie had more to do about the house and in the garden than in the spring, and was better and more contented for it. But she and her sisters sent many an anxious glance forward to the harvest-time.They did not have to wait so long, however. Before the harvest-time their affairs were settled. An opportunity, which those capable of judging thought very favourable, occurred for selling it; and it was sold. They might have occupied the house for the winter; but this would only have been to delay that which delay would make no easier. It was wiser and better in every way to look out for a home at once.About six miles from the farm, in the neighbourhood where Effie’s school was, there stood on the edge of a partially-cleared field a small log-house, which had been for several months uninhabited. Towards this the eyes of the elder sister had often turned during the last few weeks. Once, on her way home from school, she went into it. She was alone; and though she would have been very unwilling to confess it, the half-hour she passed there was as sorrowful a half-hour as she had ever passed in her life. For Effie was by no means so wise and courageous as Christie, in her sisterly admiration, was inclined to consider her. Looking on the bare walls and defective floors and broken windows, her heart failed her at the thought of ever making that a home for her brother and sisters.Behind the house lay a low, rocky field, encumbered with logs and charred stumps, between which bushes and a second growth of young trees were springing. A low, irregular fence of logs and branches, with a stone foundation, had once separated the field from the road; but it was mostly broken-down now, and only a few traces of what had been a garden remained. It was not the main road that passed the house, but a cross-road running between the main roads; and the place had a lonely and deserted look, which might well add to the depression which anxiety and uncertainty as to their future had brought on Effie. No wonder that very troubled and sad was the half-hour which she passed in the dreary place.“I wish I hadna spoken to Aunt Elsie about this place,” she said to herself. “She seemed quite pleased with the thought of coming here; but we could never live in this miserable hovel. What could I be thinking about? How dreary and broken-down it is!”There were but two rooms and a closet or two on the ground-floor. Above, there might be another made—perhaps two; but that part of the house was quite unfinished, showing the daylight through the chinks between the logs. Floor there was none.“It could never be made comfortable, I am afraid,” she said, as she made her way down the creaking ladder. “I could never think of bringing the bairns here.” And it was with a heavy heart that she took her way home.But her courage rose again. Before many days had passed she had decided to try what could be done with the place. The house, such as it was, with a little square of garden-ground, could be got for a rent merely nominal. It was near her school. She could live at home, and the little ones could go to school with her. Thus they could be kept together, and their education not be neglected. With what she and her sisters could earn they could live comfortably for some years in this quiet place. She could not fulfil her promise to her father to keep the little ones together, elsewhere; for she must not give up her school. Her salary was not large, but it was sure; and here they would be under her own eye. The price of the farm had been well invested in her aunt’s name, though Aunt Elsie herself was not yet aware of the fact. Effie was not sure whether she would remain with them or return home. But whatever she did, her income must be quite at her own disposal. The sisters must work for themselves and the little ones. If their aunt stayed with them, well; but they must henceforth depend on their own exertions.When Effie had once decided that the little log-house on the cross-road was thenceforward to be their home, her naturally happy temper, and her earnest desire to make the best of all things for the sake of the others, made it easy for her to look for hopeful signs for the future, and to make light of difficulties which she could not fail to see. Under her direction, and by her assistance, the little log-house underwent an entire transformation before six weeks were over. Nothing was done by other hands which her own or Sarah’s and Annie’s could do. The carpenters laid new floors and mended broken windows; the plasterers filled the chinks and covered the walls of what was to be their chamber; but the girls themselves scrubbed and whitewashed, papered and painted, cleaned away rubbish from without and from within, and settled their various affairs with an energy and good-will which left them neither time nor inclination for repining. In a little while it would have been impossible to recognise in the bright and cheerful little cottage the dismal place in which, at her first visit, Effie had shed some very bitter tears.Aunt Elsie did not leave them. She quite resented the idea of such a thing being possible. She had little faith in the likelihood of the children being kept together and clothed and fed by the unassisted efforts of the sisters, and assumed the direction of affairs in the new home, as she had always done in the old. Effie’s words with regard to her proved true. She was far easier to do with when she found herself in a position to give rather than to receive assistance. Her income was not large. Indeed, it was so small that those who have never been driven to bitter straits might smile at her idea of a competence. It would have barely kept her from want, in any circumstances; but joined to Effie’s earnings it gave promise of many comforts in their humble home. So ample did their means seem to them at first, that they would fain have persuaded each other that there need be no separation—that all might linger under the shelter of the lowly roof. But it could not be. Annie and Sarah both refused to eat bread of their sister’s winning, when there was not work enough to occupy them at home; and before they had been settled many weeks, they began to think of looking for situations elsewhere.At first they both proposed to leave; but this Effie could not be prevailed upon to consider right. Helpless as Aunt Elsie was and seemed likely to continue, there was far more to do in their little household, limited as their means were, than it was possible for Christie to do well. The winter was coming, already the mornings were growing short. She herself could do little at home without neglecting her school; and her school must not be neglected. And besides, though Effie did not say much about it, she felt that almost any other discipline would be better for her nervous, excitable sister, than that she would be likely to experience with none to stand between her and the peculiar rigour of Aunt Elsie’s system of training. So she would not hear of both Annie and Sarah leaving them. Indeed, she constantly entreated, whenever the matter was discussed, that neither of them should go till winter was over. There was no fear but that the way would be opened before them. In the meantime, they might wait patiently at home.And the way was opened far sooner than they had hoped or than Effie desired. A lady who had been passing the summer in the neighbourhood had been requested by a friend in town to secure for her the services of a young woman as nurse. Good health and a cheerful temper, with respectability of character, were all that was required. Then Annie and Sarah began seriously to discuss which of them should go and which should stay at home. Strange to say, Aunt Elsie was the only one of them all who shrank from the idea of the girls “going to service” or “taking a place.” It was a very hard thing for her brother’s daughters, she said, who had been brought up with expectations and prospects so different. She would far rather that Sarah who was skilful with the needle, and had a decided taste for millinery and dressmaking, should have offered herself to the dressmaker of the neighbouring village, or even have gone to the city to look for such a situation there. But this plan was too indefinite to suit the girls. Besides, there was no prospect of present remuneration should it succeed. So the situation of nurse was applied for and obtained by Annie. Sarah’s needle could be kept busy at home, and perhaps she could earn a little besides by making caps and bonnets for their neighbours. While they awaited the lady’s final answer, the preparations for Annie’s departure went busily on.The answer came, and with it a request that another nurse might be engaged. A smaller girl would do. She would be expected to amuse, and perhaps teach reading to two little girls. If such a one could be found, permission was given to Annie to delay her departure from home for a week, till they should come together.There was a dead silence when the letter was read. Annie and Sarah looked at each other, and then at Effie. Christie, through all the reading, had never taken her eyes from her elder sister’s face. But Effie looked at no one. The same thought had come into the minds of all; and Effie feared to have the thought put into words. But Aunt Elsie had no such fear, it seemed; for after examining the letter, she said, in a voice that did not betray very much interest in the subject:“How would you like to go, Christie?” Christie said nothing, but still looked at Effie.“What do you think, Effie?” continued her aunt.“Oh, it’s of no use to think about it at all! There’s no need of Christie’s going. She is not strong enough. She is but a child.”Effie spoke hastily, as though she wished the subject dropped. But Aunt Elsie did not seem inclined to drop it.“Well, it’s but a little girl that is wanted,” she said. “And as for her not being strong enough, I am sure there canna be any great strength required to amuse two or three bairns. I dare say it might be the very place for her.”“Yes; I dare say, if it was needful for Christie to go. There will be many glad to get the place. You must speak to the Cairns’ girls, Annie.”“Would you like to go, Christie?” asked her aunt, with a pertinacity which seemed, to Effie at least, uncalled for.But Christie made no answer, and looked still at Effie.“There is no use in discussing the question,” said Effie, more hastily than she meant to speak. “Christie is far better off at home. There is no need of her going. Don’t speak of it, Aunt Elsie.”Now Aunt Elsie did not like to have any one differ from her—“to be dictated to,” as she called it. Effie very rarely expressed a different opinion from Aunt Elsie. But her usual forbearance made her doing so on the present occasion the more disagreeable to her aunt; and she did not fail to take her to task severely for what she called her disrespect.“I didna mean to say anything disrespectful, Aunt Elsie,” said she, soothingly, and earnestly hoping that the cause of her reproof might be discussed no further. But she was disappointed.“Wherefore should I no’ speak about this thing for Christie? If it’s no disgrace for Annie to go to service, I see no season why it should not be spoken of for Christie.”“Disgrace, aunt!” repeated Effie. “What an idea! Of course it is nothing of the sort. But why should we speak of Christie’s going when there is no need?”“For that matter, you may say there is no need for Annie’s going. They both need food and clothes as well as the rest.”Effie took refuge in silence. In a little while her aunt went on:“And as for her being a child, how much younger, pray, is she than Annie? Not above two years, at most. And as for health, she’s well enough, for all that I can see. She’s not very strong, and she wouldna have hard work; and the change might do her good. You spoil her by making a baby of her. I see no reason why the bread of dependence should be sweeter to her than to the rest.”“It would be bitter enough, eaten at your expense,” were the words that rose to Christie’s lips in reply, Effie must have seen them there, for she gave her no time to utter them, but hastily—almost sharply—bade her run and see what had become of the girls and little Willie. Christie rose without speaking, and went out.“Aunt,” said Effie, quietly, when she was gone, “I don’t think it is quite kind in you to speak in that way to Christie about dependence. She is no more dependent than the rest of the children. Of course, when she’s older and stronger she’ll do her part. But she is very sensitive; and she must not be made unhappy by any foolish talk about her being a burden.”Effie meant to soothe her aunt; but she failed, for she was really angry now, and she said a great many words in her anger that I shall not write—words that Effie always tried to forget. But the result of it all was that Annie’s departure was delayed for a week, till Christie should be ready to go with her.But I should be wrong in saying that this decision was the result of this discussion alone. There were other things that helped Effie to prevail upon herself to let her go. It would be better and pleasanter for Annie to have her sister near her; and Christie was very desirous to go. And, after all, the change might be good for her, as Aunt Elsie said. It might improve her health, and it might make her more firm and self-reliant. Going away among strangers could hardly be worse for her than a winter under the discipline of her aunt. Partly on account of these considerations, and partly because of Christie’s importunities, Effie was induced to consent to her going away; but it was with the express understanding that her absence was to be brief.As the time of their departure drew near, she did not grow more reconciled to the thought of her sister’s going. She felt that she had been over-persuaded; and in her heart there was a doubt as to whether she had done quite right in consenting.The last night, when all the others had gone to bed, and Effie was doing some household work below, Christie slipped down-stairs again.“Effie,” she said, eagerly, “do not take my going away so much to heart. I am sure it isfor the best, and I shall grieve if you grieve. Do think that it’s right.”“You foolish lassie! Did you come down-stairs with bare feet to tell me that? How cold your hands are! Come and sit down by the fire. I want to speak to you.”Christie sat down, as she was bidden, but it was a long time before Effie spoke—so long that Christie said at last:“What is it, Effie?”Her sister started. “I have nothing to say but what I have said before, Christie. You are not to stay if you don’t like. You are not to let any thought of any one or anything at home keep you, unless you are quite content and quite strong and well. And, at any rate, you are to come home in the spring.”Effie had said all this before; and Christie could only repeat her promise.“I am afraid you think I am wrong to go away, Effie?”“No, dear; I don’t think you are wrong. I am sure your motives are good. I wish you were not going; but there is no use in saying so now. I hope it will turn out for the best to you and to us all. I will try and not be anxious about you. God will keep you safe, I do not doubt.”“Effie,” said Christie, “do you remember what you said to me once about God’s hearing prayer, and how He always hears the prayers of His people in the best way, though not always in the way they wish and expect?”“Yes, I mind something about it. And how all things work together for good to His people and for His glory at the same time. Yes, I mind.”“Well,” said Christie, softly, “if folk really believe this, it will be easy for them to leave their friends in God’s hands. They can ask Him for what they need, being sure that they will get what is best for them, and that He canna make a mistake.”There was a few minutes’ silence; and then Effie said:“Christie, if I were sure that you are one of God’s people—one of the little lambs of His flock—I would not fear to let you go. Do you think you are?”“I don’t know, Effie. I am afraid not. I am not like what the Bible says God’s people ought to be. But I am sure I wish to be.”“Christie,” said her sister, earnestly, “you must never let anything hinder you from reading your Bible every day. You must not rest till you are sure about yourself.”“Effie,” she said, in a low voice, and very seriously, “I think God did once hear a prayer of mine. It was a good while ago—before father died. It was one of my bad days; I was worse than usual; and when I came back from the pasture I sat down by the brook—under the birch-tree, you mind—and I went from one thing to another, till I said to myself, ‘I’ll see if there’s any good in praying.’ And so I prayed Aunt Elsie might not scold me when I went home; and she didna. But I didna care for that, because you were at home that night. But I prayed, too, that you might bring me a book. I meant ‘The Scottish Chiefs,’ or something; but you brought my Bible. I have thought, sometimes, that was one of the prayers answered in a better way than we ask or expect.”The last few words were spoken in a very husky voice; and as she ceased, her head was laid on Effie’s lap. There were tears in Effie’s eyes too—she scarcely knew why. Certainly they were not for sorrow. Gently stroking her sisters drooping head, she said:“Perhaps it was so, Christie. I believe it was; and you are right. We need not fear for one another. We will trust in Him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sarah shrugged her shoulders.

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

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

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

“I’m going to the pasture. Are you coming, Christie?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aunt Elsie looked astonished and somewhat displeased.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Effie quite started, as she spoke.

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

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

“Is it all over, then, Effie?”

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

“It would be better for you, John.”

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

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

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

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

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

“My father’s death put an end to that,” he answered, sadly.

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

He did not answer.

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

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

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

“Saying?” repeated Effie.

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

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

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

“I hardly know; I cannot tell. Aunt Elsie must decide.”

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

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

“But how?” asked Christie, wondering.

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

“Then the farm will be Aunt Elsie’s?” said Christie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I couldna help hearing, Effie.”

“No; I know, dear. But it’s not to be spoken about. You must forget it.”

“Did Mrs Nesbitt want it too?” asked Christie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you think, Effie?” continued her aunt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it, Effie?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Six.Christie’s new home.So Annie and Christie went away; and the days that followed their departure were long and lonely at the cottage. They had never been long separated, and the absence of two of their number made a great blank in their circle. All missed them, but none so much as Effie; for mingled with regret for their absence was a feeling very like self-reproach that she had permitted Christie to go. It was in vain that she reasoned with herself about this matter, saying it was the child’s own wish, and that against her aunt’s expressed approbation she could have said nothing to detain her.She knew that Christie was by no means strong, that she was sensitive (not to say irritable), and she dreaded for her the trials she must endure and the unkindness she might experience among strangers. She was haunted by a vision of her sister’s pale face, home-sick and miserable, with no one to comfort or sympathise with her; and she waited with inexpressible longing for the first tidings from the wanderers. The thought of her was always present. It came with a pang sometimes when she was busiest. She returned from school night by night with a deeper depression on her spirits, till Aunt Elsie, who had all along resented in secret her evident anxiety, could no longer restrain the expression of her vexation.“What ails you, Effie?” said she, as the weary girl seated herself, without entering the house. “You sit down there as if you had the cares and vexations of a generation weighing you down. Have matters gone contrary at the school?”“No. Oh, no,” said Effie, making an effort to seem cheerful. “Everything has gone on as usual. I had two new scholars to-day. They’ll be coming in, now that the autumn work is mostly over. Have not the bairns come in?”“I hear their voices in the field beyond,” said her aunt. “But you havena told me what ails you. Indeed, there’s no need. I know very well. It would have been more wise-like to have kept your sisters at home than to fret so unreasonably for them now they are away.”Effie made no answer.“What’s to happen to them more than to twenty others that have gone from these parts? It’s a sad thing, indeed, that your father’s daughters should need to go to service, considering all that is past. But it can’t be mended now. And one thing is certain: it’s no disgrace.”“No, indeed,” said Effie. “I don’t look on it in that light; but—”“Yes; I ken what you would say. It’s ay Christie you’re thinking about. But she’ll be none the worse for a little discipline. She would soon have been an utter vexation, if she had been kept at home. You spoiled your sister with your petting and coaxing, till there was no doing with her. I’m sure I dinna see why she’s to be pitied more than Annie.”Effie had no reply to make. If she was foolish and unreasonable in her fears for Christie, her aunt’s manner of pointing out her fault was not likely to prove it to her. She did not wish to hear more. Perhaps she was foolish, she thought. Good Mrs Nesbitt, who was not likely to be unjust to Christie, and who was ready to sympathise with the elder sister in what seemed almost like the breaking-up of the family, said something of the same kind to her once, as they were walking together from the Sabbath-school.“My dear,” she said, “you are wrong to vex yourself with such thoughts. Your aunt is partly right. Christie will be none the worse for the discipline she may have to undergo. There are some traits in her character that haven a fairly shown themselves yet. She will grow firm and patient and self-reliant, I do not doubt. I only hope she will grow stronger in body too.”Effie sighed.“She was never very strong.”“If she shouldna be well, she must come home; and, Effie, though I would never say to an elder sister that she could be too patient and tender to one of the little ones—and that one sometimes wilful and peevish, and no’ very strong—yet Christie may be none the worse, for a wee while, no’ to have you between her and all trouble. My dear, I know what you would say. I know you have something like a mother’s feeling for the child. But even a mother canna bear every burden or drink every bitter drop for her child. And it is as well she canna do it. If Christie’s battle with life and what it brings begins a year or two earlier than you thought necessary, she may be all the better able to conquer. Dinna fear for her. God will have her in His keeping.”Effie strove to find a voice to reply; but she could only say:“Perhaps I am foolish. I will try.”“My dear,” continued her friend, kindly, “I dinna wonder that you are careful and troubled, and a wee faithless, sometimes. You have passed through much sorrow of late, and your daily labour is of a kind that is trying to both health and spirits. And I doubt not you have troubles that are of a nature not to be spoken of. But take courage. There’s nothing can happen to you but what is among the ‘all things’ that are to work together for your good. For I do believe you are among those to whom has been given a right to claim that promise. You are down among the mist now; I am farther up the brae, and get a glimpse, through the cloud, of the sunshine beyond. Dinna fret about Christie, or about other things. I believe you are God-guided; and what more can you desire? As the day wears on, the clouds may disperse; and even if they shouldna, my bairn, the sun still shines in the lift above them.”They had reached the cross-road down which Effie was to take her solitary way; for the bairns had gone on before. She stood for a moment trying to make sure of her voice, and while she lingered Mrs Nesbitt dropped a kiss, as tender as a mother’s, on her brow, and said, “Good-night!” A rush of ready tears was the only answer Effie had for her then. But she was comforted. The tears that spring at kind words or a gentle touch bring healing with them; and when Effie wiped them away at last, it was with a thankful sense of a lightened burden, and she went on her way with the pain that had ached at her heart so many days a little softened.Yes; Effie had trials that would not bear speaking about, and least of all with John Nesbitt’s mother. But they were trials that need not be discussed in my little tale. Indeed, I must not linger longer at the cottage by the wayside. I may not tell of the daily life of its occupants, except that it grew more cheerful as the winter passed away. The monthly letter brought them good tidings from the absent ones; and with duties, some pleasant, some quite otherwise, their days were filled, so that no time was left for repining or for distrustful thoughts.I must now follow the path taken by Christie’s weary little feet. Sometimes the way was dusty and uneven enough, but there were green spots and wayside flowers now and then. There were mists and clouds about her, too, but she got glimpses of sunshine. And by and by she grew content to abide in the shadow, knowing, as it was given her to know, that clouds are sent to cool and shelter and refresh us. Before content, however, there came many less welcome visitors to the heart of the poor child.Can anything be more bewildering to unaccustomed eyes than the motley crowd which business or pleasure daily collects at some of our much-frequented railway stations? To the two girls, whose ideas of a crowd were for the most part associated with the quiet, orderly gatherings in the kirk-yard on the Sabbath-day, the scene that presented itself to them on reaching Point Saint Charles was more than bewildering; it was, for a minute or two, actually alarming. There was something so strange in the quick, indifferent manner of the people who jostled one another on the crowded platform, in the cries of the cabmen and porters, and in the general hurrying to and fro, that even Annie was in some danger of losing her presence of mind; and it was with something like a feeling of danger escaped that they found themselves, at last, safe on their way to the house of Mrs McIntyre, a connection of some friends of that name at home.The sun had set long before, and it was quite dark as they passed rapidly through the narrow streets in the lower part of the town. Here and there lights were twinkling, and out from the gathering darkness came a strange, dull sound, the mingling of many voices, the noise of carriage-wheels and the cries of their drivers, and through all the heavy boom of church-bells. How unlike it all was to anything the girls had seen or heard before! And a feeling of wonder, not unmingled with dread, came upon them.There was no time for their thoughts to grow painful, however, before they found themselves at their journey’s end. They were expected by Mrs McIntyre, and were very kindly received by her. She was a widow, and the keeper of a small shop in a street which looked at the first glimpse dismal enough. It was only a glimpse they had of it, however; for they soon found themselves in a small and neat parlour with their hostess, who kindly strove to make them feel at home. She would not hear of their trying to find out their places that night, but promised to go with them the next day, or as soon as they were rested. Indeed, she wished them to remain a few days with her. But to this Annie would by no means agree. The delay caused by Christie’s coming had made her a week later than her appointed time, and she feared greatly lest she should lose her place; so she could not be induced to linger longer. Her place was still secure for her; but a great disappointment awaited Christie. The lady who had desired the service of a young girl to amuse her children had either changed her mind or was not satisfied with Christie’s appearance; for after asking her many questions about her long delay, as she called the three days beyond the specified week, she told her she was afraid she could not engage her. She added to the pain of Christie’s disappointment by telling her that she did not look either strong enough or cheerful enough to have the care of children; she had better apply for some other situation.“She’s weary with her journey—poor thing!” suggested Mrs McIntyre, kindly. “And she’s a stranger here, besides—poor child!”“A stranger!” Yes, Christie had just parted from Annie at the door of a large house in the next street, bravely enough; but it was all the poor girl could do now to restrain an outburst of tears.“How old are you?” asked the lady, again.Christie had just courage enough to tell her; but it was Mrs McIntyre who answered the next question.“Are your parents living?”“No—poor thing! She is an orphan. There is a large family of them. She came down with her sister, hoping to get a place. The elder sister is trying to keep the little ones together.”Christie made a movement as if to silence the speaker. The lady looked at a gentleman who sat at a distant window seeming to read.“What do you think?” she asked.He rose, and walked in a leisurely manner down the room, nodding to Mrs McIntyre as he passed. As he returned, he paused, and said something in an undertone to the lady. Christie caught the words.“If anything was to happen to her, she would be on your hands. She seems quite without friends.”Christie was on her feet in a moment. Her chair was pushed back with a motion so sudden that the gentleman turned to look at her. She was anything but pale now. Her cheeks were crimson, and there was a light in her eyes that bade fair to be very soon quenched in tears.“I am very sorry that I—” She could utter no more. Laying her hand on Mrs McIntyre’s arm, she said, huskily, “Come.” Her friend rose.“Perhaps if you were to try her for a month—” she suggested.But Christie shook her head.“But where can you go? What can you do?” said Mrs McIntyre, in a low voice.Where, indeed? Not to the house she had just seen Annie enter; she had no claim there. Not home again, that was not to be thought of. She turned a helpless glance to the persons who seemed to hold her destiny in their hands. The lady looked annoyed; the gentleman, who had observed the girl’s excitement, asked:“Were you ever at service before?”“Oh, no!” said Mrs McIntyre, intending to serve Christie’s cause. “The family looked forward to something very different; but misfortunes and the death—”She stopped, intending that her pause should be more impressive than words.Other questions followed—Could she read and write? Could she sew? Had she ever been in the city before?—till Christie’s courage quite rose again. It ended in nothing, however, but a promise to let her know in a day or two what was decided.In the silence that followed the closing of the streetdoor after them, Christie felt that Mrs McIntyre was not well pleased with the termination of the interview: and her first words proved it.“You needna have been so sensitive,” she said. “It will be a long time before you get a place where everything will be to your mind. You needna expect every lady to speak to you as your own sisters would. I doubt you’ll hear no more from these people.”But she was a good-natured and kind-hearted woman; and a glance at Christie’s miserable face stopped her.“Never mind,” she added; “there are plenty of folk in the town will be glad to get a well-brought-up girl like you to attend to their children. But you must look cheerful, and no’ take umbrage at trifles.”Christie could not answer her. So she walked along by her side, struggling, with a power which she felt was giving way rapidly, with the sobs that were scarcely suppressed. She struggled no longer than till she reached the little chamber where she and Annie had passed the night. The hours that she was suffered to remain there alone were passed in such an agony of grief and home-sickness as the poor child never suffered from before. She quite exhausted herself at last; and when Mrs McIntyre came to call her to dinner, she found her in a troubled sleep.“Poor child!” she said, as she stood looking at her, “I fear we must send her home again. She is not like to do or to get much good here.”But she darkened the room, and closed the door softly, and left her. When Christie awoke the afternoon was nearly gone. Her first feeling was one of utter wretchedness; but her sleep had rested and refreshed her, and her courage revived after she had risen and washed her face and put her dress in order. When she was ready to go down, she paused for a moment, her hand resting on the knob of the door.“I might try it,” she murmured; and she fell on her knees by the bedside. It was only a word or two she uttered:“O God, give me courage and patience, and help me to do right.”Her tears fell fast for a moment; but her heart was lightened, and it was with a comparatively cheerful face that she presented herself in the little back parlour, where she found Mrs McIntyre taking tea with a friend.“Oh, you are up, are you?” she said, kindly. “You looked so weary, I couldna bear to call you at dinnertime; but I kept your dinner for you. Here, Barbara; bring in the covered dish.” And she placed a seat for the girl between her and her friend.Christie thanked her, and sat down, with an uncomfortable feeling that the friends had been discussing her before she had come in. And so it soon appeared. The conversation, which her entrance had interrupted, was soon resumed.“You see, I don’t well know what his business is,” said the visitor. “But, at any rate, he doesn’t seem to have much to spend—at least in his family. His wife—poor lady!—has her own troubles. He’s seldom at home; and she has been the most of the time, till this illness, without more than one servant. When she’s better, I dare say she’ll do the same again. In the meantime, I have promised to look for one that might suit. The one she has leaves to-morrow. My month’s out too, then, and she’s to let me go; though how she’s to battle through, with that infant and all the other children, is more than I can tell.”Mrs McIntyre shook her head.“She would never do for the place. She doesna look strong; and the house is large, you say?”“Far larger than they need. I said that to her, one day. But she said something about keeping up a certain appearance. She’s not one that a person can speak freely to, unless she likes. How old are you, my girl?” she suddenly asked, turning round to Christie.“I was fourteen in June,” she replied; and turning to Mrs McIntyre, she asked, “Is it a place for me?”Mrs McIntyre looked doubtful.“It’s a place for some one; but I doubt it’s too hard a place for you.”Christie sent a questioning look to the visitor, who said:“Well, in some respects it’s a hard place. There is plenty to do; but Mrs Lee is a real gentlewoman, mindful of others, and kind and pleasant-spoken. I should know; for I have sick-nursed her twice, besides being there, now and again, when the children have been ill.”“But think upon it. The only nurse, where there’s an infant and four other children as near each other as they can well be. She’s not fit for the like of that,” said Mrs McIntyre.“The eldest is but seven,” said Mrs Greenly. “But, for that matter, Mrs Lee is nurse herself; and Nelly, the housemaid, is a kind-hearted girl. She might make a trial of it, anyway.”“We’ll see what your sister says,” said Mrs McIntyre to Christie. “She’ll be round on the Sabbath. Or maybe you might go there and see her before that time.”Mrs Greenly shook her head.“But I doubt if I can wait for that. I must see the other girl this afternoon; and if she should suit the place there would be no more to be said. What do you think yourself, my girl?”Christie had been too little accustomed to decide any matter for herself, to wish to decide this without first seeing her sister. So she only asked if Mrs Greenly passed near the street where Annie lived. Not very near, Mrs McIntyre said; but that need not interfere. Barbara should go with her there, if Mrs Greenly would consent to put off seeing the other girl till the next morning. Mrs McIntyre could not take the responsibility of advising Christie to accept the situation. It was better that her sister should decide. But Christie had decided in her own mind already. Any place would be better than none. But she needed Annie’s sanction that Effie might be satisfied—and, indeed, that she might be satisfied herself; for she had little self-reliance.She saw Annie, who shrank from the thought of Christie’s having to trespass long on Mrs McIntyre’s hospitality; and Christie dwelt more on Mrs Greenly’s high praise of Mrs Lee than on the difficulties she might expect among so many children with insufficient help. So the next afternoon Christie and her little trunk were set down before the door of a high stone house in Saint — Street. She had to wait a while; for Mrs Greenly, the nurse, for whom she asked, was engaged for the time; but by and by she was taken up-stairs, and into a room where a lady was sitting in the dress of an invalid, with an infant on her lap. She greeted Christie very kindly; but there was a look of disappointment on her face, the girl was sure.“She seems very young, nurse, and not very strong,” she said.“She is not far from fifteen, and she says she has good health. She has been very well brought up,” said Mrs Greenly, quickly, giving Christie a look she did not understand.“How old are you?” asked Mrs Lee, seeming not to have heard the nurse.“I was fourteen in June. I am very well now, and much stronger than I look. I will try and do my best.”There was something in the lady’s face and voice that made Christie very anxious to stay.“Have you ever been in a place before?” the lady asked again.Christie shook her head; but Mrs Greenly took upon herself in reply.“Dear, no! It’s only lately that her father died. There is a large family of them. The oldest sister is trying to keep the little ones together, Mrs McIntyre tells me; and two of the sisters have come to the city to take places. The elder one is at Mrs Vinton’s, in Beaver Hall.”Remembering the consequences of such a communication on a former occasion, Christie trembled; but she was soon relieved.“Poor child!” said the lady. “So you have never been from home before?”“No, ma’am,” said Christie, eagerly. “But I was very glad to come. I was sorry to leave them all; but I wished to do my part. I will do my best for you and the children.”“You needn’t fear that the children will learn anything wrong from her, ma’am,” she heard Mrs Greenly say. “She has been well brought up.”But she heard no more; for the pattering of little feet on the stairs told of the approach of children. The door opened, and a little girl, six or seven years old, entered, followed by two little boys, who were younger. The girl went directly to her mother, and began stroking the baby’s face. The boys, looking defiantly at Mrs Greenly, as though to assure her that they would not submit to be sent away, took their stand behind their mother’s chair. The mother’s hand was gently laid on the little girl’s head.“Where is Harry?” she asked.“He’s asleep in Nelly’s clothes-basket. She said we were not to make a noise to wake him, so we came up here. Bridget has gone away.”“Yes, I know. And has Letty been trying to amuse her brothers, to help mother?”The child shook her head.“Harry played with the clothes-pins, and then he fell asleep. And Tom and Neddie are both bad boys. They wouldn’t obey me. Won’t you let me take the baby now?”“Baby’s asleep, and you mustn’t make a noise to wake her,” said the nurse, in an ominous whisper. “And your mother’s very tired, and must lie down and sleep too. And you are going, like a nice young lady, into the nursery, to see how quiet you can keep them.”She laid her hand on the child’s arm as she spoke; but it was shaken off abruptly, and the pretty face gathered itself into a frown. Her mother’s hand was laid on her lips.“Mother,” entreated the child, “I will be so good if you will let me stay. There’s nothing to do in the nursery, and I’m so tired of staying there!”“But your brothers,” said Mrs Greenly. “They won’t stay without you, and your mother will be worse if she don’t get rest. Indeed, ma’am, you are quite flushed already,” said she, looking at Mrs Lee; “quite feverish. You are no more fit to be left than you were a fortnight ago. You must have rest. The children must go.”“Let us go to the yard, then,” pleaded one of them.“It has been raining. Neddie must not go out,” said the weary mother. “Is not my little daughter going to be good?” she pleaded.“Oh, do let me stay. I will be so good. Send the boys away to Nelly in the kitchen, and let me stay with you.”On a table near the bed stood a tray, with several vials and glasses on it. At this moment the whole was put in jeopardy by the enterprising spirit of little Tom, who was determined to make himself acquainted with their various contents. Neddie was endeavouring to raise himself to the window-seat, using the curtains as a ladder to assist his ascent. There was a fair prospect of confusion enough.“This will never do,” said the nurse, hastily, as she removed the tray and its contents, and reached the window just in time to save the wilful Neddie from a fall. “Do you know,” she added, suddenly changing her tone, “what Nelly brought from market to-day? Apples! They are in the side-board down-stairs. And here are the keys. Who would like one?”The boys suspended their mischievous operations, and listened. Letty did not move.“Let me stay,” she whispered.“Come, Miss Letty, like a good child. Your mothermustsleep, or she will be ill, and the baby too. Come! I know what your quietness is—fidgeting about like a mouse. Your mother would have a better chance to sleep with all the boys about her. Come away.”“Go, Letty; go with nurse. Be a good child,” pleaded her mother, on whose cheek a bright colour was flickering. “My darling would not make mamma ill, and baby sister too?”“Nurse, try me this once. I will be so quiet.”But nurse was not to be entreated; and the reluctant child was half led, half dragged from the room, screaming and resisting. Her mother looked after her, weary and helpless, and the baby on her lap sent up a whimpering cry. Mrs Lee leaned back on her chair, and pressed her hands over her eyes.Christie rose.“Will you trust me with the baby? I will be very careful.”The lady started; she had quite forgotten her. Christie stooped over the baby with eager interest.“Are you fond of children?” asked Mrs Lee.“I love my brother and my little sisters. I have never been with other children.” There were tears in Christie’s eyes as she raised them to look in Mrs Lee’s face, called forth quite as much by the gentle tones of her voice as by the thought of ‘the bairns’ at home.“I am afraid you could do nothing for baby,” said Mrs Lee. “Nurse will be here presently. Perhaps you could amuse the children; but they miss me, and are fretful without me.”“I will try,” said Christie, eagerly. “Are they fond of stories? I am very good at telling stories. Or I can read to them. I will do my best.”She went down-stairs, and guided by the sound of children’s voices, entered the dining-room. The little girl had thrown herself on the sofa, where she was sobbing with mingled grief and rage. The boys, on the contrary, were enjoying the prospect of eating the apples which Mrs Greenly was paring for them.“The baby is crying. The lady wants you. She says I am to try and amuse the children,” said Christie.“Well, I wish you joy of your work,” said Mrs Greenly, whose temper was a little ruffled by her encounter with Miss Letty. “For my part, I have no patience with children who don’t care whether their mother gets better or not. Children should love their parents and obey them.”“I do love my mamma!” cried Letty, passionately, between her sobs. “Go away, naughty nurse!”“I’m just going, my dear,” said the nurse. “And mind, my girl,” she added, to Christie, “these children are to be kept here, and they are to be kept quiet too. Mrs Lee’s wearied out of her very life with their noise. That useless Bridget was just as good as nobody with them.”So she went up-stairs, and Christie was left to manage with the children as best she might. While the apples lasted there was little to be said. Letty did not heed hers, though it lay on the sofa, within reach of her hand, till Tom made some advances in that direction. Then it was seized and hidden quickly, and Tom’s advances sharply repelled. Tom turned away with a better grace than might have been expected, and addressed himself to Christie.“Are you Bridget?” he asked.“No,” she said, gravely; “I’m Christie.”“Are you going to stay here?”“Would you like me to stay?”“No,” said the boy; “I wouldn’t. I like my mamma to dress me. Biddy brushes too hard.”“But I am Christie. I’ll brush very gently till your mother gets better again. Wouldn’t you like me to stay? My home is very far-away.”“How far?” asked Neddie, coming forward and standing beside his brother.“Oh, ever so far—over the river, and over the hills, and past the woods; away—away—away down in a little hollow by the brook.”The children looked at her with astonished eyes. She went on:“There are birds’-nests there, and little birds that sing. Oh, you should hear how they sing! And there are little lambs that play all day long among the clover. And there are dandelions and buttercups, and oh! I can’t tell you how many pretty flowers besides. Whose dog is that?” she asked, suddenly, pointing to a picture on the wall.“It’s my mamma’s,” said Neddie.“Is it? He’s a very pretty dog. What’s his name?”“He hasn’t got any name. He’s a picture,” said Tom.“Oh, yes; he has a name. His name is—Rover. Is not that a pretty name? Come and sit down by the window, and I will tell you a story about a dog named Rover. You like stories, don’t you?”They came slowly forward and stood beside her.“Well, Neddie,” she said to Tom. “Are you Neddie?”“No; I’m Tom. That’s Neddie.”“Oh! that’s Neddie, is it? Well, Tom and Neddie, I’m going to tell you a story about Rover. Only we must speak low, and not disturb your mamma and baby sister. What’s the baby’s name, I wonder?”“It’s baby,” said Neddie.“Yes; but she must have another name besides baby.”“No, she hasn’t,” said Tom.“Her name’s going to be Catharine Ellinor,” said Letty, forgetting her trouble for a moment. “That’s grandmamma’s name.”“Oh, that’s a very pretty name!” said Christie. “She’s a dear baby, I am sure.” But Letty had no more to say.“Tell us about Rover,” said Tom.“Oh, yes! I must tell you about Rover. ‘Once upon a time—’” And then came the story. Never did dog meet with such wonderful adventures before, and never was a story listened to with greater delight. Even Letty forgot her vexation, and listened eagerly. In the midst of it Nelly entered, carrying little Harry in her arms. At the sight of him every trace of ill-humour vanished from Letty’s face. Running to meet them she clasped her arms round her little brother.“Where are his shoes, Nelly?” she said, stooping to kiss his rosy little feet.“What a sweet child!” exclaimed Christie. “I hope he won’t be afraid of me.”Hewasvery lovely, with his flushed cheeks and tangled curls, and not in the least afraid of anything in the world. He looked out of his bright blue eyes as frankly and fearlessly at Christie as if she had been his nurse all his life. She placed him on her knee while Letty tied his shoes.“Are you to be nurse?” asked her fellow-servant Nelly.“I don’t know. I would like the place,” said Christie.“You’ll have your hands full,” said Nelly, emphatically. Christie had nothing to say to this; and the boys became clamorous for the rest of the story.In the meantime, the October sunshine, though it was neither very warm nor very bright, had dried up the rain-drops on the paved court behind the house, and Mrs Greenly, showing her face for a moment at the dining-room door, told Christie she might wrap the children up and take them out for a little time. With Nelly’s help, the wrapping up was soon accomplished. The yard was not a very pleasant place. It was surrounded by a high wall, and at the foot of the enclosure was a little strip which had been cultivated. There were a few pale pansies and blackened dahlia-stalks lingering yet. In two corners stood a ragged and dusty fir-tree; and all the rest of the yard was laid over with boards.“The children are not to sit down, for they would take cold,” called out Mrs Greenly from an upper window. In a little while Christie had them all engaged in a merry game, and greatly were they delighted with it. Some tokens of disorder and riot were given by Tom and Letty; but on the whole the peace was kept. Their enjoyment was complete, and it was a merry and hungry group that obeyed Nelly’s summons to the tea-table.Christie’s first afternoon was a decided success. There was nothing more said about her staying. She fell very naturally into her place in the nursery, and she and the little people there soon became very fond of each other. It was a busy life, and so far a pleasant one. When her position and duties were no longer new to her, she accommodated herself to them with an ease which would have surprised Aunt Elsie, and even Effie, who had a higher opinion of Christie’s powers than her aunt had. She was very earnest and conscientious in all she did, and Mrs Lee soon trusted her entirely. She must have left the children much to her care, even though she had less confidence in her; for she did not gain strength very fast. The baby was a fragile little creature, and rarely, night or day, during the first three months of her life, was her mother’s care withdrawn from her. So the other children were quite dependent on their young nurse for oversight as well as for amusement; and considering all things, she did very well, for she tried to do everything as in the sight and fear of God.

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

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

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

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

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

Effie made no answer.

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

“No, indeed,” said Effie. “I don’t look on it in that light; but—”

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

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

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

Effie sighed.

“She was never very strong.”

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

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

“Perhaps I am foolish. I will try.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How old are you?” asked the lady, again.

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

“Are your parents living?”

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

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

“What do you think?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

But Christie shook her head.

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

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

“Were you ever at service before?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs McIntyre shook her head.

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

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

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

Mrs McIntyre looked doubtful.

“It’s a place for some one; but I doubt it’s too hard a place for you.”

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs Greenly shook her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where is Harry?” she asked.

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

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

The child shook her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let me stay,” she whispered.

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

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

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

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

Christie rose.

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

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

“Are you fond of children?” asked Mrs Lee.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you Bridget?” he asked.

“No,” she said, gravely; “I’m Christie.”

“Are you going to stay here?”

“Would you like me to stay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s my mamma’s,” said Neddie.

“Is it? He’s a very pretty dog. What’s his name?”

“He hasn’t got any name. He’s a picture,” said Tom.

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

They came slowly forward and stood beside her.

“Well, Neddie,” she said to Tom. “Are you Neddie?”

“No; I’m Tom. That’s Neddie.”

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

“It’s baby,” said Neddie.

“Yes; but she must have another name besides baby.”

“No, she hasn’t,” said Tom.

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

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

“Tell us about Rover,” said Tom.

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

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

“What a sweet child!” exclaimed Christie. “I hope he won’t be afraid of me.”

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

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

“I don’t know. I would like the place,” said Christie.

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

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

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

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

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