Chapter Ten.The shadow of death.It was past midnight when Mrs Lee entered the nursery again. Little Harry was on the bed, and his weary nurse was preparing to lie down beside him.“He seems to be sleeping quietly,” said his mother, as she bent over him, “Yes, ma’am—much more quietly than he did last night. I think he will have a good night,” said Christie.Mrs Lee seated herself on the side of the low bed, and listened to his quick, irregular breathing.“I was beginning to hope that all the others might escape, now that Letty is so well,” she said; “but if Harry gets over it I shall be glad. It is always well that children should have these diseases while they are at home, if they must have them—poor darlings!”She looked grave, and even sad as she spoke; but her face was not so pale, and she did not look so hopeless as she had done when the doctor was present.“I feel quite rested and refreshed,” she said, after a few moments. “I have been asleep two or three hours. You had better go up-stairs and lie down awhile, and I will stay with Harry the rest of the night. You look very tired, Christie.”“I was just going to lie down here,” said Christie. “Do you think you need to sit up, ma’am? He seems sleeping so quietly, and the least movement he can make will wake me. I can keep a light burning, and call you at any moment. I do not think you need to sit up.”“I am afraid you will not rest much with him, if his least movement will wake you,” said Mrs Lee, doubtfully.“Oh, I wake and sleep again very easily,” said Christie, cheerfully. “I am used to it now.”Still Mrs Lee lingered, watching the child with anxious eyes, and now and then sighing deeply Christie sent many a pitying glance towards her wondering if any trouble that she knew nothing of was added to the anxiety with which she regarded her child. She longed to be able to comfort her. Her heart was full of sympathy for her—sympathy which she did not venture to express in words. She did not even let her looks express it, but took up her Bible, that she might not seem to be watching her. Mrs Lee roused herself at last, and turning to Christie, said:“Mrs Greenly tells me that Mr G., the famous preacher, was in town to-day. And, by the bye, you must have heard him. He preached in — Church this morning. You were there, I suppose?”“Yes; I was there,” said Christie, with great interest. “There was a strange minister preached; but I didn’t know that he was a great man. That was the reason there was such a crowd of people, I suppose. I wondered why it was.”“You didn’t like him, then? or you didn’t think him a great man?” said Mrs Lee, smiling.“Oh, yes,” said she, eagerly; “I liked him. But I wasn’t thinking about him as a great man; I wasn’t thinking of him at all—only of what he said.”“He told you something new, then?” said Mrs Lee.“No! Oh, no! Nothing new; nothing that I had not heard many times before. And yet it seemed to come to me as new!” she added, a strange, sweet smile passing over her face.“What did he say that was new to you?”“Some things he said that I shall never forget. He was telling us of God’s love to man, shown in many ways, but most and best of all in the work of redemption. It wasn’t new, what he said; and yet—I don’t know how it was—I seemed to see it as I never saw it before.” And again the same bright smile flashed over her countenance.“The work of redemption?” repeated Mrs Lee; and there was a questioning tone in her voice that made Christie look at her doubtfully before replying.“Yes; you know, ‘God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth on Him might not perish, but have eternal life.’ And ‘All we like sheep have gone astray. We have turned every one to his own way; and the Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of us all.’ And there are many more verses in the Bible like this. One of them says, ‘When there was no eye to pity, or hand to save, God’s eye pitied, and His own arm brought salvation.’ I’m not sure that these are the exact words, but that is the meaning of the verse.”“Brought salvation!” repeated Mrs Lee. “That means that God’s people will be saved, and will go to heaven when they die?”“Yes,” said Christie, hesitatingly. “It means that; but it means something more. We don’t have to wait till we die to get the good of salvation. We shall be saved from the punishment of sin when we die, but we are saved here from its power. We come to hate what we once loved, and to see beauty and worth in things that before were uninteresting to us. What was hard to do and hard to bear becomes easy for Christ’s sake. Somehow or other, everything seems changed. ‘Old things pass away. All things become new.’”She paused, and letting her cheek rest on the hand that held her Bible, she gazed into the glowing embers with eyes that seemed to see pleasant things far-away. Mrs Lee looked at her with wonder for a time, and then said:“Has all this happened to you—this change you speak about?”A sudden flow of tears was the only reply her question received at first. But soon she raised her head, and said:“Sometimes—now and then—I have hoped so; and to-day, when God’s great love to sinners was set forth, and the way of salvation shown to be so wise, so free, so suitable, it seemed foolish and unreasonable to doubt any more. I had heard all about it many and many a time before, but the words seemed to come home to my heart to-day. It was like the sudden shining out of a light in a dark place. Maybe I’ll go back again to my old doubts and discontent. But I hope not; I believe not. I know He is able to keep me; and I think He will.”Mrs Lee had laid herself down by Harry, and was listening now, with her eyes shaded by her hand. She lay so long and so quietly that Christie thought she must have fallen asleep, and began softly to turn over the leaves of her Bible again; and she quite started when, in the course of half an hour, she spoke again.“You said something about God’s love in redemption. What did you mean by it? Tell me more of what the preacher said.”Christie hesitated a moment, and was at a loss what to say: “I can’t mind all he said. That is, I can’t mind the exact words. But he told us what a blessed thing it is for us that our salvation, from beginning to end, is God’s own work, and how impossible it is that we could be saved if it depended on ourselves.”“Yes; even if one could begin one’s life again. It would be all the same. We might avoid some errors and keep from falling into some mistakes; but after all, it would come to the same thing in the end, I dare say. There is no use in wishing for another chance.”Mrs Lee sighed; and Christie hesitated a moment, and then said: “We can do nothing to save ourselves, ma’am, and all else that we have to do grows easy, because of the grace which God gives, and because of a knowledge of Christ’s love to us. It is easy to do the will of One who loves us, and whom we love.”There was a long pause after this, which Mrs Lee broke by saying: “What was it you said about ‘no eye to pity, and no arm to save’?”“Here it is,” said Christie; and she eagerly read the words from her Bible, and many more besides—a verse here and a verse there, as her own judgment or Effie’s marginal marks suggested: such as, “Surely He hath borne our griefs and carried our sorrows.“He was wounded for our transgressions, and bruised for our iniquities.“For when we were without strength, in due time Christ died for the ungodly.“For scarcely for a righteous man will one die; yet peradventure for a good man some would even dare to die.“But God commendeth His love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.“Who shall lay anything to the charge of God’s elect? It is God that justifieth. Who is he that condemneth? It is Christ that died; yea, rather, that is risen again, who is even at the right hand of God, who also maketh intercession for us. Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?”“If we could be sure that we are among the children of God,” said Mrs Lee, with a sigh. And soon after she added: “There are a great many things in the Bible that are hard to understand.”“Yes; I suppose so—I am sure of it,” said Christie, gravely. “But the things most necessary for us to know and understand are easy for us; at least, with the help of the Holy Spirit they grow easy, I think. It is very plainly told us we are sinners and need a Saviour, that a Saviour has been provided, and those who come to Him He will in no wise cast out. These are the chief things; and besides these, we are assured of help and guidance and peace, all the way through to the end.”Christie spoke slowly, striving to put into as few words as possible these precious truths of the Bible.“You seem to know a great deal about these things, and to take a pleasure in them,” said Mrs Lee.Christie shook her head. “I take pleasure in them, but I know very little. It is only lately that I have cared to learn. I am very ignorant.”Ignorant though she was, the child knew more of God’s truth than her mistress; and many a word in season she spoke to her anxious heart during the long watches that they shared together in the sad times that followed that memorable day. They were words very simply and humbly spoken—rarely Christie’s own. They were passages of Scripture, or bits from the catechism, or remembered comments upon them made, in her hearing, by her father, or by Effie and her friends.Nothing could have been farther from Christie’s thoughts than any intention of teaching. She did not dream how strange and new to her listener were the blessed truths that were beginning to present themselves so vividly to her own mind. She would have shrunk from the thought of presuming to teach, or even to suggest new trains of thought. In ordinary circumstances she might have found it difficult to converse long on any subject with Mrs Lee. But watching and anxiety, shared in the chamber over which hangs the shadow of a great dread, soon break down the barriers of reserve which a difference of age or position raises; and there seemed no inappropriateness in the grave, earnest words that now and then fell from the lips of the little maid. Indeed, weak in body and exhausted in mind as the troubles of the winter and spring had left her, Mrs Lee found positive rest and refreshment in the society which might at another time have seemed unsuitable; and mingled with the gratitude with which she saw Christie’s devotion to the sick child was a feeling of respect and admiration for the character which was gradually developing before her eyes.How long the days and nights seemed! Little Harry’s robust frame and fine constitution availed him little. The fever raged with great violence; and the close of the week found the doctor still in doubt as to how it might end with him. His mother’s strength and hopefulness had held out wonderfully till this time; but when the baby, the fair and fragile little Ellinor, was stricken down, faith, strength, and courage seemed to fail her. It was not long, however. The child’s need gave the mother strength; and the baby needed nothing long. The other children were sent away to a friend’s house in the country; and silence, broken only by the moans of the little ones or the hushed voices of their anxious nurses, reigned through the house, lately echoing to far other sounds.Before three silent days had passed, the mother knew that her baby must die. In the presence of her unutterable sorrow Christie was mute. The awe which fell upon her in the dread presence left her no words with which to comfort the stricken mother. But in her heart she never ceased through all that last long night to pray, “God comfort her.”And shewascomforted. Though her tears fell fast on the folded hands of her child as she said the words, they were humbly and reverently spoken:“‘Thy will be done.’ It would have been harder to leave my child than to let her go!—and now one of my darlings is safe from all sorrow for ever!”The father came home just in time to lay his little daughter in the grave; and then both father and mother sat down to wait. For what? For the gradual return of the rose to the cheek and the light to the eye of little Harry? Alas, no! It was not to be. A keener pang was to pierce the heart of the stricken mother. For to part with little Harry was a far harder trial to anticipate than even the loss of her baby had been to bear. But day by day it became more apparent to all that Harry’s end was hastening. The fever went away, but there seemed to be no power to rally in the little worn-out frame of the child. His father, for a little while, spoke hopefully of a change of air, and the sea-side; but he could not long so cheat himself with false hopes. The restlessness and irritability, which they had said to one another were hopeful signs, passed away. His smiles were more languid and constrained, and he soon failed to recognise the anxious, loving friends who ministered to his wants.Before this the mother’s strength had quite failed; and the father, unused to the sight of suffering, shrank from looking on the last agony of his child. Through all his illness the little boy had clung to Christie—never quite at rest, even in the arms of his mother, unless his Christie was near. Her voice had soothed him, her hands had ministered to his comfort, her care had been lavished on him, through all those lingering days and nights. And now it was Christie who met his last smile and listened to his last murmured “Good-night!” Yes, it was Christie who closed his eyes at last, and straightened his limbs in their last repose. She helped to robe him for the grave, and to lay him in his little coffin; and all the time there was coming and going through her mind a verse she had learned long ago—“Now, like a dew-drop shrinedWithin a crystal stone,Thou’rt safe in heaven, my dove;Safe in the arms of Jesus,The everlasting One!”
It was past midnight when Mrs Lee entered the nursery again. Little Harry was on the bed, and his weary nurse was preparing to lie down beside him.
“He seems to be sleeping quietly,” said his mother, as she bent over him, “Yes, ma’am—much more quietly than he did last night. I think he will have a good night,” said Christie.
Mrs Lee seated herself on the side of the low bed, and listened to his quick, irregular breathing.
“I was beginning to hope that all the others might escape, now that Letty is so well,” she said; “but if Harry gets over it I shall be glad. It is always well that children should have these diseases while they are at home, if they must have them—poor darlings!”
She looked grave, and even sad as she spoke; but her face was not so pale, and she did not look so hopeless as she had done when the doctor was present.
“I feel quite rested and refreshed,” she said, after a few moments. “I have been asleep two or three hours. You had better go up-stairs and lie down awhile, and I will stay with Harry the rest of the night. You look very tired, Christie.”
“I was just going to lie down here,” said Christie. “Do you think you need to sit up, ma’am? He seems sleeping so quietly, and the least movement he can make will wake me. I can keep a light burning, and call you at any moment. I do not think you need to sit up.”
“I am afraid you will not rest much with him, if his least movement will wake you,” said Mrs Lee, doubtfully.
“Oh, I wake and sleep again very easily,” said Christie, cheerfully. “I am used to it now.”
Still Mrs Lee lingered, watching the child with anxious eyes, and now and then sighing deeply Christie sent many a pitying glance towards her wondering if any trouble that she knew nothing of was added to the anxiety with which she regarded her child. She longed to be able to comfort her. Her heart was full of sympathy for her—sympathy which she did not venture to express in words. She did not even let her looks express it, but took up her Bible, that she might not seem to be watching her. Mrs Lee roused herself at last, and turning to Christie, said:
“Mrs Greenly tells me that Mr G., the famous preacher, was in town to-day. And, by the bye, you must have heard him. He preached in — Church this morning. You were there, I suppose?”
“Yes; I was there,” said Christie, with great interest. “There was a strange minister preached; but I didn’t know that he was a great man. That was the reason there was such a crowd of people, I suppose. I wondered why it was.”
“You didn’t like him, then? or you didn’t think him a great man?” said Mrs Lee, smiling.
“Oh, yes,” said she, eagerly; “I liked him. But I wasn’t thinking about him as a great man; I wasn’t thinking of him at all—only of what he said.”
“He told you something new, then?” said Mrs Lee.
“No! Oh, no! Nothing new; nothing that I had not heard many times before. And yet it seemed to come to me as new!” she added, a strange, sweet smile passing over her face.
“What did he say that was new to you?”
“Some things he said that I shall never forget. He was telling us of God’s love to man, shown in many ways, but most and best of all in the work of redemption. It wasn’t new, what he said; and yet—I don’t know how it was—I seemed to see it as I never saw it before.” And again the same bright smile flashed over her countenance.
“The work of redemption?” repeated Mrs Lee; and there was a questioning tone in her voice that made Christie look at her doubtfully before replying.
“Yes; you know, ‘God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth on Him might not perish, but have eternal life.’ And ‘All we like sheep have gone astray. We have turned every one to his own way; and the Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of us all.’ And there are many more verses in the Bible like this. One of them says, ‘When there was no eye to pity, or hand to save, God’s eye pitied, and His own arm brought salvation.’ I’m not sure that these are the exact words, but that is the meaning of the verse.”
“Brought salvation!” repeated Mrs Lee. “That means that God’s people will be saved, and will go to heaven when they die?”
“Yes,” said Christie, hesitatingly. “It means that; but it means something more. We don’t have to wait till we die to get the good of salvation. We shall be saved from the punishment of sin when we die, but we are saved here from its power. We come to hate what we once loved, and to see beauty and worth in things that before were uninteresting to us. What was hard to do and hard to bear becomes easy for Christ’s sake. Somehow or other, everything seems changed. ‘Old things pass away. All things become new.’”
She paused, and letting her cheek rest on the hand that held her Bible, she gazed into the glowing embers with eyes that seemed to see pleasant things far-away. Mrs Lee looked at her with wonder for a time, and then said:
“Has all this happened to you—this change you speak about?”
A sudden flow of tears was the only reply her question received at first. But soon she raised her head, and said:
“Sometimes—now and then—I have hoped so; and to-day, when God’s great love to sinners was set forth, and the way of salvation shown to be so wise, so free, so suitable, it seemed foolish and unreasonable to doubt any more. I had heard all about it many and many a time before, but the words seemed to come home to my heart to-day. It was like the sudden shining out of a light in a dark place. Maybe I’ll go back again to my old doubts and discontent. But I hope not; I believe not. I know He is able to keep me; and I think He will.”
Mrs Lee had laid herself down by Harry, and was listening now, with her eyes shaded by her hand. She lay so long and so quietly that Christie thought she must have fallen asleep, and began softly to turn over the leaves of her Bible again; and she quite started when, in the course of half an hour, she spoke again.
“You said something about God’s love in redemption. What did you mean by it? Tell me more of what the preacher said.”
Christie hesitated a moment, and was at a loss what to say: “I can’t mind all he said. That is, I can’t mind the exact words. But he told us what a blessed thing it is for us that our salvation, from beginning to end, is God’s own work, and how impossible it is that we could be saved if it depended on ourselves.”
“Yes; even if one could begin one’s life again. It would be all the same. We might avoid some errors and keep from falling into some mistakes; but after all, it would come to the same thing in the end, I dare say. There is no use in wishing for another chance.”
Mrs Lee sighed; and Christie hesitated a moment, and then said: “We can do nothing to save ourselves, ma’am, and all else that we have to do grows easy, because of the grace which God gives, and because of a knowledge of Christ’s love to us. It is easy to do the will of One who loves us, and whom we love.”
There was a long pause after this, which Mrs Lee broke by saying: “What was it you said about ‘no eye to pity, and no arm to save’?”
“Here it is,” said Christie; and she eagerly read the words from her Bible, and many more besides—a verse here and a verse there, as her own judgment or Effie’s marginal marks suggested: such as, “Surely He hath borne our griefs and carried our sorrows.
“He was wounded for our transgressions, and bruised for our iniquities.
“For when we were without strength, in due time Christ died for the ungodly.
“For scarcely for a righteous man will one die; yet peradventure for a good man some would even dare to die.
“But God commendeth His love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.
“Who shall lay anything to the charge of God’s elect? It is God that justifieth. Who is he that condemneth? It is Christ that died; yea, rather, that is risen again, who is even at the right hand of God, who also maketh intercession for us. Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?”
“If we could be sure that we are among the children of God,” said Mrs Lee, with a sigh. And soon after she added: “There are a great many things in the Bible that are hard to understand.”
“Yes; I suppose so—I am sure of it,” said Christie, gravely. “But the things most necessary for us to know and understand are easy for us; at least, with the help of the Holy Spirit they grow easy, I think. It is very plainly told us we are sinners and need a Saviour, that a Saviour has been provided, and those who come to Him He will in no wise cast out. These are the chief things; and besides these, we are assured of help and guidance and peace, all the way through to the end.”
Christie spoke slowly, striving to put into as few words as possible these precious truths of the Bible.
“You seem to know a great deal about these things, and to take a pleasure in them,” said Mrs Lee.
Christie shook her head. “I take pleasure in them, but I know very little. It is only lately that I have cared to learn. I am very ignorant.”
Ignorant though she was, the child knew more of God’s truth than her mistress; and many a word in season she spoke to her anxious heart during the long watches that they shared together in the sad times that followed that memorable day. They were words very simply and humbly spoken—rarely Christie’s own. They were passages of Scripture, or bits from the catechism, or remembered comments upon them made, in her hearing, by her father, or by Effie and her friends.
Nothing could have been farther from Christie’s thoughts than any intention of teaching. She did not dream how strange and new to her listener were the blessed truths that were beginning to present themselves so vividly to her own mind. She would have shrunk from the thought of presuming to teach, or even to suggest new trains of thought. In ordinary circumstances she might have found it difficult to converse long on any subject with Mrs Lee. But watching and anxiety, shared in the chamber over which hangs the shadow of a great dread, soon break down the barriers of reserve which a difference of age or position raises; and there seemed no inappropriateness in the grave, earnest words that now and then fell from the lips of the little maid. Indeed, weak in body and exhausted in mind as the troubles of the winter and spring had left her, Mrs Lee found positive rest and refreshment in the society which might at another time have seemed unsuitable; and mingled with the gratitude with which she saw Christie’s devotion to the sick child was a feeling of respect and admiration for the character which was gradually developing before her eyes.
How long the days and nights seemed! Little Harry’s robust frame and fine constitution availed him little. The fever raged with great violence; and the close of the week found the doctor still in doubt as to how it might end with him. His mother’s strength and hopefulness had held out wonderfully till this time; but when the baby, the fair and fragile little Ellinor, was stricken down, faith, strength, and courage seemed to fail her. It was not long, however. The child’s need gave the mother strength; and the baby needed nothing long. The other children were sent away to a friend’s house in the country; and silence, broken only by the moans of the little ones or the hushed voices of their anxious nurses, reigned through the house, lately echoing to far other sounds.
Before three silent days had passed, the mother knew that her baby must die. In the presence of her unutterable sorrow Christie was mute. The awe which fell upon her in the dread presence left her no words with which to comfort the stricken mother. But in her heart she never ceased through all that last long night to pray, “God comfort her.”
And shewascomforted. Though her tears fell fast on the folded hands of her child as she said the words, they were humbly and reverently spoken:
“‘Thy will be done.’ It would have been harder to leave my child than to let her go!—and now one of my darlings is safe from all sorrow for ever!”
The father came home just in time to lay his little daughter in the grave; and then both father and mother sat down to wait. For what? For the gradual return of the rose to the cheek and the light to the eye of little Harry? Alas, no! It was not to be. A keener pang was to pierce the heart of the stricken mother. For to part with little Harry was a far harder trial to anticipate than even the loss of her baby had been to bear. But day by day it became more apparent to all that Harry’s end was hastening. The fever went away, but there seemed to be no power to rally in the little worn-out frame of the child. His father, for a little while, spoke hopefully of a change of air, and the sea-side; but he could not long so cheat himself with false hopes. The restlessness and irritability, which they had said to one another were hopeful signs, passed away. His smiles were more languid and constrained, and he soon failed to recognise the anxious, loving friends who ministered to his wants.
Before this the mother’s strength had quite failed; and the father, unused to the sight of suffering, shrank from looking on the last agony of his child. Through all his illness the little boy had clung to Christie—never quite at rest, even in the arms of his mother, unless his Christie was near. Her voice had soothed him, her hands had ministered to his comfort, her care had been lavished on him, through all those lingering days and nights. And now it was Christie who met his last smile and listened to his last murmured “Good-night!” Yes, it was Christie who closed his eyes at last, and straightened his limbs in their last repose. She helped to robe him for the grave, and to lay him in his little coffin; and all the time there was coming and going through her mind a verse she had learned long ago—
“Now, like a dew-drop shrinedWithin a crystal stone,Thou’rt safe in heaven, my dove;Safe in the arms of Jesus,The everlasting One!”
“Now, like a dew-drop shrinedWithin a crystal stone,Thou’rt safe in heaven, my dove;Safe in the arms of Jesus,The everlasting One!”
Chapter Eleven.An unexpected visitor.And now a sad silence fell on the household. The children were not to be brought home for some time, the doctor said; and their mother was not able to go to them; so Christie was left to the almost unbroken quiet of her forsaken nursery. She needed rest more than she was aware, and sank into a state of passive indifference to all things which would have alarmed herself had not her kind friend, Mrs Greenly, been there to insist that she should be relieved of care till her over-tasked strength should be in some measure restored. In those very quiet hours, thoughts of home came to her only as a vague and shadowy remembrance. The events of the winter, and even the more recent sufferings of the last month, seemed like a dream to her. Dearly as she had loved her little charges, she was hardly conscious of regret at their loss. It seemed like something that had happened long ago—their long suffering and departure. The very promises which had of late become so sweet to her, soothed her merely as a pleasant sound might do. She scarcely took note of their meaning or power during those days.But this soon passed away, and with returning strength came back with double force the old longing to go home. She had sent a line to Effie when little Harry was taken ill, telling her how utterly impossible it would be for her to leave her place. Since then, about the time of the baby’s death, a neighbour had called, and by him she had sent the same message, assuring her sister that she was quite content to stay. But her old eagerness to get home came back, now that she found herself with little to occupy her, and she waited anxiously for the time when Mrs Lee might be spoken to on the subject.In the meantime, Mrs Greenly was called away, and the duty of attendance upon Mrs Lee once more devolved on Christie. If anything could have banished from her heart all thought of home or all wish for change, the days that followed would have done so. Not an hour passed in which she was not made to feel that she was a comfort to her friend—forfriends, in the highest sense, the mistress and her little maid were fast becoming. The readings and conversations which had been begun during their long watches together were renewed; and blessed seasons they proved to both. Christie never knew—never could know on earth—all the good she did Mrs Lee in those days. She was only conscious of an ever-increasing love for her and an ever-increasing desire to serve her.If in the first agony of her bereavement there had been in the mother’s heart murmuring and rebellious thoughts, they were all stilled now. With more than the submission of a chastened child—with joy that had in it a sense of reconciliation and acceptance—she was enabled to kiss the Hand that had smitten her. She seldom spoke of her children; but when she did, it was with gratitude that they had been hers, and were still hers, in heaven. Seen by the new light that was dawning on her soul, the world, its hopes and fears and interests, looked to her very different. Humble submission and cheerful trust took the place of her old, anxious forebodings. Scripture truths, which formerly conveyed no distinct idea to her mind, came home to her now with power. They were living truths, full of hope and comfort. The promises were to her a place of rest and refuge—a strong tower, into which she could run and be safe. By slow degrees the light of the glorious Gospel of Jesus Christ dawned upon her soul; and to one fearful and doubtful of the future, as she had been, what blessed rest and refreshment was in the trust, that gradually grew strong, in the embrace of an Arm mighty to save! To know herself one of those to whom Jesus has given a right to say, “I will fear no evil, forThouart with me,” was all that she needed for her consolation; and during those days the blessed knowledge came to her.What part the simple words and earnest prayers of her little nurse had in bringing about this blessed change, God knows. The girl herself had little thought of the good which her entrance into the household had wrought. It might have helped her to a more patient waiting had she known how often her name was mingled with the thankful praises of Mrs Lee. She was not impatient, but a longing for home that would not be stilled mingled with the gladness that filled her heart at the thought of being useful.Summer had come. June was half over, and the only glimpse of green she had had was the top of the mountain, far-away. Now and then Nelly brought home from the market a bunch of garden-flowers. But the sight of them only made her long the more for the fields where so many flowers that she knew had blossomed and faded unseen. More than once, when sent out by Mrs Lee to take the air, she had tried to extend her walk in one direction or another, till she should reach the country. But partly because she did not know the way, and partly because she grew so soon weary, she never succeeded. She had to content herself with the nearest street where there were trees growing, and now and then a peep through open gateways upon little dusty strips of grass or garden-ground.Oh, how close and hot and like a prison the long, narrow streets seemed to her! How weary the street-noises made her! It was foolish, she knew, and so she told herself often, to vex herself with idle fancies. But sometimes there came back to her, with a vividness which for the moment was like reality, the memory of familiar sights and sounds. Sometimes it was the wind waving the trees, or the ripple of the brook over the stepping-stones; sometimes it was the bleating of the young lambs in the pastures far-away. She caught glimpses of familiar faces in the crowd, as she used to do in the home-sick days when she first came; and she could not always smile at her folly. Sometimes her disappointment would send her home sad and dispirited enough. Almost always the smile that met her as she entered Mrs Lee’s room brought back her content; but often it needed a greater effort to be cheerful than an on-looker could have guessed. Still, the effort was always made, and never without some measure of success.One morning she rose more depressed than usual. A quiet half-hour with her little Bible was not sufficient to raise her spirits, though she told herself it ought to be; and she said to herself, as she went down-stairs, “I will speak to-day about going home.”Mrs Lee was able to go down-stairs now. On this particular day a friend was to visit her, and Christie determined to say nothing about the matter till the visitor should be gone. But the prospect of a long day in the solitary nursery did not tend to brighten her face, and it was sadly enough that she went slowly down the street on an errand for Nelly when breakfast was over.She did not look up to-day in her usual vain search for a “kenned face,” or she would never have passed by the corner so unheedingly. A pair of kind eyes, for the moment as grave and sad as her own, watched her as she came on, and after she passed. In a little while a very gentle hand was laid on her shoulder.“What’s your haste, Christie, my lassie?”With a cry she turned to clasp the hand of John Nesbitt. Poor little Christie! She was so glad, so very glad! It was almost like seeing Effie herself, she told him, amid a great burst of tears that startled the grave John considerably. For a moment her sobs came fast. The open streets and the wondering passers-by were quite forgotten.“Whisht, Christie, my woman,” said John, soothingly, “that’s no’ the way we show our gladness in Glengarry.”Drawing her hand under his arm, he held it firmly in his own. Christie made a great effort to control herself, and the face which she soon turned towards her friend had grown wonderfully brighter for the tears that fell.“Effie bade me notice how you looked and what you said; and I’m afraid she’ll no’ be pleased to hear that I got such a tearful welcome,” said John, with his grave smile.“Oh, Effie will understand. Why, it’s almost like seeing Effie herself to see you, John!” she repeated, giving him a tearful smile. She felt sure it was a true friend’s hand that pressed hers so warmly as she spoke.“But where are you going, Christie?” asked John.“Oh, I forgot; we are past the place.” But her face grew grave in a moment. “When did you come, John? and how long are you going to stay?”“I came yesterday, and I shall stay no longer than I can help. I have had enough of this dusty town for once. I wonder how you ever stayed so long in it, Christie.”“I wonder myself, whiles,” she said gravely; “but it won’t be long now.”“Are they better at your house? Will they spare you to go home with me?”“There is no one ill now. Did you hear—” But Christie’s voice was lost in the remembrance of little Harry and the baby.“Yes, we heard. You must have had a sad time, poor lassie! But the remembrance of these precious little ones cannot be altogether sorrowful, Christie?”“No; oh, no, indeed!” But she could say no more. As they drew near the house, she added:“And shan’t I see you again, John?”“Ay, lass, that you will. I’m by no means done with you yet. Are you busy to-day? because I would like your help. I promised to get some things for my mother, and I’m not good at choosing. Will you come with me? Do you think you can be spared?”“I don’t know. I should like it. I can ask.”In a minute she returned, with a face made radiant by Mrs Lee’s cheerful consent to spare her for as much of the day as she pleased; and it was arranged that John should call for her in half an hour.If anything could have marred the delight with which her preparations were made, the sight of her faded bonnet and shawl might have done so. The rain and the snow had wet them, the sun had done its work on them, and the wind had taken liberties with them, many a time. And besides, they seemed too hot and heavy for such a summer day, even if they had not been shabby and grey. For Christie had had other things to think about of late than the getting of summer garments. Just for a minute a wish that they had been newer and fresher-looking, for John’s sake, came to her mind. It was only for a moment that she thought about it at all.“For John cares little for such things,” she said to herself; “and there’s no matter for the shop-people and the rest.”She was right. Looking into the brightened face that met him at the door, John failed to discover that the bonnet above it was dingy and brown. And if the rustiness of the little shepherd’s-plaid shawl that covered her shoulders marred in any degree the pleasure with which he drew her hand beneath his friendly arm, he gave no token that it did so. Christie gave a little sigh of satisfaction as she found herself out on the street once more.“I have got so many things to ask about,” she said; “but I suppose I may as well wait till we have done with the shops. If I once begin, I’m afraid I shan’t be able to attend to anything else.”The purchases were soon made. Indeed, Mrs Nesbitt’s commissions had not been very extensive. Christie had more to do on her own account. But she had planned so many times just what she was to get for each one at home, that it did not take her long to choose. Besides, her purse was not one of the fullest. Still, the little she had to do involved a good deal of running here and there; and her parcels increased in number and size to such an extent, that Christie at last said, laughing, she would have to forego the pleasure of taking them home herself, as her box would never hold half of them; John would need to try to find room for them in his.“And are you not afraid they may call you extravagant at home, getting so many braw things?”Christie laughed.“I’m no’ sure. But then—unless it’s Aunt Elsie’s gown—there’s nothing dear. They are just prints; the frocks and the other things are all useful, except perhaps the playthings for the bairns; and they are useful too, for things that give pleasure have a use, I am sure.”“It canna be doubted,” said her friend, laughing.Christie’s face grew a little grave, after a rather lengthened examination of the pieces left in her purse.“There is just one other thing; but I fear I ought not to have left it to the last. It’s for blind Alice. I have thought about it so long. It’s not very far, we might ask the price of it, anyway.”It was true, the place was not very far; but it was a shop of greater pretensions than any they had entered yet. Christie had set her heart on a musical-box, which she knew would be a treasure to the blind child. But the cost! It was altogether beyond her means, even if she were to stay another month.The disappointment was very great.“Allie must have something that she can hear, you ken; and I had no thought that it would be so dear.”“Why not send her a bird—a real canary?” said John, as they made a pause at a low window in a narrow street, where a great variety of cages were hanging.“A bird?” repeated Christie. “I never thought of that. Are they very dear?”“We can ask,” said John; and as Christie stood admiring the gay plumage of some strange bird, he put the question to the person in waiting. Christie did not hear his answer. John did not mean that she should.“Could you spare two dollars, Christie?” said he.“Two dollars!” she repeated. It was the wages of half a month.“I have cheaper ones,” said the man, “but he is the best singer I have had for a long time. Or maybe you would like a pair?”“A pair!” thought Christie to herself. If she could manage to get one she would be content! As if to verify the words of his owner, the bird, after hopping quickly from perch to perch, poured forth such a flood of melody as Christie had never heard from a bird’s throat before.“Oh, how sweet!” exclaimed she. “To think of little Allie having music like that all the winter long! But how can you carry it, John?”Oh, John could carry it easily—no fear; and touched by Christie’s eager delight, or by some more powerful cause, the man let the cage go with the bird.So that was settled.“We’re done now, I suppose,” said Christie, with a sigh, as they passed along the shady side of the street. The excitement of pleasure was passing out of her face; and more than ever before, since the first glimpse he got of it, did John Nesbitt realise what a pale, weary little face it was.“I wish you were going home with me, Christie!”“I wish I was, indeed! I wish I had spoken to Mrs Lee before! But I couldna leave her, John, till she got some one else, she is so delicate now. Sometimes I think I never could get courage to leave her at all, if she were to ask me to stay.”“Ay, lass; but there’s more to be said about that. They’ll think at home that you’re forgetting them, if I tell them what you say.”Christie laughed.“I’m not afraid. I don’t think it would be right to leave her now; and seeing you has given me courage for another month at least. You can tell Effie that.”“I shall have two or three things to tell her besides that,” said John, looking down on her with the grave smile which she liked so much to see. “I shall be sorry to tell her how pale and ill you look,” he added, his face growing grave as he looked.“Oh, that’s only because I am tired just now; and besides, I was always ‘a pale-faced thing,’ as Aunt Elsie used to say. You are not to vex Effie by making her think that I am not well,” she said, eagerly. “I have not been used to walking far, lately, and I get tired very soon.”They were entering the large square at the moment, and John said:“Can we go in there among the trees? I see seats there. Let us sit down and rest a while.”“Oh, yes! I have been here before. Nothing reminds me so much of home as the flickering of these shadows—not even the leaves themselves. And how sweet the flowers are! Do you ken, John, I didna see the leaves this year till they were full-grown? I can hardly believe that the spring has come and gone again.”John Nesbitt was looking and listening, and all the time he was considering something very earnestly. He had not many dollars at his disposal, and the few he had he was not inclined to part with but for value received. He was saying to himself, at the moment, that if it should be decided that he was qualified for the work to which he had set himself apart, he should need them all, and more too, before his course of study should be finished. He had a vision, too, of a set of goodly volumes, bound in calf, on which his heart had been set a year or more. Untouched in his pocket-book lay the sum he had long ago set apart for their purchase; and there was very little in it besides.“There must be a limit to the pleasure a man gives himself. I can only choose between them,” said the prudent John to himself. To Christie he said: “Have you ever been round the mountain? Would you like to go to-day?”“Never but once—in the winter-time; but I should like to go, dearly.” And the eager, wistful look in the eyes that through all the pleasant spring-time had seen no budding thing, won the day.“Well, I have never been round it either. So let us take one of these carriages that seem so plenty here, and go together. It is well worth the trouble, I have heard.”Christie’s first look was one of unmixed delight, but soon it changed into one a little doubtful. She did not like to speak her thoughts; but in a little while she said, half smiling:“Are you no’ afraid that they may think you extravagant at home?”“Indeed, no! At least, I’m sure Effie wouldna, if she saw your face at this moment. It was well we had all those things sent home. Come.” And like a foolish fellow, he determined not to make a bargain for the carriage while the prudent little Christie was within hearing, and so had, I dare say, double to pay when he dismissed it. But the pleasure was not spoiled, for all that.“How pleasant it is!” said Christie, as the absence of street-noises and the fresher breeze upon her cheek told her that they were leaving the city behind them. Her short-sighted eyes could not take in the view that charmed John so much. But she did not know how it could be more pleasant than the fresh air and the gentle motion of the carriage made it to her; and so she said, when at last she started up and looked about her:“Is not this the way to the cemetery? Oh, let us go there a little while.”And so they did. The carriage was dismissed. They were to stay a long time—as long as they liked; and then they could walk home, or perhaps they might get the chance of a returning carriage. At any rate, they would not be hurried.How lovely the place looked to Christie’s unaccustomed eyes! They were not alone. There were groups here and there among the graves—some of them mourners, as their dress showed, others enjoying the loveliness of the place, untroubled by any painful remembrance of the loved and lost. Slowly they wandered up and down, making long pauses in shady places, lingering over the graves of little children which loving hands had adorned. Christie wandered over the little nameless graves, longing to find where her dear ones lay.“How beautiful it is! It is a very sweet resting-place,” she said to herself, many times.Yes, it was a very lovely spot. A strange feeling of awe stole over Christie’s spirit as she gazed around on the silent city. As far as the eye could reach it extended. Among the trees and on the sunny hill-sides rose many a stately monument of granite and marble, with, oh, so many a nameless grave between! Close at their feet lay a large unenclosed space, where the graves lay close together, in long, irregular lines—men and women and little children—with not a mark to tell who slumbered beneath. It was probably the burial-place of strangers, or of those who died in the hospitals. To Christie it had a very dreary and forsaken look. She shuddered as she gazed on the place.“A friend’s grave could never be found among so many,” said she. “See! there are a few with a bit of board, and a name written on it; but most of them have no mark. I would far rather be laid in our own kirk-yard at home—though that is a dreary place, too, when the sun doesna shine.”They moved on together; and in a place which was half in the sunshine and half in the shade, they sat down. In a little while the pleasant influence of the scene chased the dreariness from Christie’s thoughts, and she looked about with eyes that did not seem able to satisfy themselves with its beauty.“How lovely it is here!” she repeated. “How green and fresh everything is! The very grass seems beautiful!” And she caressed with her hand the smooth turf on which they were seated.“It’s a wonder to me how people can choose to live in the midst of a town, with nothing to see that’s bonny but a strip of blue sky now and then.”“It’s a wonder to me,” said John, smiling.“Oh, but I mean people that may live wherever they choose. There are people that like the town best. Where it is right to stay, I suppose one can be content in time. I think if I hadna home and the rest to think about and wish for, I might be willing to live here always. But at first—oh, I thought I could never,neverstay! But I am not sorry I came. I shall never be sorry for that.”There was something in her earnest manner, and in the happy look that came over her face as she spoke, that arrested the attention of John; and he said:“You have been happy here, then, upon the whole?”“Yes; upon the whole,” repeated she, thoughtfully; “but it wasna that I was thinking about.”“Christie, do you know I think you have changed very much since you used to come and see my mother? You have changed; and yet you are the very same: there’s a paradox for you, as Peter O’Neil would say.”His words were light, but there was a meaning in his grave smile that made Christie’s heart leap; and her answer was at first a startled look, and then a sudden gush of happy tears. Then came good John Nesbitt’s voice entreating a blessing on “his little sister in Christ”; and this made them flow the faster. But, oh, they were such happy, happy tears! and very happy was the hour that followed.Now and then there comes an hour, in the intercourse of friends with each other, which reveals to each more of the inner and spiritual life of the other than years of common intercourse could do; and this was such an hour. I cannot tell all that was said. The words might seem to many a reader tame and common-place enough, but many of them Christie never forgot while she lived, and many of them John Nesbitt will not cease to remember to his dying day.Christie had no thought of showing him all that was in her heart. She did not think that the friend who was listening so quietly to all the little details of her life among strangers—her home-sickness, her fears and weariness, her love and care for the children and their mother—was all the time thanking God in his heart for all the way by which this little lamb had been led to take refuge in the fold. She knew by the words he spoke, before he rose to go, that he was much-moved. They came back to her many a time afterwards, brightening the sad days, and comforting her when she was in sorrow. They helped her to the cheerful bearing of a disappointment near at hand.As for John, he was far from thinking the day lost that he had devoted to the pleasure of Christie. If in the morning the hope of possessing at once the much-desired books had been given up with a sigh, it was the sigh, and not the sacrifice, that was regretted now. With a sense of refreshment unspeakable there came to his remembrance the Saviour’s promise that the giving of a cup of cold water to one of His little ones should have its reward. To have supported those weary feet, if ever so little, in the way, to have encouraged the faint heart or brightened the hope of this humble child, was no unworthy work in the view of one whose supreme desire it was to glorify Him who came from heaven to earth to speak of hope to the poor and lowly. Nor was this all. He was learning, from the new and sweet experiences which the child was so unconsciously revealing to him, a lesson of patient trustfulness, of humble dependence, which a whole library of learned books might have failed to teach him.The shadows were growing long before they rose to go.“You’ll be very tired to-morrow, I’m afraid,” said John, as they went slowly down the broad, steep way that leads from the cemetery. “I’m afraid your holiday will do you little good.”“It has done me good already. I’m not afraid,” said Christie, cheerfully. “Only I’m sure I shall think of twenty things I want to ask you about when you are fairly gone.”“Well, the best way will be to collect your wits and ask about them now,” said John, laughing.And so she did. Matters of which her sister’s letters and chance callers had only given her hints were recalled, and discussed with a zest that greatly shortened the way. They were not very important matters, except as they were connected with home life and home friends; but if their way had been twice as long, the interest would not have failed.“But, John,” said Christie, at last, “what was it that Davie McIntyre was telling me about Mr Portman’s failure? Is it really true? and has he left his wife and little children and gone—nobody knows where?”“Yes, it is too true,” John said, and added many painful particulars, which he never would have given if he had had his wits about him. Christie’s next question recalled them, with a shock which was not altogether pleasant.“Was it not Mr Portman who had Aunt Elsie’s money? Then she has lost it, I suppose?”“Yes, it’s too true,” said John, with an uncomfortable conviction that Effie would far rather her little sister had not heard of it yet. He did not say so, however, and there was a long silence.“I wonder what Effie will do?” said Christie, at last.“Now, Christie, my woman,” said John, rather more hastily than was his habit, “you are not going to vex yourself about this matter. You know, if anybody can manage matters well, your sister Effie can; and she has a great many friends to stand between her and serious trouble. And I don’t believe she intended that you should know anything about this—at any rate, until you were safe at home.”Christie was sure of that. There was no one like Effie. John could tell her nothing new about her goodness. But if it had been needful that they should be separated before, it was still more necessary now that she should be doing her part; and she intimated as much to John.“But you must mind that Effie was never clear about your leaving home. If she had had her way, you never would have left.”“I am very glad I came,” was all that Christie replied, but in a little while she added, “John, I think, on the whole, you may as well take all the things home with you, if you can. The sooner they get them the better; and something may happen to hinder me.”“Christie,” said John, gravely, “Effie has set her heart on your coming home this summer. It would grieve her sorely to be disappointed. You are not going to disappoint her?”“I don’t know,” said Christie, slowly. “I’m sure Effie would rather I should do what is right than what is pleasant.”“But you are not well, Christie. You are not strong enough to live as you have been living—at least, without a rest. It would grieve Effie to see how pale and thin you are.”“I am not very strong, I know, but I shall have an easier time now; and if Mrs Lee should take the children to the country or the sea-side, I should be better. I am sure I wish to do what is right. It is not that I don’t wish to go home.”Christie’s voice suddenly failed her.“It seems like a punishment to me,” she added, “a judgment, almost. You don’t know—Effie dinna ken even—how many wrong feelings I had about coming away. I thought nothing could be so bad as to have to depend on Aunt Elsie, and now—” Something very like a sob stopped her utterance.“Whisht, Christie!” said John. “God does not send trouble on His people merely to punish; it is to do them good. You must take a more comforting view of this trouble. I am afraid the pleasure of the day is spoiled.”“No! oh, no!” said Christie eagerly. “Nobody could do that. There are some pleasures that canna be spoiled. And besides, I am not going to vex myself. It will all come right in the end, I am quite sure. Only just at first—”“Thou shalt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee, because he trusteth in Thee,” whispered John.“I know it;” and that was all she could say.
And now a sad silence fell on the household. The children were not to be brought home for some time, the doctor said; and their mother was not able to go to them; so Christie was left to the almost unbroken quiet of her forsaken nursery. She needed rest more than she was aware, and sank into a state of passive indifference to all things which would have alarmed herself had not her kind friend, Mrs Greenly, been there to insist that she should be relieved of care till her over-tasked strength should be in some measure restored. In those very quiet hours, thoughts of home came to her only as a vague and shadowy remembrance. The events of the winter, and even the more recent sufferings of the last month, seemed like a dream to her. Dearly as she had loved her little charges, she was hardly conscious of regret at their loss. It seemed like something that had happened long ago—their long suffering and departure. The very promises which had of late become so sweet to her, soothed her merely as a pleasant sound might do. She scarcely took note of their meaning or power during those days.
But this soon passed away, and with returning strength came back with double force the old longing to go home. She had sent a line to Effie when little Harry was taken ill, telling her how utterly impossible it would be for her to leave her place. Since then, about the time of the baby’s death, a neighbour had called, and by him she had sent the same message, assuring her sister that she was quite content to stay. But her old eagerness to get home came back, now that she found herself with little to occupy her, and she waited anxiously for the time when Mrs Lee might be spoken to on the subject.
In the meantime, Mrs Greenly was called away, and the duty of attendance upon Mrs Lee once more devolved on Christie. If anything could have banished from her heart all thought of home or all wish for change, the days that followed would have done so. Not an hour passed in which she was not made to feel that she was a comfort to her friend—forfriends, in the highest sense, the mistress and her little maid were fast becoming. The readings and conversations which had been begun during their long watches together were renewed; and blessed seasons they proved to both. Christie never knew—never could know on earth—all the good she did Mrs Lee in those days. She was only conscious of an ever-increasing love for her and an ever-increasing desire to serve her.
If in the first agony of her bereavement there had been in the mother’s heart murmuring and rebellious thoughts, they were all stilled now. With more than the submission of a chastened child—with joy that had in it a sense of reconciliation and acceptance—she was enabled to kiss the Hand that had smitten her. She seldom spoke of her children; but when she did, it was with gratitude that they had been hers, and were still hers, in heaven. Seen by the new light that was dawning on her soul, the world, its hopes and fears and interests, looked to her very different. Humble submission and cheerful trust took the place of her old, anxious forebodings. Scripture truths, which formerly conveyed no distinct idea to her mind, came home to her now with power. They were living truths, full of hope and comfort. The promises were to her a place of rest and refuge—a strong tower, into which she could run and be safe. By slow degrees the light of the glorious Gospel of Jesus Christ dawned upon her soul; and to one fearful and doubtful of the future, as she had been, what blessed rest and refreshment was in the trust, that gradually grew strong, in the embrace of an Arm mighty to save! To know herself one of those to whom Jesus has given a right to say, “I will fear no evil, forThouart with me,” was all that she needed for her consolation; and during those days the blessed knowledge came to her.
What part the simple words and earnest prayers of her little nurse had in bringing about this blessed change, God knows. The girl herself had little thought of the good which her entrance into the household had wrought. It might have helped her to a more patient waiting had she known how often her name was mingled with the thankful praises of Mrs Lee. She was not impatient, but a longing for home that would not be stilled mingled with the gladness that filled her heart at the thought of being useful.
Summer had come. June was half over, and the only glimpse of green she had had was the top of the mountain, far-away. Now and then Nelly brought home from the market a bunch of garden-flowers. But the sight of them only made her long the more for the fields where so many flowers that she knew had blossomed and faded unseen. More than once, when sent out by Mrs Lee to take the air, she had tried to extend her walk in one direction or another, till she should reach the country. But partly because she did not know the way, and partly because she grew so soon weary, she never succeeded. She had to content herself with the nearest street where there were trees growing, and now and then a peep through open gateways upon little dusty strips of grass or garden-ground.
Oh, how close and hot and like a prison the long, narrow streets seemed to her! How weary the street-noises made her! It was foolish, she knew, and so she told herself often, to vex herself with idle fancies. But sometimes there came back to her, with a vividness which for the moment was like reality, the memory of familiar sights and sounds. Sometimes it was the wind waving the trees, or the ripple of the brook over the stepping-stones; sometimes it was the bleating of the young lambs in the pastures far-away. She caught glimpses of familiar faces in the crowd, as she used to do in the home-sick days when she first came; and she could not always smile at her folly. Sometimes her disappointment would send her home sad and dispirited enough. Almost always the smile that met her as she entered Mrs Lee’s room brought back her content; but often it needed a greater effort to be cheerful than an on-looker could have guessed. Still, the effort was always made, and never without some measure of success.
One morning she rose more depressed than usual. A quiet half-hour with her little Bible was not sufficient to raise her spirits, though she told herself it ought to be; and she said to herself, as she went down-stairs, “I will speak to-day about going home.”
Mrs Lee was able to go down-stairs now. On this particular day a friend was to visit her, and Christie determined to say nothing about the matter till the visitor should be gone. But the prospect of a long day in the solitary nursery did not tend to brighten her face, and it was sadly enough that she went slowly down the street on an errand for Nelly when breakfast was over.
She did not look up to-day in her usual vain search for a “kenned face,” or she would never have passed by the corner so unheedingly. A pair of kind eyes, for the moment as grave and sad as her own, watched her as she came on, and after she passed. In a little while a very gentle hand was laid on her shoulder.
“What’s your haste, Christie, my lassie?”
With a cry she turned to clasp the hand of John Nesbitt. Poor little Christie! She was so glad, so very glad! It was almost like seeing Effie herself, she told him, amid a great burst of tears that startled the grave John considerably. For a moment her sobs came fast. The open streets and the wondering passers-by were quite forgotten.
“Whisht, Christie, my woman,” said John, soothingly, “that’s no’ the way we show our gladness in Glengarry.”
Drawing her hand under his arm, he held it firmly in his own. Christie made a great effort to control herself, and the face which she soon turned towards her friend had grown wonderfully brighter for the tears that fell.
“Effie bade me notice how you looked and what you said; and I’m afraid she’ll no’ be pleased to hear that I got such a tearful welcome,” said John, with his grave smile.
“Oh, Effie will understand. Why, it’s almost like seeing Effie herself to see you, John!” she repeated, giving him a tearful smile. She felt sure it was a true friend’s hand that pressed hers so warmly as she spoke.
“But where are you going, Christie?” asked John.
“Oh, I forgot; we are past the place.” But her face grew grave in a moment. “When did you come, John? and how long are you going to stay?”
“I came yesterday, and I shall stay no longer than I can help. I have had enough of this dusty town for once. I wonder how you ever stayed so long in it, Christie.”
“I wonder myself, whiles,” she said gravely; “but it won’t be long now.”
“Are they better at your house? Will they spare you to go home with me?”
“There is no one ill now. Did you hear—” But Christie’s voice was lost in the remembrance of little Harry and the baby.
“Yes, we heard. You must have had a sad time, poor lassie! But the remembrance of these precious little ones cannot be altogether sorrowful, Christie?”
“No; oh, no, indeed!” But she could say no more. As they drew near the house, she added:
“And shan’t I see you again, John?”
“Ay, lass, that you will. I’m by no means done with you yet. Are you busy to-day? because I would like your help. I promised to get some things for my mother, and I’m not good at choosing. Will you come with me? Do you think you can be spared?”
“I don’t know. I should like it. I can ask.”
In a minute she returned, with a face made radiant by Mrs Lee’s cheerful consent to spare her for as much of the day as she pleased; and it was arranged that John should call for her in half an hour.
If anything could have marred the delight with which her preparations were made, the sight of her faded bonnet and shawl might have done so. The rain and the snow had wet them, the sun had done its work on them, and the wind had taken liberties with them, many a time. And besides, they seemed too hot and heavy for such a summer day, even if they had not been shabby and grey. For Christie had had other things to think about of late than the getting of summer garments. Just for a minute a wish that they had been newer and fresher-looking, for John’s sake, came to her mind. It was only for a moment that she thought about it at all.
“For John cares little for such things,” she said to herself; “and there’s no matter for the shop-people and the rest.”
She was right. Looking into the brightened face that met him at the door, John failed to discover that the bonnet above it was dingy and brown. And if the rustiness of the little shepherd’s-plaid shawl that covered her shoulders marred in any degree the pleasure with which he drew her hand beneath his friendly arm, he gave no token that it did so. Christie gave a little sigh of satisfaction as she found herself out on the street once more.
“I have got so many things to ask about,” she said; “but I suppose I may as well wait till we have done with the shops. If I once begin, I’m afraid I shan’t be able to attend to anything else.”
The purchases were soon made. Indeed, Mrs Nesbitt’s commissions had not been very extensive. Christie had more to do on her own account. But she had planned so many times just what she was to get for each one at home, that it did not take her long to choose. Besides, her purse was not one of the fullest. Still, the little she had to do involved a good deal of running here and there; and her parcels increased in number and size to such an extent, that Christie at last said, laughing, she would have to forego the pleasure of taking them home herself, as her box would never hold half of them; John would need to try to find room for them in his.
“And are you not afraid they may call you extravagant at home, getting so many braw things?”
Christie laughed.
“I’m no’ sure. But then—unless it’s Aunt Elsie’s gown—there’s nothing dear. They are just prints; the frocks and the other things are all useful, except perhaps the playthings for the bairns; and they are useful too, for things that give pleasure have a use, I am sure.”
“It canna be doubted,” said her friend, laughing.
Christie’s face grew a little grave, after a rather lengthened examination of the pieces left in her purse.
“There is just one other thing; but I fear I ought not to have left it to the last. It’s for blind Alice. I have thought about it so long. It’s not very far, we might ask the price of it, anyway.”
It was true, the place was not very far; but it was a shop of greater pretensions than any they had entered yet. Christie had set her heart on a musical-box, which she knew would be a treasure to the blind child. But the cost! It was altogether beyond her means, even if she were to stay another month.
The disappointment was very great.
“Allie must have something that she can hear, you ken; and I had no thought that it would be so dear.”
“Why not send her a bird—a real canary?” said John, as they made a pause at a low window in a narrow street, where a great variety of cages were hanging.
“A bird?” repeated Christie. “I never thought of that. Are they very dear?”
“We can ask,” said John; and as Christie stood admiring the gay plumage of some strange bird, he put the question to the person in waiting. Christie did not hear his answer. John did not mean that she should.
“Could you spare two dollars, Christie?” said he.
“Two dollars!” she repeated. It was the wages of half a month.
“I have cheaper ones,” said the man, “but he is the best singer I have had for a long time. Or maybe you would like a pair?”
“A pair!” thought Christie to herself. If she could manage to get one she would be content! As if to verify the words of his owner, the bird, after hopping quickly from perch to perch, poured forth such a flood of melody as Christie had never heard from a bird’s throat before.
“Oh, how sweet!” exclaimed she. “To think of little Allie having music like that all the winter long! But how can you carry it, John?”
Oh, John could carry it easily—no fear; and touched by Christie’s eager delight, or by some more powerful cause, the man let the cage go with the bird.
So that was settled.
“We’re done now, I suppose,” said Christie, with a sigh, as they passed along the shady side of the street. The excitement of pleasure was passing out of her face; and more than ever before, since the first glimpse he got of it, did John Nesbitt realise what a pale, weary little face it was.
“I wish you were going home with me, Christie!”
“I wish I was, indeed! I wish I had spoken to Mrs Lee before! But I couldna leave her, John, till she got some one else, she is so delicate now. Sometimes I think I never could get courage to leave her at all, if she were to ask me to stay.”
“Ay, lass; but there’s more to be said about that. They’ll think at home that you’re forgetting them, if I tell them what you say.”
Christie laughed.
“I’m not afraid. I don’t think it would be right to leave her now; and seeing you has given me courage for another month at least. You can tell Effie that.”
“I shall have two or three things to tell her besides that,” said John, looking down on her with the grave smile which she liked so much to see. “I shall be sorry to tell her how pale and ill you look,” he added, his face growing grave as he looked.
“Oh, that’s only because I am tired just now; and besides, I was always ‘a pale-faced thing,’ as Aunt Elsie used to say. You are not to vex Effie by making her think that I am not well,” she said, eagerly. “I have not been used to walking far, lately, and I get tired very soon.”
They were entering the large square at the moment, and John said:
“Can we go in there among the trees? I see seats there. Let us sit down and rest a while.”
“Oh, yes! I have been here before. Nothing reminds me so much of home as the flickering of these shadows—not even the leaves themselves. And how sweet the flowers are! Do you ken, John, I didna see the leaves this year till they were full-grown? I can hardly believe that the spring has come and gone again.”
John Nesbitt was looking and listening, and all the time he was considering something very earnestly. He had not many dollars at his disposal, and the few he had he was not inclined to part with but for value received. He was saying to himself, at the moment, that if it should be decided that he was qualified for the work to which he had set himself apart, he should need them all, and more too, before his course of study should be finished. He had a vision, too, of a set of goodly volumes, bound in calf, on which his heart had been set a year or more. Untouched in his pocket-book lay the sum he had long ago set apart for their purchase; and there was very little in it besides.
“There must be a limit to the pleasure a man gives himself. I can only choose between them,” said the prudent John to himself. To Christie he said: “Have you ever been round the mountain? Would you like to go to-day?”
“Never but once—in the winter-time; but I should like to go, dearly.” And the eager, wistful look in the eyes that through all the pleasant spring-time had seen no budding thing, won the day.
“Well, I have never been round it either. So let us take one of these carriages that seem so plenty here, and go together. It is well worth the trouble, I have heard.”
Christie’s first look was one of unmixed delight, but soon it changed into one a little doubtful. She did not like to speak her thoughts; but in a little while she said, half smiling:
“Are you no’ afraid that they may think you extravagant at home?”
“Indeed, no! At least, I’m sure Effie wouldna, if she saw your face at this moment. It was well we had all those things sent home. Come.” And like a foolish fellow, he determined not to make a bargain for the carriage while the prudent little Christie was within hearing, and so had, I dare say, double to pay when he dismissed it. But the pleasure was not spoiled, for all that.
“How pleasant it is!” said Christie, as the absence of street-noises and the fresher breeze upon her cheek told her that they were leaving the city behind them. Her short-sighted eyes could not take in the view that charmed John so much. But she did not know how it could be more pleasant than the fresh air and the gentle motion of the carriage made it to her; and so she said, when at last she started up and looked about her:
“Is not this the way to the cemetery? Oh, let us go there a little while.”
And so they did. The carriage was dismissed. They were to stay a long time—as long as they liked; and then they could walk home, or perhaps they might get the chance of a returning carriage. At any rate, they would not be hurried.
How lovely the place looked to Christie’s unaccustomed eyes! They were not alone. There were groups here and there among the graves—some of them mourners, as their dress showed, others enjoying the loveliness of the place, untroubled by any painful remembrance of the loved and lost. Slowly they wandered up and down, making long pauses in shady places, lingering over the graves of little children which loving hands had adorned. Christie wandered over the little nameless graves, longing to find where her dear ones lay.
“How beautiful it is! It is a very sweet resting-place,” she said to herself, many times.
Yes, it was a very lovely spot. A strange feeling of awe stole over Christie’s spirit as she gazed around on the silent city. As far as the eye could reach it extended. Among the trees and on the sunny hill-sides rose many a stately monument of granite and marble, with, oh, so many a nameless grave between! Close at their feet lay a large unenclosed space, where the graves lay close together, in long, irregular lines—men and women and little children—with not a mark to tell who slumbered beneath. It was probably the burial-place of strangers, or of those who died in the hospitals. To Christie it had a very dreary and forsaken look. She shuddered as she gazed on the place.
“A friend’s grave could never be found among so many,” said she. “See! there are a few with a bit of board, and a name written on it; but most of them have no mark. I would far rather be laid in our own kirk-yard at home—though that is a dreary place, too, when the sun doesna shine.”
They moved on together; and in a place which was half in the sunshine and half in the shade, they sat down. In a little while the pleasant influence of the scene chased the dreariness from Christie’s thoughts, and she looked about with eyes that did not seem able to satisfy themselves with its beauty.
“How lovely it is here!” she repeated. “How green and fresh everything is! The very grass seems beautiful!” And she caressed with her hand the smooth turf on which they were seated.
“It’s a wonder to me how people can choose to live in the midst of a town, with nothing to see that’s bonny but a strip of blue sky now and then.”
“It’s a wonder to me,” said John, smiling.
“Oh, but I mean people that may live wherever they choose. There are people that like the town best. Where it is right to stay, I suppose one can be content in time. I think if I hadna home and the rest to think about and wish for, I might be willing to live here always. But at first—oh, I thought I could never,neverstay! But I am not sorry I came. I shall never be sorry for that.”
There was something in her earnest manner, and in the happy look that came over her face as she spoke, that arrested the attention of John; and he said:
“You have been happy here, then, upon the whole?”
“Yes; upon the whole,” repeated she, thoughtfully; “but it wasna that I was thinking about.”
“Christie, do you know I think you have changed very much since you used to come and see my mother? You have changed; and yet you are the very same: there’s a paradox for you, as Peter O’Neil would say.”
His words were light, but there was a meaning in his grave smile that made Christie’s heart leap; and her answer was at first a startled look, and then a sudden gush of happy tears. Then came good John Nesbitt’s voice entreating a blessing on “his little sister in Christ”; and this made them flow the faster. But, oh, they were such happy, happy tears! and very happy was the hour that followed.
Now and then there comes an hour, in the intercourse of friends with each other, which reveals to each more of the inner and spiritual life of the other than years of common intercourse could do; and this was such an hour. I cannot tell all that was said. The words might seem to many a reader tame and common-place enough, but many of them Christie never forgot while she lived, and many of them John Nesbitt will not cease to remember to his dying day.
Christie had no thought of showing him all that was in her heart. She did not think that the friend who was listening so quietly to all the little details of her life among strangers—her home-sickness, her fears and weariness, her love and care for the children and their mother—was all the time thanking God in his heart for all the way by which this little lamb had been led to take refuge in the fold. She knew by the words he spoke, before he rose to go, that he was much-moved. They came back to her many a time afterwards, brightening the sad days, and comforting her when she was in sorrow. They helped her to the cheerful bearing of a disappointment near at hand.
As for John, he was far from thinking the day lost that he had devoted to the pleasure of Christie. If in the morning the hope of possessing at once the much-desired books had been given up with a sigh, it was the sigh, and not the sacrifice, that was regretted now. With a sense of refreshment unspeakable there came to his remembrance the Saviour’s promise that the giving of a cup of cold water to one of His little ones should have its reward. To have supported those weary feet, if ever so little, in the way, to have encouraged the faint heart or brightened the hope of this humble child, was no unworthy work in the view of one whose supreme desire it was to glorify Him who came from heaven to earth to speak of hope to the poor and lowly. Nor was this all. He was learning, from the new and sweet experiences which the child was so unconsciously revealing to him, a lesson of patient trustfulness, of humble dependence, which a whole library of learned books might have failed to teach him.
The shadows were growing long before they rose to go.
“You’ll be very tired to-morrow, I’m afraid,” said John, as they went slowly down the broad, steep way that leads from the cemetery. “I’m afraid your holiday will do you little good.”
“It has done me good already. I’m not afraid,” said Christie, cheerfully. “Only I’m sure I shall think of twenty things I want to ask you about when you are fairly gone.”
“Well, the best way will be to collect your wits and ask about them now,” said John, laughing.
And so she did. Matters of which her sister’s letters and chance callers had only given her hints were recalled, and discussed with a zest that greatly shortened the way. They were not very important matters, except as they were connected with home life and home friends; but if their way had been twice as long, the interest would not have failed.
“But, John,” said Christie, at last, “what was it that Davie McIntyre was telling me about Mr Portman’s failure? Is it really true? and has he left his wife and little children and gone—nobody knows where?”
“Yes, it is too true,” John said, and added many painful particulars, which he never would have given if he had had his wits about him. Christie’s next question recalled them, with a shock which was not altogether pleasant.
“Was it not Mr Portman who had Aunt Elsie’s money? Then she has lost it, I suppose?”
“Yes, it’s too true,” said John, with an uncomfortable conviction that Effie would far rather her little sister had not heard of it yet. He did not say so, however, and there was a long silence.
“I wonder what Effie will do?” said Christie, at last.
“Now, Christie, my woman,” said John, rather more hastily than was his habit, “you are not going to vex yourself about this matter. You know, if anybody can manage matters well, your sister Effie can; and she has a great many friends to stand between her and serious trouble. And I don’t believe she intended that you should know anything about this—at any rate, until you were safe at home.”
Christie was sure of that. There was no one like Effie. John could tell her nothing new about her goodness. But if it had been needful that they should be separated before, it was still more necessary now that she should be doing her part; and she intimated as much to John.
“But you must mind that Effie was never clear about your leaving home. If she had had her way, you never would have left.”
“I am very glad I came,” was all that Christie replied, but in a little while she added, “John, I think, on the whole, you may as well take all the things home with you, if you can. The sooner they get them the better; and something may happen to hinder me.”
“Christie,” said John, gravely, “Effie has set her heart on your coming home this summer. It would grieve her sorely to be disappointed. You are not going to disappoint her?”
“I don’t know,” said Christie, slowly. “I’m sure Effie would rather I should do what is right than what is pleasant.”
“But you are not well, Christie. You are not strong enough to live as you have been living—at least, without a rest. It would grieve Effie to see how pale and thin you are.”
“I am not very strong, I know, but I shall have an easier time now; and if Mrs Lee should take the children to the country or the sea-side, I should be better. I am sure I wish to do what is right. It is not that I don’t wish to go home.”
Christie’s voice suddenly failed her.
“It seems like a punishment to me,” she added, “a judgment, almost. You don’t know—Effie dinna ken even—how many wrong feelings I had about coming away. I thought nothing could be so bad as to have to depend on Aunt Elsie, and now—” Something very like a sob stopped her utterance.
“Whisht, Christie!” said John. “God does not send trouble on His people merely to punish; it is to do them good. You must take a more comforting view of this trouble. I am afraid the pleasure of the day is spoiled.”
“No! oh, no!” said Christie eagerly. “Nobody could do that. There are some pleasures that canna be spoiled. And besides, I am not going to vex myself. It will all come right in the end, I am quite sure. Only just at first—”
“Thou shalt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee, because he trusteth in Thee,” whispered John.
“I know it;” and that was all she could say.
Chapter Twelve.Sisters in Christ.Christie found, on reaching home, that Mr Lee had returned, and when John called in the morning she was able to tell him it was decided that the family should go to the sea-side for a month.“And considering all things, John, I am glad that Mrs Lee wants me to go too. I shall have time for a long visit at home when I come back again, before summer is over. The sea air will make me strong. You know we lived near the sea at home. And I should like to take a pair of red cheeks home to Glengarry.”John was not altogether satisfied with her cheerful words; but there seemed nothing better for any of them but to make the best of it.“It might be far worse for you, my lassie,” he said, cheerfully. “I would have liked to take you home with me to Glengarry, for your sake and theirs. But if you’ll promise not to let the look come back that I saw first in your face, I’ll leave you with a good heart, and tell no sad tales to Effie and the rest.”It was all that she could do, even now, to keep a bright face, but she did; and John went away, taking with him the remembrance of it at its very brightest.The next few days were too busy to give time for regretful thoughts. The children came home, and there was the making of their dresses, and all the necessary preparations for a journey and a lengthened absence from home.Christie had only time for a hurried letter to Effie, telling her of their plans. She wrote quite cheerfully. She was not strong, and the runnings to and fro of the day often made her too weary to sleep at night. But she was useful, she knew, and Mrs Lee’s gentle kindness proved that she appreciated her efforts to do her duty, and that helped to make her work pleasant and easy. And there was, besides, an excitement in the prospect of a change of scene. Looking forward to a sight of the sea, to feeling the sea-breeze again, to getting away from the heat and dust and confinement of the city, was enough to help her through the day’s toils and troubles. And so she felt and wrote cheerfully, notwithstanding the disappointment that had been so hard to bear.But a disappointment which she was to feel still more bitterly awaited her. The preparations for departure were nearly-completed. Mrs Lee had so far recovered as to be able to go out, and they looked forward to leaving within a day or two.One afternoon, while Mrs Lee was superintending the packing that was going on in the nursery, her husband came in. Christie had hardly seen him since little Harry died. He looked grave enough as he came in. He did not speak to her, but in a little while she heard him mention her name, and her heart stood still, as she heard him say:“You don’t mean to tell me that you are to have no one to take care of the children and wait on you while you are away, but that child? Why, she looks as though she needed to be taken care of herself. I can never think of permitting such a thing.”Christie felt, rather than saw, the look of entreaty that passed over Mrs Lee’s face as she laid her hand upon her husband’s arm. Meeting Christie’s startled gaze, she said:“Go down and ask Nelly if the clean things are ready for this other trunk. I will ring when I want you.”Very quietly Christie obeyed; but before she closed the door, she heard Mr Lee say, in his quick, careless manner:“It is quite absurd to think of it! A rush of a girl like that!”Christie’s heart failed. She knew that Mrs Lee seldom found courage to differ from her husband in any point where yielding was possible, and she felt that there was little hope that she would do so now.She was mistaken, however. Mrs Lee spoke very earnestly to her husband. She told him of all that Christie had been to her and the children through all the long, dreary winter and spring. She told him of the faithful, loving service that had never flagged through weakness and weariness. She assured him of the perfect confidence she placed in her, saying she could not name one, even among her friends, to whom she would so willingly leave the children in case of illness or absence from them. She spoke with tears of little Harry’s love for her, and of Christie’s untiring devotion to him through all his long illness, till her voice lost itself in sobs of sorrow at the memories thus awakened.Mr Lee did not listen unmoved. All unconsciously, his wife was giving him a glimpse of her own sad experiences during the last few months. Careless as he had grown, he could not listen without a pang, which was half sorrow and half shame.“My poor Letty!” he said, gently; “you have had a sad time. You have indeed suffered much.”“Yes,” she said, tearfully; “it has been a sorrowful time. But it is over now. I would not have my loved ones back again even if I could. I am glad for their sakes. Nothing can harm them where they are; and I shall see them again.”There was a long pause. Then Mr Lee returned to the subject:“But about your nurse. She really is a very sickly-looking girl. She seems to me like one far gone in a decline. I am very sorry, as you have found her so useful. But I cannot consent that you should go with no more efficient help.”“But I don’t think she is ill,” said Mrs Lee, doubtfully. “She never complains. She was always delicate-looking. I remember when she first came, I quite hesitated about engaging her, she looked such a fragile little creature. But no one would have thought her otherwise than strong, and efficient too, who saw her through all our troubles.”“Well, to me she looks frightfully ill just now,” said Mr Lee. “You must at least speak to the doctor about her.”“She is tired now,” replied Mrs Lee. “She has worn herself out—first with me when I was ill and then with the children. A month at the sea-side will quite revive her.”Mr Lee was not convinced.“I feel that I ought to take her. She has wearied herself for us—injured her health, perhaps. I ought to take her, even if we take another servant.”Mr Lee alluded to the additional expense.“Besides,” he added, “it is doubtful when we may return. We may not return here at all. We may see England before we see this place again. It would never do for you to take the responsibility of such a girl as that—to say nothing of taking her so far from her home and friends.”Mrs Lee sighed. She had become accustomed during her married life to frequent and sudden changes. She had learned not to be surprised at them now. Her sigh was for the little graves she must leave behind her, perhaps never more to look on them again. And Christie! Would it be right, in view of these possibilities, to take her away? Knowing them, would she be willing to go? Yes; she felt sure that Christie would not leave them willingly. But she must not think of herself in this matter; she must consider what was best for the poor girl. Would Christie’s friends, would that sister she loved so well, consent to let her go away, uncertain where she was to go or when she was to return? No; even if Christie herself was willing, she must not think of taking her away.Yet who was to supply her place? Oh, how wearily she sighed! how she shrank from this new trial! She knew that to her husband this would seem a very little thing indeed; and she kept her sad thoughts to herself, as she had done many a time before.“I don’t know how I can tell her,” she said. “It seems so unkind to change our plans at this late hour. She will be disappointed, I am sure.”“Oh, I will tell her, if that will do,” said her husband. “I dare say she will be sorry to part from the children and you. You have been very kind to her, I am quite sure. You must make her some little present—a frock, or something; and I’ll tell her our plans.”“How little you can know about it!” sighed Mrs Lee.But the matter was considered settled. Nothing more was said about it till the following day, when Mr Lee told his wife he had engaged a woman to go with them—a very suitable person, highly recommended to him by one of his friends.In the meantime, Christie, having heard no more of the matter, let the remark which had so startled her quite pass out of her mind; and she was in no way prepared for the announcement which Mr Lee made on the second morning, of the change in their arrangements. She was grieved and hurt; so grieved that she could hardly restrain her tears, so hurt that she had the power to do so, and to answer, quietly, “Very well, sir.”She finished what she was doing in the room and then went out, without another word and without looking towards Mrs Lee.“You see, she takes it very quietly,” said Mr Lee. “Be sure and make her some little present, as I said before, and it will be all right.”Mrs Lee sighed.“It is I who have the most cause for regret,” she said, sadly; “but it is vain to speak of it. You could never,neverknow.”Christie went about the house all day very quietly, but no less busily than usual. Her thoughts were by no means pleasant, however.“It was my vanity that made me think I was of use to her and that she cared for me,” she said to herself, bitterly. “And now I must go home, when I was growing content to stay. If I had only taken John’s advice, and gone with him! Well, I suppose I was too full of my own plans, and this is the way I am to be taught wisdom and humility. I will try to be content. But it will not be very easy, I am afraid.”Mrs Lee was out a good deal during the day, so that she scarcely saw her till the children had gone to bed. Then she came into the nursery to make some last arrangement of little garments; and in spite of herself, Christie trembled to find herself left alone with her.“Imustspeak to her,” she said. “Oh, if I only need not! If I could just say good-bye, and nothing more!”Mrs Lee sat lost in thought, not seeming to heed her, and Christie stitched away as though there were nothing in the world more important than that little Ned’s buttons should be sewed on firmly. They were finished at last, and the little garment laid with the rest. Instead of coming to her seat again, she stood a little behind Mrs Lee, and said, in a low voice:“Is it to-morrow, ma’am?”“Yes; we leave to-morrow, early in the day,” said Mrs Lee.By a great effort, Christie said, hurriedly:“About my things, ma’am—my frock and hat? I am afraid I have not enough to pay for them and take me home.”She had not time to say more. Suddenly turning, Mrs Lee laid her hand on her arm.“Hush, Christie! It is not a matter of wages between you and me to-night. Money could not pay what I owe to you. We’ll speak of that by and by. Sit down, now, my poor, weary child.”She placed herself on a low stool at a little distance, and let her head fall on her hand.“Are you thinking to go home?” asked Mrs Lee.“I don’t know. I suppose so. I have nowhere else to go.” Christie’s voice was husky, but she was able to command it.“And did you think I would leave you with nowhere to go?” asked Mrs Lee, gravely. “But would it not be best to go? You are not strong, Christie.”“Perhaps it would be better to go, but I wish I could get a place for a little while.” And Christie told her of the new misfortune that had befallen them, in the loss of her aunt’s income.Mrs Lee sighed, and after a pause, said:“I was at Mrs Seaton’s to-day, near the mountain. There is illness in the family, and a young infant. More help is required in the nursery. You remember the twins, the pretty boys we used to see in the carriage. One of them is ill—never to be better, I fear. The other you will have the care of for the present. They are quite in the country. I think it will be good for you to be there. I think you will like it too.”Christie thanked her as well as she was able.“It seems unkind to you that we should change our plans at so late an hour. I should have considered sooner. But I thought more of my children, and of having you still with them, than I did of what would be best for you.”Christie tried to say how glad she would be to go even now. Mrs Lee shook her head.“You are not strong, and you are very young. It would be wrong to take you I know not where. It may be a long time before we return here. We may never return.” She was silent for a moment, and then continued:“Yes, it would be wrong to take you so far from your home to share our uncertain fortunes. If you were but as strong as you are faithful and patient! But it cannot be.”Christie ceased to struggle with her tears now, but they fell very quietly.“As for wages,” said Mrs Lee, lifting the lid of Christie’s work-box and dropping in it a little purse, “money could never cancel the debt I owe you. I am content to owe it, Christie. I know you will not grudge your loving service to my darlings.“And I owe you more than that,” she added, after a pause. “Christie, when the time comes when all these chafings and changes shall be over, when seeing the reason of them we shall bless God for them, we shall be friends then, I humbly hope. And you must tell your sister—no, you could never tell her. I wish I had seen your friend, John Nesbitt, when he was here; but I will write. And Christie, my brave girl, look up. See what I have for you.”Something glistened in the light, and Christie received into her hand a locket, hung by a black ribbon. Upon being opened, there was a face—a lovely child’s face—“little Harry!”Yes, it was little Harry’s face, copied from a miniature taken about the time when she first saw him. On the other side, encircled by a ring of the baby’s golden hair, was written, in fair characters, by the mother’s hand:“To Christie. From the children.”“And now, Christie,” said Mrs Lee, when the tears that would come at the sight of the picture had been wiped away, “our good-bye to-morrow must be a brief and quiet one. To-night I must say, ‘God bless you.’ Don’t let the world spoil you as you grow older. You won’t, I know. You have a talisman against its power. May God make you a blessing to many, as He has made you a blessing to me! Good-bye, my dear child. If we never meet on earth, I humbly hope we may meet in heaven!”It was not like a parting between mistress and maid. Mrs Lee kissed her earnestly, while her tears fell on her face, and when Christie said “Good-bye,” she clung to her as she had not clung even to Effie. It was like the farewell of sisters who know that they must meet death before they look on each other’s faces again.Not one of the many grateful thoughts which filled Christie’s heart had she the power to utter. But they were not needed. After so many months of loving service—after so many nights of anxious watching, shared so gladly for the love she bore to her and her little ones—words could have been of little value.The “good-bye” in the morning was brief and quiet, as Mrs Lee had wished—so brief that not till the carriage that took them away had disappeared, did Christie realise that they were gone; and the walls of the deserted nursery echoed to many a bitter sob ere she bade farewell to the place where she had passed so many changeful hours.
Christie found, on reaching home, that Mr Lee had returned, and when John called in the morning she was able to tell him it was decided that the family should go to the sea-side for a month.
“And considering all things, John, I am glad that Mrs Lee wants me to go too. I shall have time for a long visit at home when I come back again, before summer is over. The sea air will make me strong. You know we lived near the sea at home. And I should like to take a pair of red cheeks home to Glengarry.”
John was not altogether satisfied with her cheerful words; but there seemed nothing better for any of them but to make the best of it.
“It might be far worse for you, my lassie,” he said, cheerfully. “I would have liked to take you home with me to Glengarry, for your sake and theirs. But if you’ll promise not to let the look come back that I saw first in your face, I’ll leave you with a good heart, and tell no sad tales to Effie and the rest.”
It was all that she could do, even now, to keep a bright face, but she did; and John went away, taking with him the remembrance of it at its very brightest.
The next few days were too busy to give time for regretful thoughts. The children came home, and there was the making of their dresses, and all the necessary preparations for a journey and a lengthened absence from home.
Christie had only time for a hurried letter to Effie, telling her of their plans. She wrote quite cheerfully. She was not strong, and the runnings to and fro of the day often made her too weary to sleep at night. But she was useful, she knew, and Mrs Lee’s gentle kindness proved that she appreciated her efforts to do her duty, and that helped to make her work pleasant and easy. And there was, besides, an excitement in the prospect of a change of scene. Looking forward to a sight of the sea, to feeling the sea-breeze again, to getting away from the heat and dust and confinement of the city, was enough to help her through the day’s toils and troubles. And so she felt and wrote cheerfully, notwithstanding the disappointment that had been so hard to bear.
But a disappointment which she was to feel still more bitterly awaited her. The preparations for departure were nearly-completed. Mrs Lee had so far recovered as to be able to go out, and they looked forward to leaving within a day or two.
One afternoon, while Mrs Lee was superintending the packing that was going on in the nursery, her husband came in. Christie had hardly seen him since little Harry died. He looked grave enough as he came in. He did not speak to her, but in a little while she heard him mention her name, and her heart stood still, as she heard him say:
“You don’t mean to tell me that you are to have no one to take care of the children and wait on you while you are away, but that child? Why, she looks as though she needed to be taken care of herself. I can never think of permitting such a thing.”
Christie felt, rather than saw, the look of entreaty that passed over Mrs Lee’s face as she laid her hand upon her husband’s arm. Meeting Christie’s startled gaze, she said:
“Go down and ask Nelly if the clean things are ready for this other trunk. I will ring when I want you.”
Very quietly Christie obeyed; but before she closed the door, she heard Mr Lee say, in his quick, careless manner:
“It is quite absurd to think of it! A rush of a girl like that!”
Christie’s heart failed. She knew that Mrs Lee seldom found courage to differ from her husband in any point where yielding was possible, and she felt that there was little hope that she would do so now.
She was mistaken, however. Mrs Lee spoke very earnestly to her husband. She told him of all that Christie had been to her and the children through all the long, dreary winter and spring. She told him of the faithful, loving service that had never flagged through weakness and weariness. She assured him of the perfect confidence she placed in her, saying she could not name one, even among her friends, to whom she would so willingly leave the children in case of illness or absence from them. She spoke with tears of little Harry’s love for her, and of Christie’s untiring devotion to him through all his long illness, till her voice lost itself in sobs of sorrow at the memories thus awakened.
Mr Lee did not listen unmoved. All unconsciously, his wife was giving him a glimpse of her own sad experiences during the last few months. Careless as he had grown, he could not listen without a pang, which was half sorrow and half shame.
“My poor Letty!” he said, gently; “you have had a sad time. You have indeed suffered much.”
“Yes,” she said, tearfully; “it has been a sorrowful time. But it is over now. I would not have my loved ones back again even if I could. I am glad for their sakes. Nothing can harm them where they are; and I shall see them again.”
There was a long pause. Then Mr Lee returned to the subject:
“But about your nurse. She really is a very sickly-looking girl. She seems to me like one far gone in a decline. I am very sorry, as you have found her so useful. But I cannot consent that you should go with no more efficient help.”
“But I don’t think she is ill,” said Mrs Lee, doubtfully. “She never complains. She was always delicate-looking. I remember when she first came, I quite hesitated about engaging her, she looked such a fragile little creature. But no one would have thought her otherwise than strong, and efficient too, who saw her through all our troubles.”
“Well, to me she looks frightfully ill just now,” said Mr Lee. “You must at least speak to the doctor about her.”
“She is tired now,” replied Mrs Lee. “She has worn herself out—first with me when I was ill and then with the children. A month at the sea-side will quite revive her.”
Mr Lee was not convinced.
“I feel that I ought to take her. She has wearied herself for us—injured her health, perhaps. I ought to take her, even if we take another servant.”
Mr Lee alluded to the additional expense.
“Besides,” he added, “it is doubtful when we may return. We may not return here at all. We may see England before we see this place again. It would never do for you to take the responsibility of such a girl as that—to say nothing of taking her so far from her home and friends.”
Mrs Lee sighed. She had become accustomed during her married life to frequent and sudden changes. She had learned not to be surprised at them now. Her sigh was for the little graves she must leave behind her, perhaps never more to look on them again. And Christie! Would it be right, in view of these possibilities, to take her away? Knowing them, would she be willing to go? Yes; she felt sure that Christie would not leave them willingly. But she must not think of herself in this matter; she must consider what was best for the poor girl. Would Christie’s friends, would that sister she loved so well, consent to let her go away, uncertain where she was to go or when she was to return? No; even if Christie herself was willing, she must not think of taking her away.
Yet who was to supply her place? Oh, how wearily she sighed! how she shrank from this new trial! She knew that to her husband this would seem a very little thing indeed; and she kept her sad thoughts to herself, as she had done many a time before.
“I don’t know how I can tell her,” she said. “It seems so unkind to change our plans at this late hour. She will be disappointed, I am sure.”
“Oh, I will tell her, if that will do,” said her husband. “I dare say she will be sorry to part from the children and you. You have been very kind to her, I am quite sure. You must make her some little present—a frock, or something; and I’ll tell her our plans.”
“How little you can know about it!” sighed Mrs Lee.
But the matter was considered settled. Nothing more was said about it till the following day, when Mr Lee told his wife he had engaged a woman to go with them—a very suitable person, highly recommended to him by one of his friends.
In the meantime, Christie, having heard no more of the matter, let the remark which had so startled her quite pass out of her mind; and she was in no way prepared for the announcement which Mr Lee made on the second morning, of the change in their arrangements. She was grieved and hurt; so grieved that she could hardly restrain her tears, so hurt that she had the power to do so, and to answer, quietly, “Very well, sir.”
She finished what she was doing in the room and then went out, without another word and without looking towards Mrs Lee.
“You see, she takes it very quietly,” said Mr Lee. “Be sure and make her some little present, as I said before, and it will be all right.”
Mrs Lee sighed.
“It is I who have the most cause for regret,” she said, sadly; “but it is vain to speak of it. You could never,neverknow.”
Christie went about the house all day very quietly, but no less busily than usual. Her thoughts were by no means pleasant, however.
“It was my vanity that made me think I was of use to her and that she cared for me,” she said to herself, bitterly. “And now I must go home, when I was growing content to stay. If I had only taken John’s advice, and gone with him! Well, I suppose I was too full of my own plans, and this is the way I am to be taught wisdom and humility. I will try to be content. But it will not be very easy, I am afraid.”
Mrs Lee was out a good deal during the day, so that she scarcely saw her till the children had gone to bed. Then she came into the nursery to make some last arrangement of little garments; and in spite of herself, Christie trembled to find herself left alone with her.
“Imustspeak to her,” she said. “Oh, if I only need not! If I could just say good-bye, and nothing more!”
Mrs Lee sat lost in thought, not seeming to heed her, and Christie stitched away as though there were nothing in the world more important than that little Ned’s buttons should be sewed on firmly. They were finished at last, and the little garment laid with the rest. Instead of coming to her seat again, she stood a little behind Mrs Lee, and said, in a low voice:
“Is it to-morrow, ma’am?”
“Yes; we leave to-morrow, early in the day,” said Mrs Lee.
By a great effort, Christie said, hurriedly:
“About my things, ma’am—my frock and hat? I am afraid I have not enough to pay for them and take me home.”
She had not time to say more. Suddenly turning, Mrs Lee laid her hand on her arm.
“Hush, Christie! It is not a matter of wages between you and me to-night. Money could not pay what I owe to you. We’ll speak of that by and by. Sit down, now, my poor, weary child.”
She placed herself on a low stool at a little distance, and let her head fall on her hand.
“Are you thinking to go home?” asked Mrs Lee.
“I don’t know. I suppose so. I have nowhere else to go.” Christie’s voice was husky, but she was able to command it.
“And did you think I would leave you with nowhere to go?” asked Mrs Lee, gravely. “But would it not be best to go? You are not strong, Christie.”
“Perhaps it would be better to go, but I wish I could get a place for a little while.” And Christie told her of the new misfortune that had befallen them, in the loss of her aunt’s income.
Mrs Lee sighed, and after a pause, said:
“I was at Mrs Seaton’s to-day, near the mountain. There is illness in the family, and a young infant. More help is required in the nursery. You remember the twins, the pretty boys we used to see in the carriage. One of them is ill—never to be better, I fear. The other you will have the care of for the present. They are quite in the country. I think it will be good for you to be there. I think you will like it too.”
Christie thanked her as well as she was able.
“It seems unkind to you that we should change our plans at so late an hour. I should have considered sooner. But I thought more of my children, and of having you still with them, than I did of what would be best for you.”
Christie tried to say how glad she would be to go even now. Mrs Lee shook her head.
“You are not strong, and you are very young. It would be wrong to take you I know not where. It may be a long time before we return here. We may never return.” She was silent for a moment, and then continued:
“Yes, it would be wrong to take you so far from your home to share our uncertain fortunes. If you were but as strong as you are faithful and patient! But it cannot be.”
Christie ceased to struggle with her tears now, but they fell very quietly.
“As for wages,” said Mrs Lee, lifting the lid of Christie’s work-box and dropping in it a little purse, “money could never cancel the debt I owe you. I am content to owe it, Christie. I know you will not grudge your loving service to my darlings.
“And I owe you more than that,” she added, after a pause. “Christie, when the time comes when all these chafings and changes shall be over, when seeing the reason of them we shall bless God for them, we shall be friends then, I humbly hope. And you must tell your sister—no, you could never tell her. I wish I had seen your friend, John Nesbitt, when he was here; but I will write. And Christie, my brave girl, look up. See what I have for you.”
Something glistened in the light, and Christie received into her hand a locket, hung by a black ribbon. Upon being opened, there was a face—a lovely child’s face—“little Harry!”
Yes, it was little Harry’s face, copied from a miniature taken about the time when she first saw him. On the other side, encircled by a ring of the baby’s golden hair, was written, in fair characters, by the mother’s hand:
“To Christie. From the children.”
“And now, Christie,” said Mrs Lee, when the tears that would come at the sight of the picture had been wiped away, “our good-bye to-morrow must be a brief and quiet one. To-night I must say, ‘God bless you.’ Don’t let the world spoil you as you grow older. You won’t, I know. You have a talisman against its power. May God make you a blessing to many, as He has made you a blessing to me! Good-bye, my dear child. If we never meet on earth, I humbly hope we may meet in heaven!”
It was not like a parting between mistress and maid. Mrs Lee kissed her earnestly, while her tears fell on her face, and when Christie said “Good-bye,” she clung to her as she had not clung even to Effie. It was like the farewell of sisters who know that they must meet death before they look on each other’s faces again.
Not one of the many grateful thoughts which filled Christie’s heart had she the power to utter. But they were not needed. After so many months of loving service—after so many nights of anxious watching, shared so gladly for the love she bore to her and her little ones—words could have been of little value.
The “good-bye” in the morning was brief and quiet, as Mrs Lee had wished—so brief that not till the carriage that took them away had disappeared, did Christie realise that they were gone; and the walls of the deserted nursery echoed to many a bitter sob ere she bade farewell to the place where she had passed so many changeful hours.