Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Thirteen.Christie’s new home.It was a very lovely scene, and all the lovelier for the light of a fair summer morning upon it. There was a broad, sunny lawn, with a margin of shade, and just one mass of flitting shadows beneath the locust-tree near the gate. Beyond, there were glimpses of winding walks and of brilliant garden-flowers, and farther on, the waving boughs of trees, and more flitting shadows; the cedar hedge hid the rest. The house that stood beyond the sunny lawn was like a house in a picture—with a porch in front, and galleries at the sides, and over the railings and round the pillars twined flowering shrubs and a vine, with dark shining leaves. A flight of stone steps led up to the open porch, and on the uppermost one sat a young girl, reading. One hand rested on her book, while the other slowly wound and unwound the ribbon of a child’s hat that lay beside her. Her head was bent low over her book, and Christie could not see her face for the long, bright curls that shaded it. So intent was she on her reading that she did not hear the sound of footsteps; and Christie stood admiring the pretty picture which the young girl and the flowers and the drooping vine-leaves made, without caring to speak.She might have stood long enough before the young reader would have stirred, had not some one advanced from the other side.“Miss Gertrude, the carriage will be round in ten minutes.”“Yes, I know,” said the young girl, without raising her eyes. “I am quite ready to go.”“But Master Clement is going; and nurse is busy, and he won’t let me dress him; and if you please, Miss Gertrude, Mrs Seaton begs that you will come and coax him, and try to get him away without waking his brother.”The young lady rose, shutting her book with an impatient gesture; and then she saw Christie.“Good morning,” she said. “Do you wish to see any one?”“I wish to see Mrs Seaton. Mrs Lee sent me,” said Christie.“Oh, the new nurse for Clement. I dare say he won’t go into town to-day, Martha. It was only to get him out of the way—the young tyrant. Show this girl to Mrs Seaton’s room. She wished to see her as soon as she came.” And then she sat down and took up her book again.“If you please, Miss Gertrude, Mrs Seaton wishes to see you at once. Perhaps you will be so obliging as to go up-stairs with her. Master Clement has kept me so long that I fear I shall not have the things ready to send with Peter.”Miss Gertrude rose, but with not the best grace in the world, and Christie followed her into the house and up-stairs. At the first landing a door opened, and a little boy, half-dressed, rushed out.“Tudie, let me go with you; I want to go.”“Naughty boys who won’t let Mattie dress them mustn’t expect to be taken anywhere. You are not to come with me. You will wake Claude.”“Oh, Claude’s awake, and crying to be dressed. Let me go with you,” pleaded the child.“No; you are not to come. Remember, I tell you so; and I am not Mattie, to be trifled with.”Miss Gertrude spoke very gravely. Her brother, a spirited little lad of five or six years of age, looked up into her face with defiance in his eyes. Then he gave a glance down the long hall, as if meditating a rush in that direction; but he thought better of it.“I’ll be good, Tudie. I won’t make a noise,” said he.“Stay where you are,” said Miss Gertrude, decidedly. She led the way down the long hall, then up a flight of steps, and opened the door of a large room. It seemed quite dark at first, but soon Christie was able to distinguish the different things in it. The furniture of the room was covered with green stuff, and there was on the floor a soft green carpet, with bright flowers scattered over it. The curtains on the windows and on the bed were of white muslin, but the hangings above were green. The paper on the walls was white, with a border of brown acorns and green oak-leaves. It was a very pretty room; and the coolness and the softened light made it seem altogether delightful to Christie after her long, dusty walk.On the bed was a lady, dressed for an outdoor walk, but her hands were pressed over her eyes as though she were in pain. A little boy lay tossing fretfully on the sofa, but his peevish cry ceased for a moment as they entered the room. Miss Gertrude seated herself beside him, and said, without approaching the bed—“Here is the young girl that Mrs Lee sent.”The lady took her hand from her eyes, and raised herself up. Seating herself in a large chair by the bed, she beckoned to Christie to come towards her.“You came from Mrs Lee, did you?” said she.Christie came forward. The lady observed her for a moment.“Mrs Lee told me you were young, and not very strong,” said she; “but I had no idea you were quite such a child.”“I am past fifteen,” said Christie.“And do you mean to tell me that Mrs Lee trusted her children to you—that infant too—through all her illness?”“Mrs Greenly was in the house nearly all the winter, and she was in the nursery very often. That was all the help I had,” said Christie, with a slight change of colour.“And was it you who took care of little Harry, and who was with him when he died?”The remembrance of that sorrowful time was too vivid for Christie to bear this allusion to it unmoved. She grew quite pale, and took one step forward towards a little table, and laid her hand upon it. Miss Gertrude, who had been watching her with great interest, rose and brought forward a chair, looking towards her mother, without speaking.“You look tired,” said Mrs Seaton. “Did you walk? Sit down and rest.” Christie gladly obeyed.“Mrs Lee speaks very highly of you—very highly indeed. You must have been very useful to her; and I dare say she was very kind to you.”Remembering all they had passed through together, Christie could hardly restrain her tears. But, as the lady seemed to expect an answer, she said, with some difficulty—“She was very kind to me, and I loved her dearly—and the children.”It is possible Mrs Seaton did not consider much love necessary between mistress and maid. She did not look as though she did, as Christie could not help thinking as she glanced towards her.“And you got on nicely with the children, did you? Of course you will have little to do here in comparison with what you must have had there. But my wilful Clement, I am afraid, you will find too much for you. He is a masterful lad.”She did not speak regretfully, as though the child’s wilfulness grieved her very much, but rather the contrary. And, indeed, one could hardly wonder at the pride in her voice as Master Clement rushed in among them. He was a child that any mother would own with pride—a picture of robust health and childish beauty. His brown curls were sadly disordered. One arm was thrust into the sleeve of his frock, in a vain attempt to finish the dressing which Mattie had commenced. One foot was bare, and he carried in his hand his stocking and shoe. He walked straight up to his sister, saying gravely:“Baby is crying, and I came to tell mamma.”She did not answer him, but laying down Claude’s head on the pillow, she began to arrange his disordered dress. He submitted quite patiently to the operation, only saying, now and then, as he turned round to look in her face:“Am I naughty, Tudie? Are you going to punish me?”She did not answer him. Indeed, there was no occasion. He did not seem at all afraid of the punishment, whatever it might be. When she had tied on his shoe, he slipped from her, and flung himself on the sofa beside his brother. He did not mean to be rough with him, but the little fellow uttered a peevish cry, and pushed him away.“I didn’t mean to hurt you. Don’t cry.”His little brown hand was laid softly on Claude’s pale cheek, and their brown curls mingled as their heads were laid on the same pillow. What a contrast they presented! Christie could hardly persuade herself these were the little lads that she and the Lee children used to admire so much—partly because they were so pretty, and partly because they were so much alike. They were alike still. One could hardly have told, as they lay together, to which head the tangled mass of brown curls belonged. Their eyes were the same, too, but little Claude’s were larger, and they drooped with a look of weariness and pain sad to see in any eyes, but very,verysad to see in the eyes of a child. His forehead was larger, too,—or it seemed larger, above his thin, pale cheeks. But not even his wan cheeks or weary eyes struck so painfully to Christie’s heart as did the sight of his little, wasted hand, white as the pillow on which it lay. It seemed whiter and more wasted still when it was raised for a moment to stroke his brother’s rosy cheek. Oh, how very sad it seemed! And his mother! She closed her eyes, and laid herself back in her chair, with a sigh that was almost a groan.Clement was very gentle, or he meant to be very gentle, with his brother. He stroked his cheeks, and kissed him, calling him “little brother,” and “poor Claudie.” And the little fellow hushed his peevish cry, and tried to smile for a moment.“I am going into town,” said Clement; “and then we are going to spend the day at Aunt Barbara’s. They are making hay there. May Claude go? It would make him quite well to play among the hay with me and Fanny and Stephen. Mamma, mayn’t he go? Tudie, do let Claudie go.”“Mamma, mamma, let me go. Let Mattie dress me. Oh, I want to go among the hay!”He came down from the sofa, and went towards his mother as fast as his trembling limbs could carry him. She met him and received him in her arms.“My darling cannot go. He is not strong enough. Oh, Gertrude, how could you let Clement come in here?”“Mamma, I am quite well. I should be quite well if I could play among the hay, as we used to do.”Memories of health and strength enjoyed in summer sunshine were doubtlessly stirring at the boy’s heart, to which he could give no utterance. The look of wistful entreaty in his weary eyes went to his mother’s heart.“My dear boy, if you only could? Oh, Gertrude! how could you be so thoughtless?” she repeated.“I desired Clement to stay in the nursery, and he disobeyed me,” said Gertrude, gravely.“And now are you going to punish me?” he asked.“Go into the nursery, and I will tell you. Go at once.”“Go away, naughty boy, and not vex your little brother,” said his mother, rocking in her arms the child, who was too weak and weary to resist.“I didn’t vex Claude. Let him go with us. I’m not a naughty boy.” He looked as though he meditated taking up a position on the sofa.“Go,” said his sister.“How will you punish me, then?”“I will tell you when I come to the nursery,” she said, opening the door for him.Not very willingly, but quietly, he went; and in a little while they heard his merry voice ringing along the hall.“I am very sorry,” said the young lady, coming back; “give me Claude. I will walk about with him; you are not able.”“No, no,” said Mrs Seaton, though the little boy held out his arms to go to her. “Go; the carriage is waiting. You should have gone long ago.”“Need we go?” she asked, looking at Christie. “Clement can be kept out of the way now.”“Yes, yes; go,” answered she, hastily. “We have had vexation enough for one day. And I thought this dear child was so nicely settled for the day; and now he is getting quite feverish again.”Miss Gertrude turned and went out without reply.“My boy, my poor boy!” murmured the mother, as she rocked him in her arms, and her lips were pressed on his feverish brow. “Will he ever play among the hay again?”She rocked him till his crying was hushed, and weary with struggling, he begged to be laid down. Christie arranged the pillows, and his mother placed him on the sofa. She would fain have lingered near him; but, weak from recent illness, she was obliged to lie down. In a little while he asked for water, and to his mother’s surprise, was willing to take it from Christie’s hands. He even suffered her to bathe his hands and feet, and when he grew restless again, let her take him on her lap. He was quite contented to stay there; and the last object the mother saw before she sank to sleep was her sick boy nestling peacefully in the arms of the little stranger maid. And it was the first object she saw when she waked, some three hours afterwards. Christie had not moved, except to let her hat and shawl fall on the floor, and little Claude was slumbering peacefully still. He awoke soon, however, refreshed and strengthened, and not at all indignant at finding himself in a stranger’s arms, as his mother feared he might be. He suffered her to wash and dress him, as he had suffered no one but his mother to do for the last three weary weeks. It was very well that he was inclined to be friendly, for Mrs Seaton found herself much too ill to do the accustomed duty herself; and it was with something very like gratitude stirring at her heart that she said to Christie, when all was done:“You are fond of children, are you not? You are very gentle and careful, I see.”The little boy quarrelled with his dinner, as usual; but upon the whole the meal was successful, his mother said; and as a reward for being good, he was promised a walk in the garden by and by.In the meantime Christie went down-stairs to her dinner, under the care of the friendly Mattie, whom she had seen in the morning. She was very kind, and meant to make herself very agreeable, and asked many questions, and volunteered various kinds of information as to what Christie might expect in her new place, which she might far better have withheld. Christie had little to say, and made her answers as quietly and briefly as possible.When she went up-stairs again, she found affairs in not quite so cheerful a state as when she had left them. The doctor had been in, and though he had greatly applauded the scheme for sending little Claude into the garden, he had utterly forbidden his mother to leave her bed to go with him. It could not be permitted on any account; and she had so entirely devoted herself for the last few weeks to the care and amusement of the child that he could not, at first, be prevailed on to go without her. He would not look at Mattie, nor at Mrs Grayson, the housekeeper. After much gentle persuasion on her part, and many promises as to what he would see and hear out in the pleasant sunshine, he suffered Christie to bring his hat and coat and put them on.“I think you may trust me with him, ma’am,” said Christie. “I will be very gentle and careful with him. Poor wee boy!” she added, looking into the face that seemed more wan and thin under the drooping plumes of his hat. But his mother dismissed them with a sigh.It was not a very easy thing to amuse the exacting little fellow for a long time, but it was perhaps a very good thing for Christie that it fell to her lot to do so. A longer indulgence in the musings which had occupied her during three hours passed in the darkened room would not have been good for her, at any rate; and there was no chance for that here. She was suffering very keenly from her parting with Mrs Lee and her children, and as she had felt the clinging arms of little Claude about her neck, she had said to herself, almost bitterly, that she would not allow herself to love any one—any stranger—so dearly again. Yes, the pain was very hard to bear, and she felt very lonely and sad as she paced slowly up and down the long walks of the garden.It was a very quiet place, however, quite out of reach of all disturbing sounds, and Christie could not help wondering that she did not enjoy it more, till she remembered what good reason she had for being very weary, and she was content to wait for a full enjoyment of the pretty garden.“I dare say I shall like to stay here after a little,” she said to herself. “There is one thing sure, it was no plan of mine to come. I have had enough of my own plans. I’ll just try and be as useful and happy as I can, and wait till I see how things will turn. I am afraid Effie may not like my staying, but I can only just wait, and it will all come right.”And she put her good resolutions into practice then and there. She was very patient with her little charge. She amused him, till he quite forgot his shyness with her. She brought him flowers, and translated the talk of the two little birds who were feeding their young in the old pear-tree, till he laughed almost merrily again. The time soon passed, and it was a very weary but very happy little face that he held up to kiss his mother that night, and he was soon slumbering quietly in his little cot by her side.Then Christie betook herself to her place in Master Clement’s nursery. She found that noisy young gentleman quiet for the night, and gladly laid herself down. In spite of her weariness, her long walk and her afternoon in the open air had done her good. She was asleep before any lonely or home-sick thoughts had time to visit her, and she slept as she had not slept for weeks, without waking till the twittering of the birds in the pear-tree roused her to begin her new life.Christie had never to measure her strength with that of the “masterful” Clement. It happened quite otherwise—fortunately for her, though sadly enough for Mrs Seaton. The doctor, at his next visit, very decidedly assured her that her proposed visit to the sea-side must no longer be delayed, unless she intended to remain an invalid during the rest of the summer. Her health, her life even, depended on a change of air and freedom from anxiety. The good she could do her sick boy by staying at home would be very little in comparison to the harm she would do herself. She ought to have gone weeks since. Her infant and nurse might go with her, but none of the other children. It would do her more harm than good to be troubled with the boys on the journey or at a strange watering-place, and as for them, home was the best place for both. He assured her that her anxiety for Claude was unnecessary. He was in no immediate danger. It might be months, or even years, before he would be quite well again. He might never be so strong and healthy as his brother. But there was no danger for him. Quiet and constant care were what he needed; and they could be found best at home.“Come here, my little man,” said he, “and let me prove to your mother that you are going to be quite well again, and that very soon, too.”Claude had been sitting on the balcony into which the windows of the green room opened, and he came forward, led by Christie, at the doctors desire. After a minute’s talk with the child, his eye fell on her.“What! are you here? I thought you had been far enough away by this time. How came you to leave your charge?”Christie came forward shyly, looking at Mrs Seaton.“Mr Lee thought her not strong enough,” said Mrs Seaton. “There was no other one to go; and she hardly seemed fit for the charge of all.”“Humph! He has made a mistake or two before in his lifetime—and so has she, for that matter,” said the doctor, with a shrug of his shoulders.“Mrs Lee didn’t know when they would come back again, and she didn’t like to take me so far-away,” said Christie; “and I was very sorry.”“And so you are to be Claude’s nurse, it seems?”Christie looked at Mrs Seaton.“She came, in the meantime, to go out with Clement and to help in the nursery generally. I have kept Claude with me altogether of late.” And as Christie took the little boy to the balcony again, she added, “I don’t see how I can leave him. Poor little fellow! He will let no one care for him but me.”The doctor shook his head.“That may be very well for him, but it is very bad indeed for you. Indeed, it must not be. Let me make a plan for you. You can quite safely leave him with this new nurse. I would recommend her among a thousand—”“A child like that!” interrupted Mrs Seaton.“A child in appearance, I grant, but quite a woman in sense and patience. She has surprised me many a time.”“But she has had no experience. She cannot know—”“Oh, that is the best of it. She will do as she is bidden. Save me from those ‘experienced’ persons who have wisdom enough for ten! I can trust this little maid that she will do exactly as I bid her. She is a very conscientious person—religiously inclined, I should think. At any rate, she is just the nurse I should choose from all the sisterhood for your poor little boy—just the firm and gentle attendant he needs now. Trust me. I know her well.”It is possible that in speaking thus the doctor’s first wish was to set the mind of the mother at rest about leaving her child, but he could say what he did without doing any violence to his conscience. He really had admired and wondered at Christie’s management of the little Lees during his frequent visits to their nursery.“And besides,” he added to himself, “the poor little fellow will be better when away from his mother’s unbounded indulgence for a while. It will be better for all concerned.”So the matter was arranged—not without many misgivings on Mrs Seaton’s part, however. Her directions as to Christie’s management of the boy were so many and so minute that the poor child was in danger of becoming bewildered among them. To all she could only answer, again and again:“I will be very careful, ma’am;” or, “I will do my best.”It was well for Mrs Seaton that there was but little time left, or her heart, and Christie’s too, might have failed. At the very last moment the mother had a mind to change her plans.“After all,” she said, “perhaps it would have been wiser to send him to his aunt’s. Her children are noisy and troublesome, to be sure; but I should have felt easier about him. Mind, Gertrude, you are to write every day till your father returns. And, Christie, remember, you are to obey the doctor’s directions in all things. He is to call every day. And don’t let Clement fret him. And, Gertrude, be sure to write.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am past fifteen,” said Christie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go,” said his sister.

“How will you punish me, then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Miss Gertrude turned and went out without reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christie came forward shyly, looking at Mrs Seaton.

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

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

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

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

Christie looked at Mrs Seaton.

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

The doctor shook his head.

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

“A child like that!” interrupted Mrs Seaton.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Fourteen.New friends.The house seemed very quiet after Mrs Seaton went away. For that day and the next, Christie and her little charge were left to the solitude of the green room and the garden. Miss Gertrude and Clement had gone to visit their aunt, and not knowing when they might return, Christie was beginning to wonder what she should do during the long hours that her little charge slept or amused himself quietly without her. There were no books in the green room—at least, there were none she cared for. In the nursery there were a few story-books for little children—fairy tales, and rhymes, with pictures of giants and dwarfs and little old women, among which Christie recognised some that had been great favourites long ago. But after the first glance she cared no more for them.On the morning of the third day, when Claude was taking his nap, the time began to hang heavy on her hands. She took her Bible and read a chapter or two, but in spite of herself she grew dull and dreary. The stillness of the house oppressed her. The other servants were busy in a distant apartment. She seemed quite shut in from all the world. Just opposite the window was a large locust-tree, which hid the garden from her; and the only sound that reached her was the murmur of the wind among its branches, and the hum of the bees that now and then rested a moment among the few blossoms that still lingered on them. Her thoughts turned homewards.“I might write to Effie,” she said to herself. But she was not sufficiently in the mood for it to go to her trunk for her small store of paper and pens; and she sat still, with her head leaning on her hands and her eyes fixed on the swaying leaves, vaguely conscious that the indulgence of her present mood was not the best thing for her.She was not permitted to indulge it long, however. The little boy stirred and tossed in his crib, and she went to arrange the coverlet over him; and as she was moving listlessly about the room, something glistened in a stray sunbeam and caught her short-sighted eyes, and from the cushions of the great easy-chair, where it had lain since the first day of her coming, she drew the book that Miss Gertrude had been reading when she watched the pretty picture she made as she sat beneath the drooping leaves.With a cry of delight, she recognised her old favourite, “The Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life.” The very same! though this was glittering in blue and gold, a perfect contrast to the little, brown-covered book, with the title-page lost, which had made Christie forget her bread and her cooling oven on that unhappy day. But the remembrance of the old time and the old favourite came back all the more vividly because of the contrast. The memory of the old times came back. Oh, how long ago it seemed since that summer afternoon when she lay on the grass and read it for the first time! Yet how vividly it all came back! The blue sky, with the white clouds passing over it now and then, the sound of the wind among the low fir-trees, the smell of the hawthorn hedge, the voices of the children in the lane beyond, seemed once more above her and around her. And then the sound of her mother’s gentle chiding, when she found her sitting there after the shadows had grown long, came back. Her voice, her smile, the very gown and cap she wore, and the needlework she carried in her hand, came sensibly before her. Yet how long ago it seemed! Christie remembered how many times she had taken it with her to the fields, when the incompleteness of their fences during the first year of their stay on the farm had made the “herding” of the sheep and cows necessary that the grain might be safe. She had read it in the woods in spring-time, by the firelight in the long winter evenings, and by stealth on Sundays, when the weather had kept her from the kirk. It was associated in her remembrance with many things pleasant and many things sad; and no wonder that for a while she turned over the leaves, catching only here and there a glimpse of the familiar words, because of the tears that hid them.Sitting on the floor, with the book held close to her face, she read, and forgot all else. The little lad tossed and murmured, and mechanically she put forth her hand and rocked him in his crib; but she neither heard nor saw when the door opened and some one came in.It was Miss Gertrude. A look of surprise passed over her face as she caught a glimpse of the reader on the floor, but it gave place to interest and amusement as she watched her. Her absorbed look never changed, even when she rocked and murmured soothing words to the restless child. She read on—sometimes smiling, sometimes sighing, but never lifting her eyes—till Miss Gertrude came forward and spoke.“Well, how have you been getting on?”Christie started, as if it had been Aunt Elsie’s voice she heard; and at the look of astonishment and dismay that spread itself over her face, the young lady laughed.“How has Claude been, all these days?” she asked, softly, as she bent over the crib.“He has been quite well and quite good, I think,” said Christie, trying to collect her scattered wits.“Has the doctor been here?” asked Miss Gertrude.“Yes; he was here this morning. He asked when you were coming home, but I couldn’t tell him.”“Well, I’m here now; and I’m going to stay, too! If the doctor thinks he is going to banish Clement and me from home for the next month, he will find himself mistaken. For my part, I don’t see the use of his coming here so often, just to shake his head and look grave over poor little Claude. Of course the child’s mother wishes it; but it is all nonsense.”Christie looked at her in astonishment. But that the words were so quietly and gravely spoken, she would have thought them uncalled for, not to say impertinent, from a girl scarcely older than herself. They needed no reply, however, and she made none.She did not then know that Mrs Seaton was not Gertrude’s own mother, and that she was only half-sister to the two little boys, upon whom she looked as mere children, whilst she felt herself a young lady.“Have you been lonely here?” she asked, in a few minutes.“A little. It is very quiet,” said Christie, hesitatingly. “But I like it.”“Is Claude fond of you?” asked Gertrude, gravely.Christie smiled a little.“He does not object to me. I dare say he will be fond of me in time. I am sure he will be very glad to see you and his brother. It is very quiet for him to be left alone with me.”“But the doctor wishes him to be quiet,” said Gertrude; “and his mother won’t have him vexed on any account. I have seen her quite tremble when his brother has come near him; and after all it is no wonder.”“Clement is so strong,” said Christie; “but he will learn to be gentle with his brother in time. How very much alike they used to be! We used to see them driving together. We didn’t know their names, but we always called them the two pretty boys.”“Yes, they were very much alike; and it will grieve Clement, when he is older, to know— Did you never hear about it? They were playing together, and Claude fell. The doctor thinks that fall was the cause of his illness. His mother can’t bear to think so, it is so sad; and besides, it seems to make his illness more hopeless. I am afraid he will never be strong and well again.”“Oh, don’t say so,” said Christie, sadly, quite shocked at what she heard. “Please God, he will be well again. He is only a child; and children outlive so much. For two or three years no one thought I should live to grow up. But I am quite well now.”“You are not a giant yet, nor very strong either. At least you don’t look so,” said Gertrude.“But I shall grow strong here in the country. I am better already since I came. Do you really think that little Master Claude will never be strong and well again?”“I don’t know. I cannot tell. But Aunt Barbara says the doctor is not at all hopeful about it, though he speaks hopefully to mother. Aunt Barbara thinks if the poor little fellow should live, he may be deformed, or lame for life. I think it would be much better for him to die now, than to live to be deformed or a cripple.”“I don’t know. I can’t tell,” said Christie, looking with a vague wonder from the sleeping child to the sister who spoke so quietly about his great misfortune. “It is well we have not to decide about these things. God knows best.”“Yes, I suppose so. It is in vain to murmur, whatever may happen. But there is a deal of trouble in the world.” And the young lady sighed, as though she had her share of it to bear.Christie’s astonishment increased. Looking at the young lady, she said to herself that it was doubtful whether she knew in the least what she was talking about.“Troubles in the world? Yes, doubtless there are—plenty of them! But what could she know of them?”“Are you fond of reading?” asked Gertrude, after a little time, her eye falling on the book which Christie still held.“Yes,” said Christie; “I like to read. This is the book you left the other day. I only found it a little while ago.”“Have you read much of it? There are some pretty stories in it, I think.”“Oh, yes; I read the book long ago. It was one of our favourites at home. I like to read anything about home—about Scotland, I mean.”“And so do I,” said Gertrude. “I knew you were Scotch when I heard you speak. Is it long since you came? Have you been here long? Tell me all about it.”In the short half-hour before Claude awoke, there was not time to tellallabout it, but the young girls told each other enough to awaken a mutual interest.Miss Gertrude’s mother had died when she was quite young, and she had been committed to the care of an aunt, with whom she had continued to reside for some time, even after the second marriage of her father. She had had a very happy home, and had been educated with great care. Looking back on those days now, she could see no shadow on their calm brightness. She had had her childish troubles, I suppose, but she forgot them all as she went on to describe to Christie her merry life with her young cousins and her friends. Her aunt’s death had broken all those pleasant ties, and she had come to Canada, which must be her home till she was grown up. When she should be of age, she told Christie, and could claim the fortune her mother had left her, she was going home again to live always. She did not like Canada. It did not seem like home to her, though she was living in her father’s house. She longed for the time when she should be her own mistress.Christie didn’t enjoy the last part of her story very well. She could not help thinking that some of the trials that the young lady hinted at existed only in her own imagination. But she did not say so. She listened to the whole with unabated interest, and in return, told Gertrude the story of her own life. It was given in very few words. She told about her mother’s death, and their coming to Canada, and what happened to them afterwards, till they had been obliged to leave the farm and separate.It is just possible that the young lady, who sat listening so quietly to these simple details, took to herself the lesson which the story was so well calculated to teach. But Christie had no thought of giving her a lesson. She told of Effie’s wise and patient guidance of their affairs, of the self-denial cheerfully practised by all, of her own eager desire to do her part to help keep the little ones together, of Effie’s slow consent to let her go; all this, far more briefly and quietly than Miss Gertrude had spoken of her childish days that were passed in her aunt’s house. By experience the young lady knew nothing of the real trials of life. She had no rule by which to estimate the suffering which comes from poverty and separation, from solitary and uncongenial toil. Yet, as she sat listening there, she caught a glimpse of something that made her wish she had said less about the troubles that had fallen to her lot. Christie faltered a little when she came to speak of the first months of her stay in town, and of the time when her sister went away.“I was very, very home-sick. If it hadn’t been for shame, I would have gone at the end of the first month. And when my sister went away in the spring, and left me here, it was almost as bad. It seems like a troubled dream to look back upon it. But it has passed now. It will never be so bad again—never, I am sure.”“You have got over your home-sickness, then? And are you quite contented now?” she asked, with great interest.“Yes, I think so. I think it is right to stay. I am very glad to stay, especially now that I am out here, in the country almost. There was a while in the spring that I was afraid I should not be able to stay. But I am better now. I shall soon be quite strong.”The little boy stirred in his crib, and his eyes opened languidly. Christie was at his side in a moment. To the astonishment of his sister, he suffered himself to be lifted out and dressed without his usual fretful cry.“How nicely you manage him!” she said, at last. “This used to be a troublesome business to all concerned.”Christie did, indeed, manage nicely. Her experience with the little Lees stood her in good stead now. She was very quick, and gentle and firm with the little boy, beguiling him from his fretfulness by little tales or questions, or merry childish talk, till the last string was tied and the last of his beautiful curls arranged. Then he was put in his favourite place among the cushions of the great chair, and the chair was drawn close to the window. Gertrude leaned over him for a moment, and then, kneeling down, she kissed his little white hands, and stroked his thin, pale face, her own looking grave enough all the while.“He scarcely knows me now,” she said. “He has almost forgotten me since he has been so ill. But we shall be friends again, my dear little brother.”“Where’s Clement?” asked the child. “Heisyourlittle boy.”“Oh, but I want two little boys. I want a little boy to take care of and love with all my heart—a gentle, patient little boy, who doesn’t fret and cry when he is dressed, any more. I want a little boy to take into the garden in his little carriage, and to be my little boy always.”“Christie takes me into the garden. I like Christie she’s good.”“I’m quite sure of it,” said Miss Gertrude. “Listen: There is Clement. Shall I open the door and call him in, if he will promise to be good?”What a contrast they made! The cheeks of one flushed with health, his bright eyes dancing with happiness, the other—oh, so wan and thin and fragile! Miss Gertrude’s eyes filled with tears as she tried to restrain Clement’s eager caresses. They were very glad to see each other. Climbing up into the chair beside him, Clement put his arms round his brother’s neck and stroked his cheeks.“You’ll soon be well now, Claudie,” he said, “and we’ll go and see the pony. Oh, such a fine fellow as he is! You’re getting well now, aren’t you?” he added, wistfully.“Yes, I’m well; but I am too tired,” said Claude, laying himself back among the pillows, with a sigh. Miss Gertrude lifted Clement down, and held him firmly, saying:“Clement is not going to tire you any more. He is going to be very gentle and good when Christie lets us come in here; and by and by we will go and sit under the locust-tree and be very good and happy all together.”And so they did that afternoon, and many afternoons besides. A very happy time they had. Far from banishing Miss Gertrude and little Clement, the doctor encouraged them to be much with the sick boy. The noisy Clement was permitted to become the almost constant companion of his brother, on certain conditions. He was never permitted to weary him or vex him. A walk with his brother was made the reward of good behaviour; and banishment from the green room for an entire day was felt to be so severe a punishment that it was not insisted upon more than once or twice during the time of his mother’s absence. Upon both the boys this intercourse had a very beneficial effect. The little invalid brightened under the influence of Clement’s merry ways, now that the watchful care of Miss Gertrude or Christie kept his mirth within bounds, and prevented him from being wearied with too boisterous play.The whole of the pleasant summer morning was passed by him in the open air. Up and down the broad garden-walks he was drawn, when the weather was fine. Sometimes he was content to sit for hours in the shadow of the locust-tree near the window, or in the pleasant cedar walk at the other end of the grounds. Sometimes he was permitted to walk a little while on the lawn; and in a few days the dawning colour on cheek and lip was hailed as a hopeful sign of returning health.Christie grew quite satisfied with her new place, and devoted herself to her little charge with an interest that was untiring; and the increasing affection of the little boy made her service day by day more pleasant to her.Of Miss Gertrude she scarcely knew what to make. She was always very kind to her, and spent much time with her and little Claude, either in the garden or in the green room. But she was not gentle and pleasant to all the world. She was sometimes full of impatient and discontented thoughts, and now and then let fall words that proved this too plainly. Christie was sometimes pained, and sometimes amused, as she listened to her. Like too many young people, she had a keener eye for defects than for excellences of character; and she never hesitated to amuse herself at the expense of those with whom she came in contact. Sometimes her remarks were amusing and harmless enough, but too often they were unkind and severe; and more than once she tried to place in a ludicrous light characteristics which she could not but acknowledge were real excellences. Christie had an uncomfortable consciousness that there was something wrong in all this, even amid the interest and admiration which the young girl had awakened in her, but she was very far from realising how wrong this spirit of criticism is, or how injurious the indulgence of it might prove to Miss Gertrude.These things, as they came up, marred but little Christie’s admiration of her bright and winning ways. The young lady’s impatience and pride were never manifested where she or the boys were concerned; and the charm there was in constant intercourse with one of her own age was delightful. Notwithstanding the difference in station, the two young girls had many subjects of interest common to both, which they were never weary of discussing.The enjoyment of their companionship was not all on Christie’s side. Since her residence in her father’s house, Miss Gertrude had had no companions of her own age for whose society she cared. She was constantly surprised and delighted to find how entirely her brother’s little nurse could understand and sympathise with some of her moods and fancies. She brought out her favourite books and discussed her favourite subjects, and spoke to her of many things as she had never spoken to any one since she bade adieu to her young cousins at home.It cannot be denied that Christie’s evident admiration of her helped to bespeak Miss Gertrude’s good-will. But the young lady was not very vain. She really liked Christie, and took pleasure in her society; and she admired the tact and patience with which she managed Little Claude.The first few days of their intercourse was to each like the reading of a pleasant book; nor did their interest in each other fail as they grew better acquainted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, how have you been getting on?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christie smiled a little.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christie didn’t enjoy the last part of her story very well. She could not help thinking that some of the trials that the young lady hinted at existed only in her own imagination. But she did not say so. She listened to the whole with unabated interest, and in return, told Gertrude the story of her own life. It was given in very few words. She told about her mother’s death, and their coming to Canada, and what happened to them afterwards, till they had been obliged to leave the farm and separate.

It is just possible that the young lady, who sat listening so quietly to these simple details, took to herself the lesson which the story was so well calculated to teach. But Christie had no thought of giving her a lesson. She told of Effie’s wise and patient guidance of their affairs, of the self-denial cheerfully practised by all, of her own eager desire to do her part to help keep the little ones together, of Effie’s slow consent to let her go; all this, far more briefly and quietly than Miss Gertrude had spoken of her childish days that were passed in her aunt’s house. By experience the young lady knew nothing of the real trials of life. She had no rule by which to estimate the suffering which comes from poverty and separation, from solitary and uncongenial toil. Yet, as she sat listening there, she caught a glimpse of something that made her wish she had said less about the troubles that had fallen to her lot. Christie faltered a little when she came to speak of the first months of her stay in town, and of the time when her sister went away.

“I was very, very home-sick. If it hadn’t been for shame, I would have gone at the end of the first month. And when my sister went away in the spring, and left me here, it was almost as bad. It seems like a troubled dream to look back upon it. But it has passed now. It will never be so bad again—never, I am sure.”

“You have got over your home-sickness, then? And are you quite contented now?” she asked, with great interest.

“Yes, I think so. I think it is right to stay. I am very glad to stay, especially now that I am out here, in the country almost. There was a while in the spring that I was afraid I should not be able to stay. But I am better now. I shall soon be quite strong.”

The little boy stirred in his crib, and his eyes opened languidly. Christie was at his side in a moment. To the astonishment of his sister, he suffered himself to be lifted out and dressed without his usual fretful cry.

“How nicely you manage him!” she said, at last. “This used to be a troublesome business to all concerned.”

Christie did, indeed, manage nicely. Her experience with the little Lees stood her in good stead now. She was very quick, and gentle and firm with the little boy, beguiling him from his fretfulness by little tales or questions, or merry childish talk, till the last string was tied and the last of his beautiful curls arranged. Then he was put in his favourite place among the cushions of the great chair, and the chair was drawn close to the window. Gertrude leaned over him for a moment, and then, kneeling down, she kissed his little white hands, and stroked his thin, pale face, her own looking grave enough all the while.

“He scarcely knows me now,” she said. “He has almost forgotten me since he has been so ill. But we shall be friends again, my dear little brother.”

“Where’s Clement?” asked the child. “Heisyourlittle boy.”

“Oh, but I want two little boys. I want a little boy to take care of and love with all my heart—a gentle, patient little boy, who doesn’t fret and cry when he is dressed, any more. I want a little boy to take into the garden in his little carriage, and to be my little boy always.”

“Christie takes me into the garden. I like Christie she’s good.”

“I’m quite sure of it,” said Miss Gertrude. “Listen: There is Clement. Shall I open the door and call him in, if he will promise to be good?”

What a contrast they made! The cheeks of one flushed with health, his bright eyes dancing with happiness, the other—oh, so wan and thin and fragile! Miss Gertrude’s eyes filled with tears as she tried to restrain Clement’s eager caresses. They were very glad to see each other. Climbing up into the chair beside him, Clement put his arms round his brother’s neck and stroked his cheeks.

“You’ll soon be well now, Claudie,” he said, “and we’ll go and see the pony. Oh, such a fine fellow as he is! You’re getting well now, aren’t you?” he added, wistfully.

“Yes, I’m well; but I am too tired,” said Claude, laying himself back among the pillows, with a sigh. Miss Gertrude lifted Clement down, and held him firmly, saying:

“Clement is not going to tire you any more. He is going to be very gentle and good when Christie lets us come in here; and by and by we will go and sit under the locust-tree and be very good and happy all together.”

And so they did that afternoon, and many afternoons besides. A very happy time they had. Far from banishing Miss Gertrude and little Clement, the doctor encouraged them to be much with the sick boy. The noisy Clement was permitted to become the almost constant companion of his brother, on certain conditions. He was never permitted to weary him or vex him. A walk with his brother was made the reward of good behaviour; and banishment from the green room for an entire day was felt to be so severe a punishment that it was not insisted upon more than once or twice during the time of his mother’s absence. Upon both the boys this intercourse had a very beneficial effect. The little invalid brightened under the influence of Clement’s merry ways, now that the watchful care of Miss Gertrude or Christie kept his mirth within bounds, and prevented him from being wearied with too boisterous play.

The whole of the pleasant summer morning was passed by him in the open air. Up and down the broad garden-walks he was drawn, when the weather was fine. Sometimes he was content to sit for hours in the shadow of the locust-tree near the window, or in the pleasant cedar walk at the other end of the grounds. Sometimes he was permitted to walk a little while on the lawn; and in a few days the dawning colour on cheek and lip was hailed as a hopeful sign of returning health.

Christie grew quite satisfied with her new place, and devoted herself to her little charge with an interest that was untiring; and the increasing affection of the little boy made her service day by day more pleasant to her.

Of Miss Gertrude she scarcely knew what to make. She was always very kind to her, and spent much time with her and little Claude, either in the garden or in the green room. But she was not gentle and pleasant to all the world. She was sometimes full of impatient and discontented thoughts, and now and then let fall words that proved this too plainly. Christie was sometimes pained, and sometimes amused, as she listened to her. Like too many young people, she had a keener eye for defects than for excellences of character; and she never hesitated to amuse herself at the expense of those with whom she came in contact. Sometimes her remarks were amusing and harmless enough, but too often they were unkind and severe; and more than once she tried to place in a ludicrous light characteristics which she could not but acknowledge were real excellences. Christie had an uncomfortable consciousness that there was something wrong in all this, even amid the interest and admiration which the young girl had awakened in her, but she was very far from realising how wrong this spirit of criticism is, or how injurious the indulgence of it might prove to Miss Gertrude.

These things, as they came up, marred but little Christie’s admiration of her bright and winning ways. The young lady’s impatience and pride were never manifested where she or the boys were concerned; and the charm there was in constant intercourse with one of her own age was delightful. Notwithstanding the difference in station, the two young girls had many subjects of interest common to both, which they were never weary of discussing.

The enjoyment of their companionship was not all on Christie’s side. Since her residence in her father’s house, Miss Gertrude had had no companions of her own age for whose society she cared. She was constantly surprised and delighted to find how entirely her brother’s little nurse could understand and sympathise with some of her moods and fancies. She brought out her favourite books and discussed her favourite subjects, and spoke to her of many things as she had never spoken to any one since she bade adieu to her young cousins at home.

It cannot be denied that Christie’s evident admiration of her helped to bespeak Miss Gertrude’s good-will. But the young lady was not very vain. She really liked Christie, and took pleasure in her society; and she admired the tact and patience with which she managed Little Claude.

The first few days of their intercourse was to each like the reading of a pleasant book; nor did their interest in each other fail as they grew better acquainted.

Chapter Fifteen.Peeps into Fairy-land.“Christie,” said Gertrude, coming into the green room just as the little nurse had arranged the crib for Claude’s mid-day nap, “did you ever read ‘The Lady of the Lake’?”Christie was sitting down, with a basket of little socks and a bunch of darning-cotton in her hand, and she looked up eagerly as she entered.“No, I never read it; but I have heard of it. It is a nice book, isn’t it?”“Yes. Get your work ready, and I’ll tell Martha to look after Clement for the next two hours, and I will read to you while Claude sleeps. I have read it once; but I would like to read it again.”And she did read it. Soon Christie’s socks and darning-cotton were forgotten, and she sat listening intently. It was something entirely new to her, and she yielded herself to the charm of the book with an eagerness that delighted the reader. Miss Gertrude liked the book at the second reading even better than at the first. She enjoyed it this time for herself and Christie too.“There seems so much more in a book when you have anybody to enjoy it with you,” she said, at the end of an hour. “But I am tired of reading aloud. You must take it a while now.”“But I have got out of the way of reading aloud,” said Christie; “and besides, I do not read so well as you.”“Oh, never mind; you’ll read well enough. And give me the basket; I’ll darn your socks in the meantime.”“The socks? Oh, I had forgotten them! But there is very little to do. I’ll read a while if you like; but I know I don’t read so well as you.”She took the book, however, and another hour passed rapidly away. She shut the book with a sigh when Claude moved.This was the first of many such readings. During the hours when Claude was asleep and Clement under the immediate superintendence of Martha, Miss Gertrude brought her book into the green room and shared the pleasure it gave her with her little brother’s nurse. And at other times, too, when the little boys were amusing themselves together in the garden, they read and discussed their books, sitting in the cedar walk, or under the shadow of the locust-tree. And a very pleasant month they had. Christie had great enjoyment in all this; and apparently Miss Gertrude had no less; for she refused several invitations, and broke more than one engagement with her aunt, rather than interfere with these new arrangements.But one day Miss Gertrude came into the green room with a cloud upon her brow. It was plain that something was the matter.“It has been a great deal too pleasant to last long,” she said, throwing down a letter which she held in her hand. “Here is papa coming home immediately. I wouldn’t mind his coming,” she added, checked by the look of surprise on Christie’s face. “I shall be very glad to see him; and he won’t make much difference—he is so seldom at home. Besides, he will let me please myself about things. He has no fancy for my going here and there at everybody’s bidding. But Mr Sherwood is coming with him—Mrs Seaton’s cousin—a very disagreeable person; at least, I think so. Mamma thinks him wonderfully good, and he is a great favourite with papa, too. I am sure I don’t know why. I think he is conceited; and he is an Englishman, besides.”Christie laughed.“That’s not a very good reason.”“Perhaps not. But he has such a cool, indifferent way of asserting the superiority of the English over all other nations, as though the question need not be discussed. ‘It must be quite evident to everybody,’ his manner seems to say.”After a pause, Miss Gertrude continued:“And that is not all. He is very meddlesome. He is always telling mamma what ought to be expected from a young lady like me, and getting her to annoy me about lessons and other things; at least, I think so. I know he thinks me quite childish; and sometimes he interferes between Clement and me. What do you think he had the impertinence to say to me once? That no one was fit to govern who had not learned to obey. That it would be wiser for me to learn the lesson of obedience myself, than to attempt to teach it to my little brother.”“And what answer did you make?” asked Christie, after a little hesitation.“I turned and walked out of the room; and I did not see him again. I chose to be out of the way when he came to say good-bye. I dare say that is one reason why I don’t like the thought of his coming just now. I feel a little awkward, you know. I owe him one good turn, however. If it had not been for him, I think father would have listened to Aunt Barbara and sent me to school. I ought to thank him for that.”“And didn’t you want to go to school?” asked Christie, in some surprise.“No, indeed! I never was at school, you know. We had a governess and teachers at home. I am to have private teachers for some things here, when the summer is over, unless I should be sent to school, after all.”When the gentleman made his appearance among them the next day, he did not look like the formidable person Christie imagined him to be. They were sitting on the lawn, in the shadow of the locust-tree, when he arrived; and before he went into the house he came and shook hands with Miss Gertrude and the little boys. Christie thought he must have quite forgotten his falling-out with the young lady, he met her so pleasantly and frankly. The embarrassment was all on her side.As for the boys, they were beside themselves with delight. It was easy to see they did not share their sister’s dislike. Poor little Claude clasped his arms about his neck and kissed him eagerly. Clement, in a way that showed he felt sure of his sympathy, began to tell him of the pony and the rabbits, insisting that he should come with him to the stable to see them at once.The next day was Sunday. After a fortnight of lovely summer weather, a great change had taken place. The rain was falling in torrents, and the wind was whistling through the trees in the garden, when Christie looked out. A rainy day in the green room was by no means such a dreary matter as it used to be in Mrs Lee’s attic-nursery, with only a glimpse of driving clouds and dripping roofs to vary the dulness within. So Christie comforted little Claude for the want of his morning ride and ramble in the garden, telling him how glad the dusty leaves and thirsty little flowers would be for all the bright drops that were falling on them. She told him how the bees, that had been so busy all the week, must take a rest to-day, and how warm and dry the little birds would be in their nest in the pear-tree, for all the driving rain. Setting him in his favourite chair by the window, she amused him with talk like this, as she went about putting things in order in the room. While she comforted him she comforted herself; for the rain had brought a disappointment to her too. It had been arranged that Martha should take charge of Claude while Christie went to church in the morning, where she had not been for several Sabbaths. But remembering Mrs Greenly’s oft-repeated warnings against exposing herself to dampness, she did not like to venture in the rain. So she had to content herself at home.This was an easier matter than it had sometimes been. As the morning wore away, and the time approached for the little boy to take his usual sleep, she was quite contented to be where she was.“It is very pleasant, all this reading with Miss Gertrude,” she said. “She is very kind, and I like her very much. But I shall be glad to be alone for a little while.”Claude’s eyes closed at last, and she was just taking her Bible from the table beside her, when the door opened and Miss Gertrude entered.“I only heard this minute from Mattie that you did not go to church, after all,” she said. “No wonder! What a rain! Papa thought it was too bad to take out the horses. He is tired, too, after his journey. Is it half-past eleven? Everybody is lazy on Sunday morning. But there will be an hour or two before lunch yet. I have brought our friend ‘Jeanie.’ There will be time for a chapter or two.”Christie looked up with an expression of surprise and doubt on her face.“Jeanie Deans, is it? But it is the Sabbath-day!”Miss Gertrude laughed.“Well, what if it is? I’m sure there is no harm in the book. You looked exactly like Aunt Barbara when you said that; I mean, all but her cap and spectacles. ‘The moral expression’ of your face, as she would say, was exactly the same.”Christie laughed, but said nothing.“You don’t mean to tell me that there is any harm in the book?” continued Miss Gertrude.“It is not a right book for the Sabbath, though,” said Christie, gravely.“Well, for my part, I don’t see that a book that it is right to read every other day of the week can be so very bad a book for Sunday,” said Miss Gertrude; sharply.Christie made no reply.“I declare, I like Aunt Barbara’s way best; to call all tales wicked at once, and have nothing to do with them—these vile novels, as she calls them. Come, now, you are not in earnest?”“I am quite in earnest,” said Christie, gently, but firmly.“And you have been reading or listening to this, or something like it, all the week! Well, that is what I should call straining at a gnat and swallowing a camel.”“Well, perhaps it is. I never thought about it in that way before. But I am sure it is not right to read such books on the Sabbath-day. And perhaps it is wrong to read them at all—at least, so many of them as we have been reading. I almost think it is.”She spoke sorrowfully, but not in any degree offensively. Indeed, she seemed to be speaking rather to herself than to Miss Gertrude. Yet the young lady was offended. Assuming the tone and manner with which she sometimes made herself disagreeable, she said:“I should regret exceedingly to be the means of leading you to do anything that you think wrong. I must try and enjoy my book by myself.” And without looking towards her, she walked out of the room.For a little while Christie sat motionless, gazing at the door through which she had disappeared, and thinking sorrowfully that this was a very sad ending to a very pleasant time. But there was a sharper pain at her heart than any that this thought awakened. All those days that had been so bright in passing had a shadow over them as she looked back upon them. To what end and purpose had all their intercourse tended? What was the cause of the feeling of uneasiness, almost of guilt, that had come on her now and then at quiet moments? It had clung to her all the morning. She was not very wise or far-sighted. She could not reason from cause to effect, or analyse her own feelings very closely. But even when she was congratulating herself on the prospect of a quiet time she was half conscious that she was not very glad to find herself alone. When she sat down with the Bible in her hand, there fell on her spirit no such blessed sense of rest and peace as used to transform the dim attic into something pleasanter than this pretty green room, and fairer than the summer garden.“There is something wrong,” she said to herself, as she listened to Miss Gertrude’s footsteps on the stair. “I am afraid I am one of the folk that Mrs Grey used to tell about, that an easy life is not good for. Better the weary days and nights than to fall back into my old ways again, just content with the pleasure the day brings, without looking beyond. Who would have thought that I could have forgotten so soon? It is just this foolish novel reading, I think. Aunt Elsie said it was a snare to me; and Effie said something like it once.”“Well, I’m not likely to have more of it,” she continued, with a sigh. “I suppose I ought to be glad that Miss Gertrude went away vexed; for I dare say I should not have had courage to-morrow to tell her that so much of that kind of reading is not good for me, Sabbath or week-day. It couldn’t have lasted long, at any rate. Of course, when Mrs Seaton comes home it will be quite different. Well, it will be better for me—a great deal better. I must be watchful and humble. To think that I should grow careless and forget, just when I ought to be so mindful and thankful!”A few tears fell on the leaves of her little Bible; but by and by the former peace came back again, as she felt herself half resting indeed on the only sure foundation. The foolish fancies that had haunted her imagination all the week vanished before the influence of the blessed words on those familiar pages. They were precious still, though the strange charm of her new companionship had turned her thoughts from them for a time. She forgot her idle dreams, the foolish fancies she had indulged, the vain longing for this or that earthly good for herself and for all at home that had at times for the last few days taken possession of her. The peace which flows from a sense of pardon and acceptance and a firm trust was for the time enjoyed. To be and to do just what God willed seemed infinitely desirable to her.“‘Great peace have they that love Thy law,’” she murmured. “I do love it; and I have the peace.”Very humble and earnest were the prayers that rose beside the bed of little Claude that day, and very grave, yet happy, was the face that greeted his waking. Christie needed all her patience, for this was one of Claude’s fretful days. He grew weary of being confined to one room; he longed for the company of his sister and Clement. His brother came in for a little while after he had had his dinner; but he was in one of his troublesome moods, and vexed and fretted Claude so much that Christie was fain to give him over to Martha’s charge, bidding him not come into the green room till he was ready to be good and kind.In the meantime, Miss Gertrude was enjoying her book in her own room; or, rather, she was not enjoying it. It had lost much of its interest to her. She was not in a humour to enjoy anything just then. She wandered into the parlour at last, thinking a chat with her father, or even with Mr Sherwood, would be better than her book. But her father was in the library, with the door shut, and Mr Sherwood had gone out, notwithstanding the rain. The deserted room looked dreary, and she went to her own again.At six she went down to dinner. They were not a very lively party. Mr Seaton looked sleepy, and yawned several times before they went to the dining-room. Mr Sherwood was very grave, and, indeed, “stupid,” as Gertrude thought.“What a misfortune a rainy Sunday is!” she said at last. “One scarcely knows what to do with one’s self. This has seemed twice as long as other days.”“Pray don’t let any one hear you say that, my dear,” said her father, laughing. “If one rainy Sunday exhausts the resources of a well-educated young lady, I am afraid her prospects are not the brightest.”Miss Gertrude laughed.“Oh, father, I haven’t quite got to that state of exhaustion! But I have been dull and stupid—not able to settle myself to the enjoyment of anything—all day.”“Where are the boys?” asked her father.“Claude is in the green room, with his nurse. Indeed, I suppose both boys are there just now. After dinner I shall send for them. Claude really seems better; he runs about again.”“Stay,” said Mr Sherwood. “This reminds me that I brought a letter last night for the new nursemaid; at least, I suppose so;” and he took a letter from his pocket, and laid it on the table.“You don’t mean that you brought that home last night, and have kept it till this time?” said Miss Gertrude, with much surprise.“Tut, tut, my child!” said her father, touching the hand outstretched to take the letter. She withdrew her hand without a word.“You could not have been more indignant had the letter been for yourself. It is not such a terrible oversight,” said Mrs Lane, or Aunt Barbara, as she was commonly called, who had looked in on her way from church. “If it is like most of the letters of that sort of people, it would be little loss though she never got it. Such extraordinary epistles as I sometimes read for my servants!”“This seems quite a respectable affair, however,” said Mr Seaton, reading the direction in Effie’s fair, clear handwriting:Christina Redfern,Care of J.R. Seaton, Esquire.“That is a very pretty direction—very.”“I am very sorry, and very much ashamed of my carelessness,” said Mr Sherwood. “I hope, Miss Gertrude, you will forgive me, and I will never do so again, as little boys say.”But he did not look either very sorry or very much ashamed, Miss Gertrude thought, and she made no reply. The rather uncomfortable silence that followed was broken by a low voice at the door:“Am I to take the children, Miss Gertrude?”Master Clement answered:“No, I shan’t go to bed yet. It’s only seven o’clock.”“Come in,” said Mr Seaton, kindly. “I want to know how these little fellows have behaved since their mother went away.”Christie came forward shyly, curtseying, in some confusion, to Mrs Lane, whom her short-sighted eyes did not discern till she was close upon her.“I hope they have been good and obedient, and have not given you much trouble?” said Mr Seaton again.A little smile passed over Christie’s mouth. “Master Clement is Miss Gertrude’s boy, sir,” she said, as she stooped to buckle the belt of that active young gentleman.“And I’m very good. She punishes me when I ain’t good.”“I’m afraid she has enough to do, then. And the doctor thinks Claude is better, does he?” he asked, caressing the pale little face that lay on his shoulder.“Yes,” said Christie, doubtfully. “He says he is better.”There was no mistaking the look of wistful interest that overspread her face as she looked at the child.“He is very good and patient, almost always,” she added, as she met the little boy’s smile.“I’m a great deal better,” said Claude. “The doctor says I may ride on the pony some day.”“Have you had much to do with children?” asked Aunt Barbara.“I lived with Mrs Lee eight months.”“And she parted with you because she needed a person of more experience?”“Yes, I suppose so. I wasn’t strong enough Mr Lee thought. I was very sorry.”It was a sore subject with Christie yet, and the colour went and came as she spoke.“And where were you before?” asked Mr Seaton, wishing to relieve her embarrassment.“I was with our own children, at home. I was one of the children then myself. I never was away from home before my father died.”“Look, here is something for you. Cousin Charles says it is for you. It is a letter,” said Clement, holding it up.If there had been ten Aunt Barbaras in the room, Christie could not have restrained the expression of surprise and pleasure that rose to her lips at the sight of Effie’s familiar handwriting, and her hands quite trembled as she took it from the little boy.“Now, Claudie,” said the young lady, coming forward, “it is time for you to go with Christie. Say ‘good-night’ to father and Aunt Barbara.”For a single moment the look of peevish resistance that used to come so often to the child’s face passed over it, but it changed as Christie stooped down, saying softly:“Will you walk? or shall I carry you, as they carried the little boy home from the field?”“And will you tell me more?” he asked, holding out his hand.“Oh, yes; and how glad his mother was when he grew better again. Now walk a little bit, and I will carry you up-stairs. The doctor says he ought to be encouraged to walk,” she said to his father, as she set him down.The child bade them “good-night” quite willingly, and went.“Clement, stay with me,” said his sister. “Christie will not get much good of her letter for the next two hours, if you are with her.”Clement was very willing to stay. But for all that Christie did not get much good of her letter for an hour and more, except the good it did her to hold it in her hand, and feeling the delight that was in store for her. Miss Gertrude came to the green room some time after, to find her still rocking and singing to the wakeful Claude.“You don’t mean you haven’t read your letter yet?” she said, in astonishment.“I have opened it. They are all well. I like to be sure of a quiet time to read a letter.”“Well, take the lamp and go over there. I will take care of him for the present.”“He is just asleep now,” said Christie, hesitating. She was thinking that she would like to have the room to herself before she read her letter, but as Miss Gertrude seated herself in the low rocking-chair, she had only to take the lamp and go to the other side.She soon forgot Miss Gertrude, Claude, and all besides, except Effie and the bairns at home. Effie had the faculty, which many people of greater pretensions do not possess, of putting a great deal into a letter. They were always written journal-wise—a little now, and a little then; and her small, clear handwriting had come to be like print to Christie’s accustomed eyes. So she read on, with a smile on her lip, quite unconscious that the eyes that seemed to be seeing nothing but the bright embers were all the time furtively watching her. Miss Gertrude longed for a peep into the unseen world in which her humble friend was at that moment revelling. She felt positively envious of the supreme content that was expressed on Christie’s plain, pale face.She would not have understood it had the peep been granted. She never could have understood the interest which in Christie’s mind was connected with the various little items of news with which Effie’s letter was nearly filled. There was the coming and going of the neighbours, a visit from blind Alice, and her delight in her canary. There was an account of Jennie’s unprecedented success in chicken-raising, and of little Will’s triumphant conquest of compound division; and many more items of the same kind. There were a few words—a very few—about the day Christie had spent in the cemetery with John Nesbitt, which brought the happy tears into her eyes; and that was all.No, the best came last. The letter had been opened again, and a slip of paper had been added, to tell how Effie had got a letter from Mrs Lee. It was a very short letter, scarcely more than a line or two; but Effie was to keep it safe to show to Christie when she came home. In the meantime she must tell her that she had never in all her life been so proud and happy as she had been when she read to Aunt Elsie what a help and comfort her dear little sister had been to the writer in the midst of sickness and sorrow; and more than that, how, by means of her little Bible and her earnest, humble words, she had opened to her a way to a higher hope and a better consolation than earth could give, and how the lady could not go away without doing what she knew would give her friend more pleasure than anything else she could do. She must tell Christie’s sister how good and patient and useful she had been.“And so, Christie, when you are weary or desponding, as I am afraid you sometimes are, I think you may take a little rest and pleasure from the thought that you have been favoured to be made the giver of a ‘cup of cold water to one ofHislittle ones.’”Oh, it was too much! Such words from her dearest sister Effie! And to think that Mrs Lee should have written them that last night, when she must have been so weary! And had she really done her good? Oh, it was too much happiness! The letter fell from her hands, and her face, as she burst into happy tears, was hidden by them. It was only for a moment, however. She fancied herself quite unobserved as she took up her precious letter.“Are they all well at home?” asked Miss Gertrude, as Christie, having stealthily wiped away all traces of her tears, came and sat down on the other side of the cot, where Claude was now sleeping soundly.“They are all quite well. My aunt is better. Everything is just as usual.”“Your sister is a very pretty writer, is she not?” she asked.“Yes, she writes very plain and even. Her writing is easily read.” But Christie did not offer to show her the letter, as Miss Gertrude half hoped she would. It was not altogether for the gratification of her curiosity, nor chiefly for that, she wanted to see it. Though her companion was sitting there, with her cheek leaning on her hand, so gravely and so quietly, she knew that her heart was by no means so quiet as her outward appearance seemed to indicate. She saw that it was ready to overflow with emotion of some kind—happiness, Miss Gertrude thought, but was not sure.But it could not be all happiness. Christie must be longing for the sight of the sister whose written words could call forth such tears as she had seen falling even now. And she wished to be able to sympathise with her, to say some word that would establish confidence between them. Besides, she had a feeling that she ought to atone for her petulance in the morning. At any rate, she wanted to be sure that Christie did not resent it.But Christie said nothing. She sat quite still, and her thoughts were far-away. When she roused herself, it was not to speak, but to take up her little Bible, that lay within reach of her hand.“How fond you seem to be of that book!” said Miss Gertrude, as she watched her turning over the leaves.“Yes,” said Christie, quietly. “Effie gave it to me.”“Are you going to read now?”“I was looking for something that Effie wrote about. I can’t mind the exact words, and I am not sure where to find them.” And she still turned over the leaves.“Have you found it?” said Miss Gertrude, when she paused.“Yes; I have found it. Here it is. ‘And whosoever shall give to drink unto one of these little ones a cup of cold water only, in the name of a disciple, shall in no wise lose his reward.’”She read it slowly and gravely, but Miss Gertrude could by no means understand the look of mingled doubt and pleasure that she saw on her face when she had done.“Well?” she said, inquiringly.But Christie had nothing to say. Her face was bowed down on her hands, and she did not raise it till she heard the door open and shut; and when she looked up, Miss Gertrude was gone.

“Christie,” said Gertrude, coming into the green room just as the little nurse had arranged the crib for Claude’s mid-day nap, “did you ever read ‘The Lady of the Lake’?”

Christie was sitting down, with a basket of little socks and a bunch of darning-cotton in her hand, and she looked up eagerly as she entered.

“No, I never read it; but I have heard of it. It is a nice book, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Get your work ready, and I’ll tell Martha to look after Clement for the next two hours, and I will read to you while Claude sleeps. I have read it once; but I would like to read it again.”

And she did read it. Soon Christie’s socks and darning-cotton were forgotten, and she sat listening intently. It was something entirely new to her, and she yielded herself to the charm of the book with an eagerness that delighted the reader. Miss Gertrude liked the book at the second reading even better than at the first. She enjoyed it this time for herself and Christie too.

“There seems so much more in a book when you have anybody to enjoy it with you,” she said, at the end of an hour. “But I am tired of reading aloud. You must take it a while now.”

“But I have got out of the way of reading aloud,” said Christie; “and besides, I do not read so well as you.”

“Oh, never mind; you’ll read well enough. And give me the basket; I’ll darn your socks in the meantime.”

“The socks? Oh, I had forgotten them! But there is very little to do. I’ll read a while if you like; but I know I don’t read so well as you.”

She took the book, however, and another hour passed rapidly away. She shut the book with a sigh when Claude moved.

This was the first of many such readings. During the hours when Claude was asleep and Clement under the immediate superintendence of Martha, Miss Gertrude brought her book into the green room and shared the pleasure it gave her with her little brother’s nurse. And at other times, too, when the little boys were amusing themselves together in the garden, they read and discussed their books, sitting in the cedar walk, or under the shadow of the locust-tree. And a very pleasant month they had. Christie had great enjoyment in all this; and apparently Miss Gertrude had no less; for she refused several invitations, and broke more than one engagement with her aunt, rather than interfere with these new arrangements.

But one day Miss Gertrude came into the green room with a cloud upon her brow. It was plain that something was the matter.

“It has been a great deal too pleasant to last long,” she said, throwing down a letter which she held in her hand. “Here is papa coming home immediately. I wouldn’t mind his coming,” she added, checked by the look of surprise on Christie’s face. “I shall be very glad to see him; and he won’t make much difference—he is so seldom at home. Besides, he will let me please myself about things. He has no fancy for my going here and there at everybody’s bidding. But Mr Sherwood is coming with him—Mrs Seaton’s cousin—a very disagreeable person; at least, I think so. Mamma thinks him wonderfully good, and he is a great favourite with papa, too. I am sure I don’t know why. I think he is conceited; and he is an Englishman, besides.”

Christie laughed.

“That’s not a very good reason.”

“Perhaps not. But he has such a cool, indifferent way of asserting the superiority of the English over all other nations, as though the question need not be discussed. ‘It must be quite evident to everybody,’ his manner seems to say.”

After a pause, Miss Gertrude continued:

“And that is not all. He is very meddlesome. He is always telling mamma what ought to be expected from a young lady like me, and getting her to annoy me about lessons and other things; at least, I think so. I know he thinks me quite childish; and sometimes he interferes between Clement and me. What do you think he had the impertinence to say to me once? That no one was fit to govern who had not learned to obey. That it would be wiser for me to learn the lesson of obedience myself, than to attempt to teach it to my little brother.”

“And what answer did you make?” asked Christie, after a little hesitation.

“I turned and walked out of the room; and I did not see him again. I chose to be out of the way when he came to say good-bye. I dare say that is one reason why I don’t like the thought of his coming just now. I feel a little awkward, you know. I owe him one good turn, however. If it had not been for him, I think father would have listened to Aunt Barbara and sent me to school. I ought to thank him for that.”

“And didn’t you want to go to school?” asked Christie, in some surprise.

“No, indeed! I never was at school, you know. We had a governess and teachers at home. I am to have private teachers for some things here, when the summer is over, unless I should be sent to school, after all.”

When the gentleman made his appearance among them the next day, he did not look like the formidable person Christie imagined him to be. They were sitting on the lawn, in the shadow of the locust-tree, when he arrived; and before he went into the house he came and shook hands with Miss Gertrude and the little boys. Christie thought he must have quite forgotten his falling-out with the young lady, he met her so pleasantly and frankly. The embarrassment was all on her side.

As for the boys, they were beside themselves with delight. It was easy to see they did not share their sister’s dislike. Poor little Claude clasped his arms about his neck and kissed him eagerly. Clement, in a way that showed he felt sure of his sympathy, began to tell him of the pony and the rabbits, insisting that he should come with him to the stable to see them at once.

The next day was Sunday. After a fortnight of lovely summer weather, a great change had taken place. The rain was falling in torrents, and the wind was whistling through the trees in the garden, when Christie looked out. A rainy day in the green room was by no means such a dreary matter as it used to be in Mrs Lee’s attic-nursery, with only a glimpse of driving clouds and dripping roofs to vary the dulness within. So Christie comforted little Claude for the want of his morning ride and ramble in the garden, telling him how glad the dusty leaves and thirsty little flowers would be for all the bright drops that were falling on them. She told him how the bees, that had been so busy all the week, must take a rest to-day, and how warm and dry the little birds would be in their nest in the pear-tree, for all the driving rain. Setting him in his favourite chair by the window, she amused him with talk like this, as she went about putting things in order in the room. While she comforted him she comforted herself; for the rain had brought a disappointment to her too. It had been arranged that Martha should take charge of Claude while Christie went to church in the morning, where she had not been for several Sabbaths. But remembering Mrs Greenly’s oft-repeated warnings against exposing herself to dampness, she did not like to venture in the rain. So she had to content herself at home.

This was an easier matter than it had sometimes been. As the morning wore away, and the time approached for the little boy to take his usual sleep, she was quite contented to be where she was.

“It is very pleasant, all this reading with Miss Gertrude,” she said. “She is very kind, and I like her very much. But I shall be glad to be alone for a little while.”

Claude’s eyes closed at last, and she was just taking her Bible from the table beside her, when the door opened and Miss Gertrude entered.

“I only heard this minute from Mattie that you did not go to church, after all,” she said. “No wonder! What a rain! Papa thought it was too bad to take out the horses. He is tired, too, after his journey. Is it half-past eleven? Everybody is lazy on Sunday morning. But there will be an hour or two before lunch yet. I have brought our friend ‘Jeanie.’ There will be time for a chapter or two.”

Christie looked up with an expression of surprise and doubt on her face.

“Jeanie Deans, is it? But it is the Sabbath-day!”

Miss Gertrude laughed.

“Well, what if it is? I’m sure there is no harm in the book. You looked exactly like Aunt Barbara when you said that; I mean, all but her cap and spectacles. ‘The moral expression’ of your face, as she would say, was exactly the same.”

Christie laughed, but said nothing.

“You don’t mean to tell me that there is any harm in the book?” continued Miss Gertrude.

“It is not a right book for the Sabbath, though,” said Christie, gravely.

“Well, for my part, I don’t see that a book that it is right to read every other day of the week can be so very bad a book for Sunday,” said Miss Gertrude; sharply.

Christie made no reply.

“I declare, I like Aunt Barbara’s way best; to call all tales wicked at once, and have nothing to do with them—these vile novels, as she calls them. Come, now, you are not in earnest?”

“I am quite in earnest,” said Christie, gently, but firmly.

“And you have been reading or listening to this, or something like it, all the week! Well, that is what I should call straining at a gnat and swallowing a camel.”

“Well, perhaps it is. I never thought about it in that way before. But I am sure it is not right to read such books on the Sabbath-day. And perhaps it is wrong to read them at all—at least, so many of them as we have been reading. I almost think it is.”

She spoke sorrowfully, but not in any degree offensively. Indeed, she seemed to be speaking rather to herself than to Miss Gertrude. Yet the young lady was offended. Assuming the tone and manner with which she sometimes made herself disagreeable, she said:

“I should regret exceedingly to be the means of leading you to do anything that you think wrong. I must try and enjoy my book by myself.” And without looking towards her, she walked out of the room.

For a little while Christie sat motionless, gazing at the door through which she had disappeared, and thinking sorrowfully that this was a very sad ending to a very pleasant time. But there was a sharper pain at her heart than any that this thought awakened. All those days that had been so bright in passing had a shadow over them as she looked back upon them. To what end and purpose had all their intercourse tended? What was the cause of the feeling of uneasiness, almost of guilt, that had come on her now and then at quiet moments? It had clung to her all the morning. She was not very wise or far-sighted. She could not reason from cause to effect, or analyse her own feelings very closely. But even when she was congratulating herself on the prospect of a quiet time she was half conscious that she was not very glad to find herself alone. When she sat down with the Bible in her hand, there fell on her spirit no such blessed sense of rest and peace as used to transform the dim attic into something pleasanter than this pretty green room, and fairer than the summer garden.

“There is something wrong,” she said to herself, as she listened to Miss Gertrude’s footsteps on the stair. “I am afraid I am one of the folk that Mrs Grey used to tell about, that an easy life is not good for. Better the weary days and nights than to fall back into my old ways again, just content with the pleasure the day brings, without looking beyond. Who would have thought that I could have forgotten so soon? It is just this foolish novel reading, I think. Aunt Elsie said it was a snare to me; and Effie said something like it once.”

“Well, I’m not likely to have more of it,” she continued, with a sigh. “I suppose I ought to be glad that Miss Gertrude went away vexed; for I dare say I should not have had courage to-morrow to tell her that so much of that kind of reading is not good for me, Sabbath or week-day. It couldn’t have lasted long, at any rate. Of course, when Mrs Seaton comes home it will be quite different. Well, it will be better for me—a great deal better. I must be watchful and humble. To think that I should grow careless and forget, just when I ought to be so mindful and thankful!”

A few tears fell on the leaves of her little Bible; but by and by the former peace came back again, as she felt herself half resting indeed on the only sure foundation. The foolish fancies that had haunted her imagination all the week vanished before the influence of the blessed words on those familiar pages. They were precious still, though the strange charm of her new companionship had turned her thoughts from them for a time. She forgot her idle dreams, the foolish fancies she had indulged, the vain longing for this or that earthly good for herself and for all at home that had at times for the last few days taken possession of her. The peace which flows from a sense of pardon and acceptance and a firm trust was for the time enjoyed. To be and to do just what God willed seemed infinitely desirable to her.

“‘Great peace have they that love Thy law,’” she murmured. “I do love it; and I have the peace.”

Very humble and earnest were the prayers that rose beside the bed of little Claude that day, and very grave, yet happy, was the face that greeted his waking. Christie needed all her patience, for this was one of Claude’s fretful days. He grew weary of being confined to one room; he longed for the company of his sister and Clement. His brother came in for a little while after he had had his dinner; but he was in one of his troublesome moods, and vexed and fretted Claude so much that Christie was fain to give him over to Martha’s charge, bidding him not come into the green room till he was ready to be good and kind.

In the meantime, Miss Gertrude was enjoying her book in her own room; or, rather, she was not enjoying it. It had lost much of its interest to her. She was not in a humour to enjoy anything just then. She wandered into the parlour at last, thinking a chat with her father, or even with Mr Sherwood, would be better than her book. But her father was in the library, with the door shut, and Mr Sherwood had gone out, notwithstanding the rain. The deserted room looked dreary, and she went to her own again.

At six she went down to dinner. They were not a very lively party. Mr Seaton looked sleepy, and yawned several times before they went to the dining-room. Mr Sherwood was very grave, and, indeed, “stupid,” as Gertrude thought.

“What a misfortune a rainy Sunday is!” she said at last. “One scarcely knows what to do with one’s self. This has seemed twice as long as other days.”

“Pray don’t let any one hear you say that, my dear,” said her father, laughing. “If one rainy Sunday exhausts the resources of a well-educated young lady, I am afraid her prospects are not the brightest.”

Miss Gertrude laughed.

“Oh, father, I haven’t quite got to that state of exhaustion! But I have been dull and stupid—not able to settle myself to the enjoyment of anything—all day.”

“Where are the boys?” asked her father.

“Claude is in the green room, with his nurse. Indeed, I suppose both boys are there just now. After dinner I shall send for them. Claude really seems better; he runs about again.”

“Stay,” said Mr Sherwood. “This reminds me that I brought a letter last night for the new nursemaid; at least, I suppose so;” and he took a letter from his pocket, and laid it on the table.

“You don’t mean that you brought that home last night, and have kept it till this time?” said Miss Gertrude, with much surprise.

“Tut, tut, my child!” said her father, touching the hand outstretched to take the letter. She withdrew her hand without a word.

“You could not have been more indignant had the letter been for yourself. It is not such a terrible oversight,” said Mrs Lane, or Aunt Barbara, as she was commonly called, who had looked in on her way from church. “If it is like most of the letters of that sort of people, it would be little loss though she never got it. Such extraordinary epistles as I sometimes read for my servants!”

“This seems quite a respectable affair, however,” said Mr Seaton, reading the direction in Effie’s fair, clear handwriting:

Christina Redfern,Care of J.R. Seaton, Esquire.

Christina Redfern,Care of J.R. Seaton, Esquire.

“That is a very pretty direction—very.”

“I am very sorry, and very much ashamed of my carelessness,” said Mr Sherwood. “I hope, Miss Gertrude, you will forgive me, and I will never do so again, as little boys say.”

But he did not look either very sorry or very much ashamed, Miss Gertrude thought, and she made no reply. The rather uncomfortable silence that followed was broken by a low voice at the door:

“Am I to take the children, Miss Gertrude?”

Master Clement answered:

“No, I shan’t go to bed yet. It’s only seven o’clock.”

“Come in,” said Mr Seaton, kindly. “I want to know how these little fellows have behaved since their mother went away.”

Christie came forward shyly, curtseying, in some confusion, to Mrs Lane, whom her short-sighted eyes did not discern till she was close upon her.

“I hope they have been good and obedient, and have not given you much trouble?” said Mr Seaton again.

A little smile passed over Christie’s mouth. “Master Clement is Miss Gertrude’s boy, sir,” she said, as she stooped to buckle the belt of that active young gentleman.

“And I’m very good. She punishes me when I ain’t good.”

“I’m afraid she has enough to do, then. And the doctor thinks Claude is better, does he?” he asked, caressing the pale little face that lay on his shoulder.

“Yes,” said Christie, doubtfully. “He says he is better.”

There was no mistaking the look of wistful interest that overspread her face as she looked at the child.

“He is very good and patient, almost always,” she added, as she met the little boy’s smile.

“I’m a great deal better,” said Claude. “The doctor says I may ride on the pony some day.”

“Have you had much to do with children?” asked Aunt Barbara.

“I lived with Mrs Lee eight months.”

“And she parted with you because she needed a person of more experience?”

“Yes, I suppose so. I wasn’t strong enough Mr Lee thought. I was very sorry.”

It was a sore subject with Christie yet, and the colour went and came as she spoke.

“And where were you before?” asked Mr Seaton, wishing to relieve her embarrassment.

“I was with our own children, at home. I was one of the children then myself. I never was away from home before my father died.”

“Look, here is something for you. Cousin Charles says it is for you. It is a letter,” said Clement, holding it up.

If there had been ten Aunt Barbaras in the room, Christie could not have restrained the expression of surprise and pleasure that rose to her lips at the sight of Effie’s familiar handwriting, and her hands quite trembled as she took it from the little boy.

“Now, Claudie,” said the young lady, coming forward, “it is time for you to go with Christie. Say ‘good-night’ to father and Aunt Barbara.”

For a single moment the look of peevish resistance that used to come so often to the child’s face passed over it, but it changed as Christie stooped down, saying softly:

“Will you walk? or shall I carry you, as they carried the little boy home from the field?”

“And will you tell me more?” he asked, holding out his hand.

“Oh, yes; and how glad his mother was when he grew better again. Now walk a little bit, and I will carry you up-stairs. The doctor says he ought to be encouraged to walk,” she said to his father, as she set him down.

The child bade them “good-night” quite willingly, and went.

“Clement, stay with me,” said his sister. “Christie will not get much good of her letter for the next two hours, if you are with her.”

Clement was very willing to stay. But for all that Christie did not get much good of her letter for an hour and more, except the good it did her to hold it in her hand, and feeling the delight that was in store for her. Miss Gertrude came to the green room some time after, to find her still rocking and singing to the wakeful Claude.

“You don’t mean you haven’t read your letter yet?” she said, in astonishment.

“I have opened it. They are all well. I like to be sure of a quiet time to read a letter.”

“Well, take the lamp and go over there. I will take care of him for the present.”

“He is just asleep now,” said Christie, hesitating. She was thinking that she would like to have the room to herself before she read her letter, but as Miss Gertrude seated herself in the low rocking-chair, she had only to take the lamp and go to the other side.

She soon forgot Miss Gertrude, Claude, and all besides, except Effie and the bairns at home. Effie had the faculty, which many people of greater pretensions do not possess, of putting a great deal into a letter. They were always written journal-wise—a little now, and a little then; and her small, clear handwriting had come to be like print to Christie’s accustomed eyes. So she read on, with a smile on her lip, quite unconscious that the eyes that seemed to be seeing nothing but the bright embers were all the time furtively watching her. Miss Gertrude longed for a peep into the unseen world in which her humble friend was at that moment revelling. She felt positively envious of the supreme content that was expressed on Christie’s plain, pale face.

She would not have understood it had the peep been granted. She never could have understood the interest which in Christie’s mind was connected with the various little items of news with which Effie’s letter was nearly filled. There was the coming and going of the neighbours, a visit from blind Alice, and her delight in her canary. There was an account of Jennie’s unprecedented success in chicken-raising, and of little Will’s triumphant conquest of compound division; and many more items of the same kind. There were a few words—a very few—about the day Christie had spent in the cemetery with John Nesbitt, which brought the happy tears into her eyes; and that was all.

No, the best came last. The letter had been opened again, and a slip of paper had been added, to tell how Effie had got a letter from Mrs Lee. It was a very short letter, scarcely more than a line or two; but Effie was to keep it safe to show to Christie when she came home. In the meantime she must tell her that she had never in all her life been so proud and happy as she had been when she read to Aunt Elsie what a help and comfort her dear little sister had been to the writer in the midst of sickness and sorrow; and more than that, how, by means of her little Bible and her earnest, humble words, she had opened to her a way to a higher hope and a better consolation than earth could give, and how the lady could not go away without doing what she knew would give her friend more pleasure than anything else she could do. She must tell Christie’s sister how good and patient and useful she had been.

“And so, Christie, when you are weary or desponding, as I am afraid you sometimes are, I think you may take a little rest and pleasure from the thought that you have been favoured to be made the giver of a ‘cup of cold water to one ofHislittle ones.’”

Oh, it was too much! Such words from her dearest sister Effie! And to think that Mrs Lee should have written them that last night, when she must have been so weary! And had she really done her good? Oh, it was too much happiness! The letter fell from her hands, and her face, as she burst into happy tears, was hidden by them. It was only for a moment, however. She fancied herself quite unobserved as she took up her precious letter.

“Are they all well at home?” asked Miss Gertrude, as Christie, having stealthily wiped away all traces of her tears, came and sat down on the other side of the cot, where Claude was now sleeping soundly.

“They are all quite well. My aunt is better. Everything is just as usual.”

“Your sister is a very pretty writer, is she not?” she asked.

“Yes, she writes very plain and even. Her writing is easily read.” But Christie did not offer to show her the letter, as Miss Gertrude half hoped she would. It was not altogether for the gratification of her curiosity, nor chiefly for that, she wanted to see it. Though her companion was sitting there, with her cheek leaning on her hand, so gravely and so quietly, she knew that her heart was by no means so quiet as her outward appearance seemed to indicate. She saw that it was ready to overflow with emotion of some kind—happiness, Miss Gertrude thought, but was not sure.

But it could not be all happiness. Christie must be longing for the sight of the sister whose written words could call forth such tears as she had seen falling even now. And she wished to be able to sympathise with her, to say some word that would establish confidence between them. Besides, she had a feeling that she ought to atone for her petulance in the morning. At any rate, she wanted to be sure that Christie did not resent it.

But Christie said nothing. She sat quite still, and her thoughts were far-away. When she roused herself, it was not to speak, but to take up her little Bible, that lay within reach of her hand.

“How fond you seem to be of that book!” said Miss Gertrude, as she watched her turning over the leaves.

“Yes,” said Christie, quietly. “Effie gave it to me.”

“Are you going to read now?”

“I was looking for something that Effie wrote about. I can’t mind the exact words, and I am not sure where to find them.” And she still turned over the leaves.

“Have you found it?” said Miss Gertrude, when she paused.

“Yes; I have found it. Here it is. ‘And whosoever shall give to drink unto one of these little ones a cup of cold water only, in the name of a disciple, shall in no wise lose his reward.’”

She read it slowly and gravely, but Miss Gertrude could by no means understand the look of mingled doubt and pleasure that she saw on her face when she had done.

“Well?” she said, inquiringly.

But Christie had nothing to say. Her face was bowed down on her hands, and she did not raise it till she heard the door open and shut; and when she looked up, Miss Gertrude was gone.

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