Chapter Three.

Chapter Three.About the sermon.The next two days passed pleasantly enough; as the days always did, Christie thought, when Effie was at home. There was plenty to do, more than usual; but the elder sister was strong and willing, and, above all, cheerful, and work seemed play in her hands. Even Aunt Elsie forgot to scold when any little misfortune happened through neglect or carelessness, and Effie’s cheerful “Never mind. It canna be helped now. Let us do the best we can,” came between her and the culprit.Effie was not so merry as she used sometimes to be, Christie thought; and very grave indeed she looked while discussing ways and means with Aunt Elsie. There was a good deal to be discussed, for the winter was approaching, and the little ones were in need of clothes and other things, and Aunt Elsie did Effie the honour to declare that her judgment on these matters was better worth having than that of all the rest of them put together. Certainly, never were old garments examined and considered with greater attention than was bestowed on the motley pile brought from “the blue chest” for her inspection. No wonder that she looked grave over the rents and holes and threadbare places, sure as she was that, however shabby they had become, they must in some way or other be made to serve for a long time yet. It looked like a hopeless task, the attempt to transform by darning and turning, by patching and eking, the poor remnants of last winter’s frocks and petticoats into garments suitable for home and school wear.“Surely no children ever grew so fast as ours!” said Effie, after turning her little sister Ellen round and round, in the vain hope of persuading her aunt and herself that the little linsey-woolsey frock was not much too short and scant for the child. “Katie will need to have it, after all. But what can we do for Nellie?” And Effie looked sorely perplexed.“It’s no’ often that folk look on the growing of bairns as a misfortune,” said Aunt Elsie, echoing her sigh. “If it werena that we want that green tartan for a kilt for wee Willie, we might manage to get Nellie a frock out of that.”Effie considered deeply.“Oh, Effie,” whispered Christie, when her aunt’s back was turned, “never mind that heap of trash just now. You promised to come down to the burn-side with me; and it will soon be time for the milking.”“But I must mind,” said Effie, gravely. “The bairns will need these things before I can get two whole days at home again, and my aunt and the girls have enough to do without this. Duty before pleasure, Christie. See; you can help me by picking away this skirt. We must make the best of things.”Christie applied herself to the task, but not without many a sigh and many a longing look at the bright sunshine. If Effie once got fairly engaged in planning and patching, there would be no use in thinking of a walk before milking-time.“Oh, dear!” she said, with a sigh. “I wish there was no such a thing as old clothes in the world!”“Well, if there were plenty of new ones in it, I wouldna object to your wish being gratified,” said Effie, laughing. “But as there are few likely to come our way for a while, we must do the best we can with the old. We might be worse off, Christie.”“Do you like to do it?” asked Christie.“I like to see it when it’s done, at any rate. There is a great deal of pleasure in a patch of that kind,” she said, holding up the sleeve she had been mending. “You would hardly know there was a patch there.”Christie bent her short-sighted eyes to the work.“Yes; it’s very nice. I wonder you have the patience. Aunt Elsie might do it, I’m sure.”Effie looked grave again.“I am afraid Aunt Elsie won’t do much this winter. Her hands are getting bad again. I must be busy while I am here. Never mind the walk. We’ll get a long walk together if we go to the kirk.”“Yes, if it doesna rain, or if something doesna happen to hinder us.”But she looked as though she thought there was nothing so pleasant in store for her as a long walk with Effie; and she worked away at the faded little garment with many a sigh.Sunday came, and, in spite of Christie’s forebodings, the day rose bright and beautiful. The kirk which the Redferns attended lay three long miles from the farm. The distance and the increasing shabbiness of little garments often kept the children at home, and Christie, too, had to stay and share their tasks. They had no conveyance of their own, and though the others might be none the worse for a little exposure to rain or wind, her aunt would never permit Christie to run the risk of getting wet or over-tired. So it was with a face almost as bright as Effie’s own that she hailed the bright sunshine and the cloudless sky. For Sunday was not always a pleasant day for her at home. Indeed, it was generally a very wearisome day. It was Aunt Elsie’s desire and intention that it should be well kept. But, beyond giving out a certain number of questions in the catechism, or a psalm or chapter to be learned by the little ones, she did not help them to keep it. It was given as a task, and it was learned and repeated as a task. None of them ever aspired to anything more than to get through the allotted portion “without missing.” There was not much pleasure in it, nor in the readings that generally followed; for though good and valuable books in themselves, they were too often quite beyond the comprehension of the little listeners. A quiet walk in the garden, or in the nearest field, was the utmost that was permitted in the way of amusement; and though sometimes the walk might become a run or a romp, and the childish voices rise higher than the Sunday pitch when there was no one to reprove, it must be confessed that Sunday was the longest day in all the week for the little Redferns.To none of them all was it longer than to Christie. She did not care to share the stolen pleasures of the rest. Beading was her only resource. Idle books were, on Sundays, and on weekdays too, Aunt Elsie’s peculiar aversion; and, unfortunately, all the books that Christie cared about came under this class, in her estimation. All the enjoyment she could get in reading must be stolen; and between the fear of detection and the consciousness of wrong-doing, the pleasure, such as it was, was generally hardly worth seeking.So it was with many self-congratulations that she set out with Effie to the kirk. They were alone. Their father had gone earlier to attend the Gaelic service, which he alone of all the family understood, and Annie and Sarah, after the labours of a harvest-week, declared themselves too weary to undertake the walk. It was a very lovely morning. Here and there a yellow birch, or a crimson maple bough, gave token that the dreary autumn was not far-away; but the air was mild and balmy as June, and the bright sunlight made even the rough road and the low-lying stubble-fields look lovely, in Christie’s eyes.“How quiet and peaceful all things are!” she thought.The insects were chirping merrily enough, and now and then the voice of a bird was heard, and from the woodland pastures far-away the tinkle of sheep-bells fell pleasantly on the ear. But these sounds in no way jarred on the Sabbath stillness; and as Christie followed her sister along the narrow path that led them by a near way across the fields to the half-mile corner where the road took a sudden turn to the right, a strange feeling of peace stole over her. The burden of vexing and discontented thoughts, that too frequently weighed on her heart, seemed to fall away under the pleasant influence of the sunshine and the quiet, and she drew a long sigh of relief as she said, softly:“Oh, Effie! such a bonny day!”“Yes,” said Effie, turning round for a moment, and smiling at her sister’s brightening face. “It seems just such a day as one would choose the Sabbath to be—so bright, yet so peaceful. I am very glad.”But they could not say much yet; for the path was narrow, and there were stones and rough places, and now and then a little water to be avoided; so they went on quietly till they reached the low stone wall that separated the field from the high-road. The boughs of the old tree that hung over it were looking bare and autumn-like already, but under the flickering shadow they sat down for a while to rest.“Hark!” said Christie, as the sound of wheels reached them. “That must be the Nesbitts. They never go to the Gaelic service. I dare say they will ask us to ride.” There was an echo of disappointment in her tone; and in a moment she added:“It is such a bonny day, and the walk would be so pleasant by and by in the cool shade!”“Yes,” said Effie. “But if they ask us we’ll ride; for six miles is a long walk for you. And it will be nice to ride, too.”And so it was. The long wagon was drawn by two stout horses. No one was in it but John Nesbitt and his mother; and they were both delighted to offer a seat to the young girls. Christie sat on the front seat with John, who was quite silent, thinking his own thoughts or listening to the quiet talk going on between Effie and his mother; and Christie enjoyed her drive in silence too.How very pleasant it seemed! They went slowly, for they had plenty of time; and Christie’s eyes wandered over the scene—the sky, the changing trees, the brown fields and the green pastures—with an interest and enjoyment that surprised herself. There was not much to see; but any change was pleasant to the eyes that had rested for weeks on the same familiar objects. Then the unaccustomed and agreeable motion exhilarated without wearying her. And when at last they came in sight of the kirk, Christie could not help wishing that they had farther to go.The kirk, of itself, was rather an unsightly object than otherwise. Except for the two rows of small windows on each side, it differed little in appearance from the large wooden barns so common in that part of the country. The woods were close behind it; and in the summer-time they were a pleasant sight. On one side lay the graveyard. On days when the sun did not shine, or in the autumn before the snow had come to cover up the long, rank grass, the graveyard was a very dreary place to Christie, and instead of lingering in it she usually went into the kirk, even though the Gaelic service was not over. But to-day she sat down near the door, at Effie’s side, and waited till the people should come out. Mrs Nesbitt had gone into a neighbour’s house, and the two girls were quite alone.“Effie,” said Christie, “I think the minister must preach better in Gaelic than he does in English. Just look in. Nobody will see you. The folk are no’ thinking about things outside.”Effie raised herself a little, and bent forward to see. It was a very odd-looking place. The pulpit was placed, not at the end of the house, as is usual in places of worship, but at one side. There was no aisle. The door opened directly into the body of the house, and from the place where they stood could be seen not only the minister, but the many earnest faces that were turned towards him. The lower part of the place was crowded to the threshold, and tier above tier of earnest faces looked down from the gallery. No sound save the voice of the preacher was heard, and on him every eye was fastened. A few of the little ones had gone to sleep, leaning on the shoulders of their elders; but all the rest were listening as though life and death depended on the words he uttered. The minister was speaking rapidly, and, as Effie knew, solemnly, though she could only here and there catch the meaning of his words. Indeed, it must have been easy to speak earnestly when addressing such a multitude of eager listeners, who were hungry for the bread of life.“I dare say the difference is in the hearers rather than in the preaching,” said Effie, turning away softly.“But, Effie, many of them are the very same people. I wish I knew what he was saying!”“I dare say it is easier to speak in Gaelic, for one thing. The folk, at least most of them, like it better, even when they understand English. And it must make a great difference to a minister when he sees people listening like that. I dare say he says the very same things to us in English.”Christie still stood looking in at the open door.“It ay minds me of the Day of Judgment,” she said, “when I see the people sitting like that, and when they come thronging out into the kirk-yard and stand about among the graves.”She shuddered slightly, and came and sat down beside Effie, and did not speak again till the service was over. What a crowd there was then! How the people came pouring out—with faces grave and composed, indeed, but not half so solemn, Christie thought, as they ought to have been! The voices rose to quite a loud hum as they passed from the door. Greetings were interchanged, and arrangements were made for going home. Invitations were given and accepted, and the larger part of the crowd moved slowly away.The English congregation was comparatively small. The English sermon immediately followed; but, whatever might be the reason, Christie said many times to herself that there was a great difference in the minister’s manner of preaching now. He looked tired. And no wonder. Two long services immediately succeeding each other were enough to tire him. Christie strove to listen and to understand. She did not succeed very well. She enjoyed the singing always, and especially to-day singing out of the Psalms at the end of her own new Bible. But though she tried very hard to make herself think that she enjoyed the sermon too, she failed; and she was not sorry when it was over and she found herself among the crowd in the kirk-yard again. She had still the going home before her.To her great delight, Effie refused a ride in the Nesbitts’ wagon, in order that some who had walked in the morning might enjoy it. She hoped to have her sister all to herself for a little while. She did not, however. They were joined by several who were going their way; and more than one lengthened their walk and went home the longest way, for the sake of their company. It was not until they found themselves again at the half-mile corner that they were quite alone. Christie sighed as she leaned for a moment on the wall.“You are tired, dear,” said Effie. “It is well we didna have to walk both ways. Sit and rest a while.”“I am notverytired,” said Christie; but she sighed again as she sat down.“Effie, I wish I liked better to go to the kirk.”“Why, Christie?” said her sister, in surprise. “I thought you liked it very much. You said so in the morning.”“Yes, I know; I like the walk, and the getting away from home; and I like the singing, and to see the people. But the preaching—others seem to like it so much; but I don’t. I don’t understand half that is said. Do you?”“I don’t understand always,” said Effie, a little doubtfully.“And sometimes I canna help thinking about other things—the foolishest things!—stories, and bits of songs; and sometimes I getsosleepy.”“It’s wrong to think about other things in the kirk,” said Effie, scarcely knowing what to say.“But I canna help it! Now, to-day I meant to try; and I did. Some things I seemed to understand at the time; but most that he said I didna understand, and I have forgotten it all now. I don’t believe I could tell even the text.”“Oh, yes, you could,” said Effie. “‘Therefore, being justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.’ Don’t you mind?”“Yes; I mind now,” said Christie, turning to the verse in her new Bible, and reading it, with several that followed. “Do you mind what he said, Effie?”“Some things. He said a great many very important things.” She paused, and tried to recollect. “He told us what justification meant. Don’t you mind?”“Yes; but I knew that before, from the catechism.” And she repeated the words.She paused a moment, considering, as if the words had a meaning she had not thought of before.“Yes,” said Effie; “and he went on to explain all about it. I canna repeat much of it; but I understood the most of it, I think.”“I was always waiting to hear something about the peace,” said Christie; “but he didna get to that.”“No. He told us he had kept us too long on the first part of the subject. He’ll give us the rest next Sabbath.”Christie sighed. The chances were very much against her hearing what was to be said next Sabbath. In a moment she repeated, musingly:“‘Pardoneth all our sins; accepteth us as righteous.’ I never thought about that before. ‘The righteousness of Christ imputed to us.’ What is ‘imputed,’ Effie?”“It means put to our credit, as if it were our own,” said Effie. “I have read that somewhere.”“Do you understand all the catechism, Effie?” asked Christie, looking wonderingly into her face. Effie laughed a little, and shook her head.“I don’t understand it all, as the minister does, but I think I know something about every question. There is so much in the catechism.”“Yes, I suppose so,” assented Christie. “But it’s a pity that all good books are so dull and so hard to understand.”“Why, I don’t suppose theyareall dull. I am sure they are not,” said Effie, gravely.“Well,Ifind them so,” said Christie. “Do you mind the book that Andrew Graham brought to my father—the one, you know, that he said his mother was never weary of reading? And my father liked it too—and my aunt; though I don’t really think she liked it so much. Well, I tried, on two different Sabbaths, to read it. I thought I would try and find out what was wonderful about it. But I couldna. It seemed to me just like all the rest of the books. Didyoulike it, Effie?”“I didna read it. It was sent home too soon. But, Christie, you are but a little girl. It’s no’ to be supposed that you could understand all father can, or that you should like all that he likes. And besides,” she added, after a pause, “I suppose God’s people are different from other people. They have something that others have not—a power to understand and enjoy what is hidden from the rest of the world.”Christie looked at her sister with undisguised astonishment.“Whatdoyou mean, Effie?” she asked.“I don’t know that I can make it quite clear to you. But don’t you mind how we smiled at wee Willie for wanting to give his bonny picture-book to Mrs Grey’s blind Allie? It was a treasure to him; but to the poor wee blind lassie it was no better than an old copybook would have been. And don’t you mind that David prays: ‘Open Thou mine eyes, that I may behold wondrous things out of Thy law’? That must mean something. I am afraid most of those who read God’s Word fail to see ‘wondrous things’ in it.”Effie’s eyes grew moist and wistful as they followed the quivering shadows of the leaves overhead; and Christie watched her silently for a while.“But, Effie,” she said, at last, “there are parts of the Bible that everybody likes to read. And, besides, all the people that go to the kirk and listen as though they took pleasure in it are not God’s people—nor all those who read dull books, either.”Effie shook her head.“I suppose they take delight in listening to what the preacher says, just as they would take pleasure in hearing a good address on any subject. But the Word is not food and medicine and comfort to the like of them, as old Mrs Grey says it is to her. And we don’t see them taking God’s Word as their guide and their law in all things, as God’s people do. It is not because they love it that they read and listen to it. There is a great difference.”“Yes,” said Christie; “I suppose there is.”But her thoughts had flown far-away before Effie had done speaking. A vague impression, that had come to her mind many times before, was fast taking form: she was asking herself whether Effie was not among those whose eyes had been opened. She was different from what she used to be. Not that she was kinder, or more mindful of the comfort of others, than she remembered her always to have been. But she was different, for all that. Could it be that Effie had become a child of God? Were her sins pardoned? Was she accepted? Had old things passed away, and all things become new to her? Christie could not ask her. She could hardly look at her, in the midst of the new, shy wonder that was rising within her. Yes, there were wonder and pleasure, but there was pain too—more of the latter than of the former. Had a barrier suddenly sprung up between her and the sister she loved best? A sense of being forsaken, left alone, came over her—something like the feeling that had nearly broken her heart when, long ago, they told her that her mother had gone to heaven. A great wave of bitterness passed over her sinking heart. She turned away, that her sister might not see her face.“Christie,” said Effie, in a minute or two, “I think we ought to go home. There will be some things to do; and if Annie and Sarah went to the Sabbath-class, we should be needed to help.”It was in Christie’s heart to say that she did not care to go home—she did not care to help—she did not care for anything. But she had no voice to utter such wrong and foolish words. So, still keeping her face turned away, she took her Bible and began to roll it in her handkerchief—when a thought struck her.“Effie,” she asked, quickly, “do you believe that God hears us when we pray?”In the face now turned towards her, Effie saw tokens that there was something wrong with her little sister. But, accustomed to her changing moods and frequent petulance, she answered, quietly:“Surely, Christie, I believe it. The Bible says so.”“Yes; I ken that,” said Christie, with some impatience in her tone. “The Bible says so, and people believe it in a general way. But is it true? Doyoubelieve it?”“Surely I believe it,” said Effie, slowly.She was considering whether it would be best to say anything more to her sister, vexed and unhappy as her voice and manner plainly showed her to be; and while she hesitated, Christie said again, more quietly:“If God hears prayer, why are most people so miserable?”“I don’t think most peoplearemiserable,” said Effie, gravely. “I don’t think anybody that trusts in God can be very miserable.”Christie leaned back again on the stone, from which she had half risen.“Those who have been pardoned and accepted,” shethought; but aloud shesaid, “Well, I don’t know: there are some good people that have trouble enough. There’s old Mrs Grey. Wave after wave of trouble has passed over her. I heard the minister say those very words to father about her.”“But, Christie,” said her sister, gravely, “you should ask Mrs Grey, some time, if she would be willing to lose her trust in God for the sake of having all her trouble taken away. I am quite sure she would not hesitate for a moment. She would smile at the thought of even pausing to choose.”“But, Effie, that’s not what we are speaking about. I’m sure that Mrs Grey prayed many and many a time that her son John might be spared to his family. Just think of them, so helpless—and their mother dead, and little Allie blind! And the minister prayed for him too, in the kirk, and all the folk, that so useful a life might be spared. But, for all that, he died, Effie.”“Yes; but, Christie, Mrs Grey never prayed for her son’s life except in submission to God’s will. If his death would be for the glory of God, she prayed to be made submissive to His will, and committed herself and her son’s helpless little ones to God’s keeping.”Christie looked at her sister with eyes filled with astonishment.“You don’t mean to say that if Mrs Grey had had her choice she wouldna have had her son spared to her?”“I mean that if she could have had her choice she would have preferred to leave the matter in God’s hands. She would never have chosen for herself.”“Christie,” she added, after a pause, “do you mind the time when our Willie wanted father’s knife, and how, rather than vex him, Annie gave it to him? Do you mind all the mischief he did to himself and others? I suppose some of our prayers are as blind and foolish as Willie’s wish was, and that God shows His loving kindness to us rather by denying than by granting our requests.”“Then what was the use of praying for Mrs Grey’s son, since it was God’s will that he should die? What is the use of anybody’s praying about anything?”Effie hesitated. There was something in Christie’s manner indicating that it was not alone the mere petulance of the moment that dictated the question.“I am not wise about these things, Christie,” she said. “I only know this: God has graciously permitted us to bring our troubles to Him. He has said, ‘Ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye shall find.’ He has said, ‘He that asketh receiveth, and he that seeketh findeth.’ And in the Psalms, ‘Call upon Me in the day of trouble, and I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify Me.’ We need not vex ourselves, surely, abouthowit is all to happen. God’s word is enough.”“But then, Effie, there are prayers that God doesna hear.”“There are many things that God does not give us when we ask Him; but, Christie, God does hear the prayers of His people. Yes, and He answers them too—though not always in the way that they wish or expect, yetalwaysin thebestway for them. Of this they may be sure. If He does not give them just what they ask for, He will give them something better, and make them willing to be without the desired good. There is nothing in the whole Bible more clearly told than that God hears the prayers of His people. We need never,neverdoubt that.”But Christie did not look satisfied.“‘His people,’” she murmured, “but no others.”Effie looked perplexed.“I am not wise in these matters, as I have just told you,” she said, gravely. “Until lately I havena thought much about them. But I think that people sometimes vex themselves in vain. It is to the thirsty who are seeking water that God promises to open fountains. It is to the weary and heavy-laden that Christ has promised rest. I am sure that those who feel their need of God’s help need not fear that they will be refused anything—I mean, anything that is good for them.”“There is a difference, I suppose,” she added, after a pause. “We may ask for many a temporal blessing that might be our ruin if God were to grant it to us; and in love He withholds such, often. But when we ask for spiritual blessing, for the grace of strength to do or of patience to bear His will, if we ask for guidance, for wisdom to direct us, we need not fear that we shall be denied. And, having these, other things don’t matter so much, to God’s people.”“‘To God’s people,’” repeated Christie to herself again. “Well, I am not one of them. It’s nothing that can do me any good.”She did not answer her sister, but rose up slowly, saying it was time to go. So she climbed over the low stone wall, and walked on in silence. Effie followed quietly. Not a word was spoken till they reached the bend of the brook over which hung the birch-tree. Past this, her favourite resting-place, Christie rarely went without lingering. She would not have paused to-night, however, had not Effie, who had fallen a little behind by this time, called her.“Oh, Christie! look at the clouds! Did you ever see anything so beautiful? How beautiful!” she repeated, as she came and stood beside her. “It was a long time before I could become used to the sun’s sinking down in that low, far-away place. I missed the hills that used to hide him from us at home. How well I remember the sunsets then, and the long, quiet gloamings!”“Home” was over the sea, and “then” was the time when a mother’s voice and smile mingled with all other pleasant things; and no wonder that Effie sighed, as she stood watching the changing hues near the low horizon. The “home” and “then” were the last drops added to Christie’s cup of sad memories; and the overflow could no longer be stayed. She kept her face turned away from her sister, but could not hide the struggle within, and at Effie’s very first word her sobs broke forth.“What is the matter, Christie? There must be something you have not told me about. You are weary: that is it. Sit down here again, and rest. We need not hurry home, after all.”Christie sank down, struggling with her tears.“It’s nothing, Effie,” she said, at last. “I’m sure I didna mean to vex you with my crying; but I canna help it. There is nothing the matter with me more than usual. Never mind me, Effie.”“Well, sit still a little,” said Effie, soothingly. “You are tired, I do believe.”“Yes,” said Christie, recovering herself with a great effort. “It’s partly that, I dare say; and—” She stopped, not being further sure of her voice.Effie said nothing, but gently stroked her hair with her hand. The gentle touch was more than Christie could bear, at the moment.“Effie, don’t!” she cried, vainly struggling to repress another gush of tears. In a little while she grew quiet, and said, “I know I’m very foolish, Effie; but I canna help it.”“Never mind,” said Effie, cheerfully; for she knew by the sound of her voice that her tears were over for this time. “A little shower sometimes clears the sky; and now the sun will shine again.”She stooped down, and dipping her own handkerchief in the brook, gave it to her sister to bathe her hot cheeks; and soon she asked, gravely:“What is it, Christie?”“It’s nothing,” said Christie, eagerly. “Nothing more than usual. I’m tired, that’s all,—and you are going away,—and it will be just the same thing every day till you come back,—going to bed tired, and getting up tired, and doing the same thing over and over again to very little purpose. I’m sure I canna see the good of it all.”Effie could not but smile at her words and manner.“Well, I suppose that will be the way with every one, mostly. I’m sure it will be the way with me. Except the getting up tired,” she added, laughing. “I’m glad to say I don’t very often do that. I’m afraid my life is not to much purpose either, though I do wish it to be useful,” she continued, more gravely.“Oh, well, it’s very different with you!” said Christie, in a tone that her sister never liked to hear.She did not reply for a moment. Then she said:“It will be easier for you now that the harvest is over. Annie and Sarah will be in the house, and you will have less to do. And, besides, they will make it more cheerful.”Christie made a movement of impatience.“You are like Aunt Elsie. You think that I like to be idle and don’t wish to do my share. At any rate, the girls being in the house will make little difference to me. I shall have to be doing something all the time—little things that don’t come to anything. Well, I suppose there is no help for it. It will be all the same in the end.”Poor Christie! She had a feeling all the time that she was very cross and unreasonable, and she was as vexed as possible with herself for spoiling this last precious half-hour with Effie by her murmurs and complaints. She had not meant it. She was sorry they had waited by the brook. She knew it was for her sake that Effie had proposed to sit down in her favourite resting-place; but before she had well uttered the last words she was wishing with all her heart that they had hurried on.Effie looked troubled. Christie felt rather than saw it; for her face was turned quite away, and she was gathering up and casting from her broken bits of branches and withered leaves, and watching them as they were borne away by the waters of the brook. Christie would have given much to know whether she was thinking of her foolish words, or of something else.“I suppose she thinks it’s of no use to heed what I say. And now I have spoiled all the pleasure of thinking about to-day.”Soon she asked, in a voice which had quite lost the tone of peevishness:“When will you come home again, Effie?”Effie turned towards her immediately.“I don’t know. I’m not quite sure, yet. But, Christie, I canna bear to hear you speak in that way—as though you saw no good in anything. Did you ever think how much worse it might be with you and with us all?”In her heart, Christie was saying she did not think thingscouldbe much worse, as far asshewas concerned; but she only looked at her sister, without speaking.“For, after all,” continued Effie, “we are very well off with food and shelter, and are all at home together. You are not very strong, it is true, and you have much to do and Aunt Elsie is not always considerate; or, rather, she has not always a pleasant way of showing her considerateness. She’s a little sharp sometimes, I know. But she suffers more than she acknowledges, and we all ought to bear with her. You have the most to bear, perhaps; but—”“It’s no’ that, Effie,” interrupted Christie. “I don’t mind having much to do. And I’m sure it never enters into Aunt Elsie’s head that I have anything to bear from her. She thinks she has plenty to bear, from me and from us all. I wouldna care if it came to anything. I could bear great trials, I know, and do great things; but this continual worry and vexation about nothing—it never ends. Every day it is just to begin over again. And what does it all amount to when the year’s over?”“Hush, Christie,” said her sister. “The time may come when the remembrance of these words will be painful to you. The only way we can prove that we would bear great trials well is by bearing little trials well. We don’t know how soon great trials may come upon us. Every night that I come home, I am thankful to find things just as I left them. We need be in no hurry to have any change.”Christie was startled.“Whatdoyou mean, Effie? Are you afraid of anything happening?”“Oh, no,” she said, cheerfully, “I hope not. I dare say we shall do very well. But we must be thankful for the blessings we have, Christie, and hopeful for the future.”“Folk say father is not a very good farmer. Is that it, Effie?” Christie spoke with hesitation, as though she was not quite sure how her sister would receive her remark. “But we are getting on better now.”Effie only answered the last part of what she said.“Yes, we are getting on better. Father says we have raised enough to take us through the year, with something to spare. It’s all we have to depend on—so much has been laid out on the farm; and it must come in slowly. But thingswillwear out; and the bairns—I wish I could bide at home this winter.”“Oh, if you only could!” cried Christie, eagerly.Effie shook her head. “I can do more good to all by being away. And my wages have been raised. I couldna leave just now. Oh, I dare say we shall do very well. But, Christie, you must not fret and be discontented, and think what you do is not worth while. It is the motive that makes the work of any one’s life great or small. It is little matter, in one sense, whether it be teaching children, or washing dishes, or ruling a kingdom, if it is done in the right way and from right principles. I have read, somewhere, that the daily life of a poor unknown child, who, striving against sin, does meekly and cheerfully what is given him to do, may be more acceptable in the sight of God than the suffering of some whom their fellow-men crown as martyrs. If we could only forget ourselves and live for others!” She sighed as she rose to go. “But come, child: we must hurry home now.”Christie had no words with which to answer her. She rose and followed in silence. “If we could forget ourselves and live for others!” she murmured. That was notherway, surely. Every day, and every hour of the day, it was herself she thought of. Either she was murmuring over her grievances, or pitying herself for them, or she was dreaming vain dreams of a future that should have nothing to vex or annoy. Her life’s work was worth little, indeed, judging it by Effie’s standard. She did all that she did, merely because she could not help it. As to forgetting herself and thinking of others—But who did so? No one that she knew, unless, perhaps, Effie herself. And Effie had a great many things to make her life pleasant, she thought. Perhaps her father? But then, her father did what he did for his children. All fathers did the same, she supposed. No; she doubted whether any one came near Effie’s idea of what life should be. It would be a very different world indeed if all did so.They were quite close to the house before Christie got thus far; and a glimpse of her father’s careworn face filled her with something like self-reproach.“I wish I could do him some good! But what can I do? He has never been the same since mother died. Nobody has been the same since that—except Effie; and she is better and kinder every day. Oh, I wish I could be like her! but it’s of no use wishing;—I can never be like her. Oh, how tired I am!”She started at the sound of Aunt Elsie’s voice asking, rather sharply, what had kept them so long. She turned away, impatient of the question, and impatient of the cheerful answer with which Effie sought to turn aside her aunt’s displeasure. She was impatient of Annie’s regrets that their long delay had spoiled their supper, and of Sarah’s questions as to who had been at the kirk, and answered them both shortly. She was impatient of the suppressed noise of the little ones, and vexed at her own impatience more than all.“I dinna think your going to the kirk has done you much good. What ails you, Christie? One would think you had the sins of a nation to answer for, by your face.”“Whisht, Annie,” interposed Effie. “Christie’s tired, and her head aches, I’m sure. Dinna vex her—poor thing!”“Well, if she would only say that, and no’ look so glum!” said Annie, laughing, as she set aside the bowl of milk intended for Christie’s supper. In a moment she returned with a cup of tea, and placed it where the bowl had stood. “There!” she said; “that will do your head good, and your temper too, I hope. I’m sure you look as though you needed it.”Christie would fain have resented both her sister’s kindness and her thoughtless words, by taking no notice of the tea; but Effie interposed again:“You are very kind, Annie. What a pity you should spoil all by those needless words!”Annie laughed.“Nonsense!” she said. “I didna mean to say anything unkind. Christie mustna be so testy. Don’t tell me that you like milk better than tea. Christie will enjoy hers all the better if you take one too.” And she placed it before her.“Thank you. It’s very nice,” said Effie. “But the milk would have done very well.”The quick tap of Aunt Elsie’s cane was heard approaching.“I doubt you are getting away from Sabbath subjects,” said Aunt Elsie. “Haste you with your supper, bairns—your father’s waiting to have worship. Christie, if you are tired, you should go to bed at once.”For once, Christie did not wait for a second bidding. She was very tired; and long before the usual Sabbath evening’s examination was over, she had forgotten her doubts and fears and vexing thoughts in sleep.

The next two days passed pleasantly enough; as the days always did, Christie thought, when Effie was at home. There was plenty to do, more than usual; but the elder sister was strong and willing, and, above all, cheerful, and work seemed play in her hands. Even Aunt Elsie forgot to scold when any little misfortune happened through neglect or carelessness, and Effie’s cheerful “Never mind. It canna be helped now. Let us do the best we can,” came between her and the culprit.

Effie was not so merry as she used sometimes to be, Christie thought; and very grave indeed she looked while discussing ways and means with Aunt Elsie. There was a good deal to be discussed, for the winter was approaching, and the little ones were in need of clothes and other things, and Aunt Elsie did Effie the honour to declare that her judgment on these matters was better worth having than that of all the rest of them put together. Certainly, never were old garments examined and considered with greater attention than was bestowed on the motley pile brought from “the blue chest” for her inspection. No wonder that she looked grave over the rents and holes and threadbare places, sure as she was that, however shabby they had become, they must in some way or other be made to serve for a long time yet. It looked like a hopeless task, the attempt to transform by darning and turning, by patching and eking, the poor remnants of last winter’s frocks and petticoats into garments suitable for home and school wear.

“Surely no children ever grew so fast as ours!” said Effie, after turning her little sister Ellen round and round, in the vain hope of persuading her aunt and herself that the little linsey-woolsey frock was not much too short and scant for the child. “Katie will need to have it, after all. But what can we do for Nellie?” And Effie looked sorely perplexed.

“It’s no’ often that folk look on the growing of bairns as a misfortune,” said Aunt Elsie, echoing her sigh. “If it werena that we want that green tartan for a kilt for wee Willie, we might manage to get Nellie a frock out of that.”

Effie considered deeply.

“Oh, Effie,” whispered Christie, when her aunt’s back was turned, “never mind that heap of trash just now. You promised to come down to the burn-side with me; and it will soon be time for the milking.”

“But I must mind,” said Effie, gravely. “The bairns will need these things before I can get two whole days at home again, and my aunt and the girls have enough to do without this. Duty before pleasure, Christie. See; you can help me by picking away this skirt. We must make the best of things.”

Christie applied herself to the task, but not without many a sigh and many a longing look at the bright sunshine. If Effie once got fairly engaged in planning and patching, there would be no use in thinking of a walk before milking-time.

“Oh, dear!” she said, with a sigh. “I wish there was no such a thing as old clothes in the world!”

“Well, if there were plenty of new ones in it, I wouldna object to your wish being gratified,” said Effie, laughing. “But as there are few likely to come our way for a while, we must do the best we can with the old. We might be worse off, Christie.”

“Do you like to do it?” asked Christie.

“I like to see it when it’s done, at any rate. There is a great deal of pleasure in a patch of that kind,” she said, holding up the sleeve she had been mending. “You would hardly know there was a patch there.”

Christie bent her short-sighted eyes to the work.

“Yes; it’s very nice. I wonder you have the patience. Aunt Elsie might do it, I’m sure.”

Effie looked grave again.

“I am afraid Aunt Elsie won’t do much this winter. Her hands are getting bad again. I must be busy while I am here. Never mind the walk. We’ll get a long walk together if we go to the kirk.”

“Yes, if it doesna rain, or if something doesna happen to hinder us.”

But she looked as though she thought there was nothing so pleasant in store for her as a long walk with Effie; and she worked away at the faded little garment with many a sigh.

Sunday came, and, in spite of Christie’s forebodings, the day rose bright and beautiful. The kirk which the Redferns attended lay three long miles from the farm. The distance and the increasing shabbiness of little garments often kept the children at home, and Christie, too, had to stay and share their tasks. They had no conveyance of their own, and though the others might be none the worse for a little exposure to rain or wind, her aunt would never permit Christie to run the risk of getting wet or over-tired. So it was with a face almost as bright as Effie’s own that she hailed the bright sunshine and the cloudless sky. For Sunday was not always a pleasant day for her at home. Indeed, it was generally a very wearisome day. It was Aunt Elsie’s desire and intention that it should be well kept. But, beyond giving out a certain number of questions in the catechism, or a psalm or chapter to be learned by the little ones, she did not help them to keep it. It was given as a task, and it was learned and repeated as a task. None of them ever aspired to anything more than to get through the allotted portion “without missing.” There was not much pleasure in it, nor in the readings that generally followed; for though good and valuable books in themselves, they were too often quite beyond the comprehension of the little listeners. A quiet walk in the garden, or in the nearest field, was the utmost that was permitted in the way of amusement; and though sometimes the walk might become a run or a romp, and the childish voices rise higher than the Sunday pitch when there was no one to reprove, it must be confessed that Sunday was the longest day in all the week for the little Redferns.

To none of them all was it longer than to Christie. She did not care to share the stolen pleasures of the rest. Beading was her only resource. Idle books were, on Sundays, and on weekdays too, Aunt Elsie’s peculiar aversion; and, unfortunately, all the books that Christie cared about came under this class, in her estimation. All the enjoyment she could get in reading must be stolen; and between the fear of detection and the consciousness of wrong-doing, the pleasure, such as it was, was generally hardly worth seeking.

So it was with many self-congratulations that she set out with Effie to the kirk. They were alone. Their father had gone earlier to attend the Gaelic service, which he alone of all the family understood, and Annie and Sarah, after the labours of a harvest-week, declared themselves too weary to undertake the walk. It was a very lovely morning. Here and there a yellow birch, or a crimson maple bough, gave token that the dreary autumn was not far-away; but the air was mild and balmy as June, and the bright sunlight made even the rough road and the low-lying stubble-fields look lovely, in Christie’s eyes.

“How quiet and peaceful all things are!” she thought.

The insects were chirping merrily enough, and now and then the voice of a bird was heard, and from the woodland pastures far-away the tinkle of sheep-bells fell pleasantly on the ear. But these sounds in no way jarred on the Sabbath stillness; and as Christie followed her sister along the narrow path that led them by a near way across the fields to the half-mile corner where the road took a sudden turn to the right, a strange feeling of peace stole over her. The burden of vexing and discontented thoughts, that too frequently weighed on her heart, seemed to fall away under the pleasant influence of the sunshine and the quiet, and she drew a long sigh of relief as she said, softly:

“Oh, Effie! such a bonny day!”

“Yes,” said Effie, turning round for a moment, and smiling at her sister’s brightening face. “It seems just such a day as one would choose the Sabbath to be—so bright, yet so peaceful. I am very glad.”

But they could not say much yet; for the path was narrow, and there were stones and rough places, and now and then a little water to be avoided; so they went on quietly till they reached the low stone wall that separated the field from the high-road. The boughs of the old tree that hung over it were looking bare and autumn-like already, but under the flickering shadow they sat down for a while to rest.

“Hark!” said Christie, as the sound of wheels reached them. “That must be the Nesbitts. They never go to the Gaelic service. I dare say they will ask us to ride.” There was an echo of disappointment in her tone; and in a moment she added:

“It is such a bonny day, and the walk would be so pleasant by and by in the cool shade!”

“Yes,” said Effie. “But if they ask us we’ll ride; for six miles is a long walk for you. And it will be nice to ride, too.”

And so it was. The long wagon was drawn by two stout horses. No one was in it but John Nesbitt and his mother; and they were both delighted to offer a seat to the young girls. Christie sat on the front seat with John, who was quite silent, thinking his own thoughts or listening to the quiet talk going on between Effie and his mother; and Christie enjoyed her drive in silence too.

How very pleasant it seemed! They went slowly, for they had plenty of time; and Christie’s eyes wandered over the scene—the sky, the changing trees, the brown fields and the green pastures—with an interest and enjoyment that surprised herself. There was not much to see; but any change was pleasant to the eyes that had rested for weeks on the same familiar objects. Then the unaccustomed and agreeable motion exhilarated without wearying her. And when at last they came in sight of the kirk, Christie could not help wishing that they had farther to go.

The kirk, of itself, was rather an unsightly object than otherwise. Except for the two rows of small windows on each side, it differed little in appearance from the large wooden barns so common in that part of the country. The woods were close behind it; and in the summer-time they were a pleasant sight. On one side lay the graveyard. On days when the sun did not shine, or in the autumn before the snow had come to cover up the long, rank grass, the graveyard was a very dreary place to Christie, and instead of lingering in it she usually went into the kirk, even though the Gaelic service was not over. But to-day she sat down near the door, at Effie’s side, and waited till the people should come out. Mrs Nesbitt had gone into a neighbour’s house, and the two girls were quite alone.

“Effie,” said Christie, “I think the minister must preach better in Gaelic than he does in English. Just look in. Nobody will see you. The folk are no’ thinking about things outside.”

Effie raised herself a little, and bent forward to see. It was a very odd-looking place. The pulpit was placed, not at the end of the house, as is usual in places of worship, but at one side. There was no aisle. The door opened directly into the body of the house, and from the place where they stood could be seen not only the minister, but the many earnest faces that were turned towards him. The lower part of the place was crowded to the threshold, and tier above tier of earnest faces looked down from the gallery. No sound save the voice of the preacher was heard, and on him every eye was fastened. A few of the little ones had gone to sleep, leaning on the shoulders of their elders; but all the rest were listening as though life and death depended on the words he uttered. The minister was speaking rapidly, and, as Effie knew, solemnly, though she could only here and there catch the meaning of his words. Indeed, it must have been easy to speak earnestly when addressing such a multitude of eager listeners, who were hungry for the bread of life.

“I dare say the difference is in the hearers rather than in the preaching,” said Effie, turning away softly.

“But, Effie, many of them are the very same people. I wish I knew what he was saying!”

“I dare say it is easier to speak in Gaelic, for one thing. The folk, at least most of them, like it better, even when they understand English. And it must make a great difference to a minister when he sees people listening like that. I dare say he says the very same things to us in English.”

Christie still stood looking in at the open door.

“It ay minds me of the Day of Judgment,” she said, “when I see the people sitting like that, and when they come thronging out into the kirk-yard and stand about among the graves.”

She shuddered slightly, and came and sat down beside Effie, and did not speak again till the service was over. What a crowd there was then! How the people came pouring out—with faces grave and composed, indeed, but not half so solemn, Christie thought, as they ought to have been! The voices rose to quite a loud hum as they passed from the door. Greetings were interchanged, and arrangements were made for going home. Invitations were given and accepted, and the larger part of the crowd moved slowly away.

The English congregation was comparatively small. The English sermon immediately followed; but, whatever might be the reason, Christie said many times to herself that there was a great difference in the minister’s manner of preaching now. He looked tired. And no wonder. Two long services immediately succeeding each other were enough to tire him. Christie strove to listen and to understand. She did not succeed very well. She enjoyed the singing always, and especially to-day singing out of the Psalms at the end of her own new Bible. But though she tried very hard to make herself think that she enjoyed the sermon too, she failed; and she was not sorry when it was over and she found herself among the crowd in the kirk-yard again. She had still the going home before her.

To her great delight, Effie refused a ride in the Nesbitts’ wagon, in order that some who had walked in the morning might enjoy it. She hoped to have her sister all to herself for a little while. She did not, however. They were joined by several who were going their way; and more than one lengthened their walk and went home the longest way, for the sake of their company. It was not until they found themselves again at the half-mile corner that they were quite alone. Christie sighed as she leaned for a moment on the wall.

“You are tired, dear,” said Effie. “It is well we didna have to walk both ways. Sit and rest a while.”

“I am notverytired,” said Christie; but she sighed again as she sat down.

“Effie, I wish I liked better to go to the kirk.”

“Why, Christie?” said her sister, in surprise. “I thought you liked it very much. You said so in the morning.”

“Yes, I know; I like the walk, and the getting away from home; and I like the singing, and to see the people. But the preaching—others seem to like it so much; but I don’t. I don’t understand half that is said. Do you?”

“I don’t understand always,” said Effie, a little doubtfully.

“And sometimes I canna help thinking about other things—the foolishest things!—stories, and bits of songs; and sometimes I getsosleepy.”

“It’s wrong to think about other things in the kirk,” said Effie, scarcely knowing what to say.

“But I canna help it! Now, to-day I meant to try; and I did. Some things I seemed to understand at the time; but most that he said I didna understand, and I have forgotten it all now. I don’t believe I could tell even the text.”

“Oh, yes, you could,” said Effie. “‘Therefore, being justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.’ Don’t you mind?”

“Yes; I mind now,” said Christie, turning to the verse in her new Bible, and reading it, with several that followed. “Do you mind what he said, Effie?”

“Some things. He said a great many very important things.” She paused, and tried to recollect. “He told us what justification meant. Don’t you mind?”

“Yes; but I knew that before, from the catechism.” And she repeated the words.

She paused a moment, considering, as if the words had a meaning she had not thought of before.

“Yes,” said Effie; “and he went on to explain all about it. I canna repeat much of it; but I understood the most of it, I think.”

“I was always waiting to hear something about the peace,” said Christie; “but he didna get to that.”

“No. He told us he had kept us too long on the first part of the subject. He’ll give us the rest next Sabbath.”

Christie sighed. The chances were very much against her hearing what was to be said next Sabbath. In a moment she repeated, musingly:

“‘Pardoneth all our sins; accepteth us as righteous.’ I never thought about that before. ‘The righteousness of Christ imputed to us.’ What is ‘imputed,’ Effie?”

“It means put to our credit, as if it were our own,” said Effie. “I have read that somewhere.”

“Do you understand all the catechism, Effie?” asked Christie, looking wonderingly into her face. Effie laughed a little, and shook her head.

“I don’t understand it all, as the minister does, but I think I know something about every question. There is so much in the catechism.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” assented Christie. “But it’s a pity that all good books are so dull and so hard to understand.”

“Why, I don’t suppose theyareall dull. I am sure they are not,” said Effie, gravely.

“Well,Ifind them so,” said Christie. “Do you mind the book that Andrew Graham brought to my father—the one, you know, that he said his mother was never weary of reading? And my father liked it too—and my aunt; though I don’t really think she liked it so much. Well, I tried, on two different Sabbaths, to read it. I thought I would try and find out what was wonderful about it. But I couldna. It seemed to me just like all the rest of the books. Didyoulike it, Effie?”

“I didna read it. It was sent home too soon. But, Christie, you are but a little girl. It’s no’ to be supposed that you could understand all father can, or that you should like all that he likes. And besides,” she added, after a pause, “I suppose God’s people are different from other people. They have something that others have not—a power to understand and enjoy what is hidden from the rest of the world.”

Christie looked at her sister with undisguised astonishment.

“Whatdoyou mean, Effie?” she asked.

“I don’t know that I can make it quite clear to you. But don’t you mind how we smiled at wee Willie for wanting to give his bonny picture-book to Mrs Grey’s blind Allie? It was a treasure to him; but to the poor wee blind lassie it was no better than an old copybook would have been. And don’t you mind that David prays: ‘Open Thou mine eyes, that I may behold wondrous things out of Thy law’? That must mean something. I am afraid most of those who read God’s Word fail to see ‘wondrous things’ in it.”

Effie’s eyes grew moist and wistful as they followed the quivering shadows of the leaves overhead; and Christie watched her silently for a while.

“But, Effie,” she said, at last, “there are parts of the Bible that everybody likes to read. And, besides, all the people that go to the kirk and listen as though they took pleasure in it are not God’s people—nor all those who read dull books, either.”

Effie shook her head.

“I suppose they take delight in listening to what the preacher says, just as they would take pleasure in hearing a good address on any subject. But the Word is not food and medicine and comfort to the like of them, as old Mrs Grey says it is to her. And we don’t see them taking God’s Word as their guide and their law in all things, as God’s people do. It is not because they love it that they read and listen to it. There is a great difference.”

“Yes,” said Christie; “I suppose there is.”

But her thoughts had flown far-away before Effie had done speaking. A vague impression, that had come to her mind many times before, was fast taking form: she was asking herself whether Effie was not among those whose eyes had been opened. She was different from what she used to be. Not that she was kinder, or more mindful of the comfort of others, than she remembered her always to have been. But she was different, for all that. Could it be that Effie had become a child of God? Were her sins pardoned? Was she accepted? Had old things passed away, and all things become new to her? Christie could not ask her. She could hardly look at her, in the midst of the new, shy wonder that was rising within her. Yes, there were wonder and pleasure, but there was pain too—more of the latter than of the former. Had a barrier suddenly sprung up between her and the sister she loved best? A sense of being forsaken, left alone, came over her—something like the feeling that had nearly broken her heart when, long ago, they told her that her mother had gone to heaven. A great wave of bitterness passed over her sinking heart. She turned away, that her sister might not see her face.

“Christie,” said Effie, in a minute or two, “I think we ought to go home. There will be some things to do; and if Annie and Sarah went to the Sabbath-class, we should be needed to help.”

It was in Christie’s heart to say that she did not care to go home—she did not care to help—she did not care for anything. But she had no voice to utter such wrong and foolish words. So, still keeping her face turned away, she took her Bible and began to roll it in her handkerchief—when a thought struck her.

“Effie,” she asked, quickly, “do you believe that God hears us when we pray?”

In the face now turned towards her, Effie saw tokens that there was something wrong with her little sister. But, accustomed to her changing moods and frequent petulance, she answered, quietly:

“Surely, Christie, I believe it. The Bible says so.”

“Yes; I ken that,” said Christie, with some impatience in her tone. “The Bible says so, and people believe it in a general way. But is it true? Doyoubelieve it?”

“Surely I believe it,” said Effie, slowly.

She was considering whether it would be best to say anything more to her sister, vexed and unhappy as her voice and manner plainly showed her to be; and while she hesitated, Christie said again, more quietly:

“If God hears prayer, why are most people so miserable?”

“I don’t think most peoplearemiserable,” said Effie, gravely. “I don’t think anybody that trusts in God can be very miserable.”

Christie leaned back again on the stone, from which she had half risen.

“Those who have been pardoned and accepted,” shethought; but aloud shesaid, “Well, I don’t know: there are some good people that have trouble enough. There’s old Mrs Grey. Wave after wave of trouble has passed over her. I heard the minister say those very words to father about her.”

“But, Christie,” said her sister, gravely, “you should ask Mrs Grey, some time, if she would be willing to lose her trust in God for the sake of having all her trouble taken away. I am quite sure she would not hesitate for a moment. She would smile at the thought of even pausing to choose.”

“But, Effie, that’s not what we are speaking about. I’m sure that Mrs Grey prayed many and many a time that her son John might be spared to his family. Just think of them, so helpless—and their mother dead, and little Allie blind! And the minister prayed for him too, in the kirk, and all the folk, that so useful a life might be spared. But, for all that, he died, Effie.”

“Yes; but, Christie, Mrs Grey never prayed for her son’s life except in submission to God’s will. If his death would be for the glory of God, she prayed to be made submissive to His will, and committed herself and her son’s helpless little ones to God’s keeping.”

Christie looked at her sister with eyes filled with astonishment.

“You don’t mean to say that if Mrs Grey had had her choice she wouldna have had her son spared to her?”

“I mean that if she could have had her choice she would have preferred to leave the matter in God’s hands. She would never have chosen for herself.”

“Christie,” she added, after a pause, “do you mind the time when our Willie wanted father’s knife, and how, rather than vex him, Annie gave it to him? Do you mind all the mischief he did to himself and others? I suppose some of our prayers are as blind and foolish as Willie’s wish was, and that God shows His loving kindness to us rather by denying than by granting our requests.”

“Then what was the use of praying for Mrs Grey’s son, since it was God’s will that he should die? What is the use of anybody’s praying about anything?”

Effie hesitated. There was something in Christie’s manner indicating that it was not alone the mere petulance of the moment that dictated the question.

“I am not wise about these things, Christie,” she said. “I only know this: God has graciously permitted us to bring our troubles to Him. He has said, ‘Ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye shall find.’ He has said, ‘He that asketh receiveth, and he that seeketh findeth.’ And in the Psalms, ‘Call upon Me in the day of trouble, and I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify Me.’ We need not vex ourselves, surely, abouthowit is all to happen. God’s word is enough.”

“But then, Effie, there are prayers that God doesna hear.”

“There are many things that God does not give us when we ask Him; but, Christie, God does hear the prayers of His people. Yes, and He answers them too—though not always in the way that they wish or expect, yetalwaysin thebestway for them. Of this they may be sure. If He does not give them just what they ask for, He will give them something better, and make them willing to be without the desired good. There is nothing in the whole Bible more clearly told than that God hears the prayers of His people. We need never,neverdoubt that.”

But Christie did not look satisfied.

“‘His people,’” she murmured, “but no others.”

Effie looked perplexed.

“I am not wise in these matters, as I have just told you,” she said, gravely. “Until lately I havena thought much about them. But I think that people sometimes vex themselves in vain. It is to the thirsty who are seeking water that God promises to open fountains. It is to the weary and heavy-laden that Christ has promised rest. I am sure that those who feel their need of God’s help need not fear that they will be refused anything—I mean, anything that is good for them.”

“There is a difference, I suppose,” she added, after a pause. “We may ask for many a temporal blessing that might be our ruin if God were to grant it to us; and in love He withholds such, often. But when we ask for spiritual blessing, for the grace of strength to do or of patience to bear His will, if we ask for guidance, for wisdom to direct us, we need not fear that we shall be denied. And, having these, other things don’t matter so much, to God’s people.”

“‘To God’s people,’” repeated Christie to herself again. “Well, I am not one of them. It’s nothing that can do me any good.”

She did not answer her sister, but rose up slowly, saying it was time to go. So she climbed over the low stone wall, and walked on in silence. Effie followed quietly. Not a word was spoken till they reached the bend of the brook over which hung the birch-tree. Past this, her favourite resting-place, Christie rarely went without lingering. She would not have paused to-night, however, had not Effie, who had fallen a little behind by this time, called her.

“Oh, Christie! look at the clouds! Did you ever see anything so beautiful? How beautiful!” she repeated, as she came and stood beside her. “It was a long time before I could become used to the sun’s sinking down in that low, far-away place. I missed the hills that used to hide him from us at home. How well I remember the sunsets then, and the long, quiet gloamings!”

“Home” was over the sea, and “then” was the time when a mother’s voice and smile mingled with all other pleasant things; and no wonder that Effie sighed, as she stood watching the changing hues near the low horizon. The “home” and “then” were the last drops added to Christie’s cup of sad memories; and the overflow could no longer be stayed. She kept her face turned away from her sister, but could not hide the struggle within, and at Effie’s very first word her sobs broke forth.

“What is the matter, Christie? There must be something you have not told me about. You are weary: that is it. Sit down here again, and rest. We need not hurry home, after all.”

Christie sank down, struggling with her tears.

“It’s nothing, Effie,” she said, at last. “I’m sure I didna mean to vex you with my crying; but I canna help it. There is nothing the matter with me more than usual. Never mind me, Effie.”

“Well, sit still a little,” said Effie, soothingly. “You are tired, I do believe.”

“Yes,” said Christie, recovering herself with a great effort. “It’s partly that, I dare say; and—” She stopped, not being further sure of her voice.

Effie said nothing, but gently stroked her hair with her hand. The gentle touch was more than Christie could bear, at the moment.

“Effie, don’t!” she cried, vainly struggling to repress another gush of tears. In a little while she grew quiet, and said, “I know I’m very foolish, Effie; but I canna help it.”

“Never mind,” said Effie, cheerfully; for she knew by the sound of her voice that her tears were over for this time. “A little shower sometimes clears the sky; and now the sun will shine again.”

She stooped down, and dipping her own handkerchief in the brook, gave it to her sister to bathe her hot cheeks; and soon she asked, gravely:

“What is it, Christie?”

“It’s nothing,” said Christie, eagerly. “Nothing more than usual. I’m tired, that’s all,—and you are going away,—and it will be just the same thing every day till you come back,—going to bed tired, and getting up tired, and doing the same thing over and over again to very little purpose. I’m sure I canna see the good of it all.”

Effie could not but smile at her words and manner.

“Well, I suppose that will be the way with every one, mostly. I’m sure it will be the way with me. Except the getting up tired,” she added, laughing. “I’m glad to say I don’t very often do that. I’m afraid my life is not to much purpose either, though I do wish it to be useful,” she continued, more gravely.

“Oh, well, it’s very different with you!” said Christie, in a tone that her sister never liked to hear.

She did not reply for a moment. Then she said:

“It will be easier for you now that the harvest is over. Annie and Sarah will be in the house, and you will have less to do. And, besides, they will make it more cheerful.”

Christie made a movement of impatience.

“You are like Aunt Elsie. You think that I like to be idle and don’t wish to do my share. At any rate, the girls being in the house will make little difference to me. I shall have to be doing something all the time—little things that don’t come to anything. Well, I suppose there is no help for it. It will be all the same in the end.”

Poor Christie! She had a feeling all the time that she was very cross and unreasonable, and she was as vexed as possible with herself for spoiling this last precious half-hour with Effie by her murmurs and complaints. She had not meant it. She was sorry they had waited by the brook. She knew it was for her sake that Effie had proposed to sit down in her favourite resting-place; but before she had well uttered the last words she was wishing with all her heart that they had hurried on.

Effie looked troubled. Christie felt rather than saw it; for her face was turned quite away, and she was gathering up and casting from her broken bits of branches and withered leaves, and watching them as they were borne away by the waters of the brook. Christie would have given much to know whether she was thinking of her foolish words, or of something else.

“I suppose she thinks it’s of no use to heed what I say. And now I have spoiled all the pleasure of thinking about to-day.”

Soon she asked, in a voice which had quite lost the tone of peevishness:

“When will you come home again, Effie?”

Effie turned towards her immediately.

“I don’t know. I’m not quite sure, yet. But, Christie, I canna bear to hear you speak in that way—as though you saw no good in anything. Did you ever think how much worse it might be with you and with us all?”

In her heart, Christie was saying she did not think thingscouldbe much worse, as far asshewas concerned; but she only looked at her sister, without speaking.

“For, after all,” continued Effie, “we are very well off with food and shelter, and are all at home together. You are not very strong, it is true, and you have much to do and Aunt Elsie is not always considerate; or, rather, she has not always a pleasant way of showing her considerateness. She’s a little sharp sometimes, I know. But she suffers more than she acknowledges, and we all ought to bear with her. You have the most to bear, perhaps; but—”

“It’s no’ that, Effie,” interrupted Christie. “I don’t mind having much to do. And I’m sure it never enters into Aunt Elsie’s head that I have anything to bear from her. She thinks she has plenty to bear, from me and from us all. I wouldna care if it came to anything. I could bear great trials, I know, and do great things; but this continual worry and vexation about nothing—it never ends. Every day it is just to begin over again. And what does it all amount to when the year’s over?”

“Hush, Christie,” said her sister. “The time may come when the remembrance of these words will be painful to you. The only way we can prove that we would bear great trials well is by bearing little trials well. We don’t know how soon great trials may come upon us. Every night that I come home, I am thankful to find things just as I left them. We need be in no hurry to have any change.”

Christie was startled.

“Whatdoyou mean, Effie? Are you afraid of anything happening?”

“Oh, no,” she said, cheerfully, “I hope not. I dare say we shall do very well. But we must be thankful for the blessings we have, Christie, and hopeful for the future.”

“Folk say father is not a very good farmer. Is that it, Effie?” Christie spoke with hesitation, as though she was not quite sure how her sister would receive her remark. “But we are getting on better now.”

Effie only answered the last part of what she said.

“Yes, we are getting on better. Father says we have raised enough to take us through the year, with something to spare. It’s all we have to depend on—so much has been laid out on the farm; and it must come in slowly. But thingswillwear out; and the bairns—I wish I could bide at home this winter.”

“Oh, if you only could!” cried Christie, eagerly.

Effie shook her head. “I can do more good to all by being away. And my wages have been raised. I couldna leave just now. Oh, I dare say we shall do very well. But, Christie, you must not fret and be discontented, and think what you do is not worth while. It is the motive that makes the work of any one’s life great or small. It is little matter, in one sense, whether it be teaching children, or washing dishes, or ruling a kingdom, if it is done in the right way and from right principles. I have read, somewhere, that the daily life of a poor unknown child, who, striving against sin, does meekly and cheerfully what is given him to do, may be more acceptable in the sight of God than the suffering of some whom their fellow-men crown as martyrs. If we could only forget ourselves and live for others!” She sighed as she rose to go. “But come, child: we must hurry home now.”

Christie had no words with which to answer her. She rose and followed in silence. “If we could forget ourselves and live for others!” she murmured. That was notherway, surely. Every day, and every hour of the day, it was herself she thought of. Either she was murmuring over her grievances, or pitying herself for them, or she was dreaming vain dreams of a future that should have nothing to vex or annoy. Her life’s work was worth little, indeed, judging it by Effie’s standard. She did all that she did, merely because she could not help it. As to forgetting herself and thinking of others—

But who did so? No one that she knew, unless, perhaps, Effie herself. And Effie had a great many things to make her life pleasant, she thought. Perhaps her father? But then, her father did what he did for his children. All fathers did the same, she supposed. No; she doubted whether any one came near Effie’s idea of what life should be. It would be a very different world indeed if all did so.

They were quite close to the house before Christie got thus far; and a glimpse of her father’s careworn face filled her with something like self-reproach.

“I wish I could do him some good! But what can I do? He has never been the same since mother died. Nobody has been the same since that—except Effie; and she is better and kinder every day. Oh, I wish I could be like her! but it’s of no use wishing;—I can never be like her. Oh, how tired I am!”

She started at the sound of Aunt Elsie’s voice asking, rather sharply, what had kept them so long. She turned away, impatient of the question, and impatient of the cheerful answer with which Effie sought to turn aside her aunt’s displeasure. She was impatient of Annie’s regrets that their long delay had spoiled their supper, and of Sarah’s questions as to who had been at the kirk, and answered them both shortly. She was impatient of the suppressed noise of the little ones, and vexed at her own impatience more than all.

“I dinna think your going to the kirk has done you much good. What ails you, Christie? One would think you had the sins of a nation to answer for, by your face.”

“Whisht, Annie,” interposed Effie. “Christie’s tired, and her head aches, I’m sure. Dinna vex her—poor thing!”

“Well, if she would only say that, and no’ look so glum!” said Annie, laughing, as she set aside the bowl of milk intended for Christie’s supper. In a moment she returned with a cup of tea, and placed it where the bowl had stood. “There!” she said; “that will do your head good, and your temper too, I hope. I’m sure you look as though you needed it.”

Christie would fain have resented both her sister’s kindness and her thoughtless words, by taking no notice of the tea; but Effie interposed again:

“You are very kind, Annie. What a pity you should spoil all by those needless words!”

Annie laughed.

“Nonsense!” she said. “I didna mean to say anything unkind. Christie mustna be so testy. Don’t tell me that you like milk better than tea. Christie will enjoy hers all the better if you take one too.” And she placed it before her.

“Thank you. It’s very nice,” said Effie. “But the milk would have done very well.”

The quick tap of Aunt Elsie’s cane was heard approaching.

“I doubt you are getting away from Sabbath subjects,” said Aunt Elsie. “Haste you with your supper, bairns—your father’s waiting to have worship. Christie, if you are tired, you should go to bed at once.”

For once, Christie did not wait for a second bidding. She was very tired; and long before the usual Sabbath evening’s examination was over, she had forgotten her doubts and fears and vexing thoughts in sleep.

Chapter Four.Orphanhood.When Christie was complaining of the small vexations and unvaried sameness of her daily life, she little dreamed how near at hand was the time when Effie’s words were to prove true. Before the frost came to hush the pleasant murmur of the brook, or the snow had hidden alike the turf seat and the sear leaves of the birch-tree beside it, Christie was looking back over the stolen moments passed there on summer afternoons, with feelings with which were mingled wonder and pain and self-reproach. For the shadow of a coming sorrow was over their household. Day by day they seemed to be drawing nearer to a change which all saw, but which none had courage to name. The neighbours came and went, and spoke hopefully to the awed and anxious children; but they were grave, and said to one another that the poor young Redferns would soon be fatherless.The harvest was quite over, and the assistance of the girls was no longer necessary out-of-doors, when one day Mr Redfern went alone to bring home the last load of turnips from a distant field; and when his children saw his face again it was like the face of the dead. Whether he had been thrown from the cart he had been driving, or whether he had fallen in some sort of fit, they could not tell. Even the doctor, who had been sent for from the next town, could not account for the state of stupor in which he found him. Two days of painful suspense passed; and then, contrary to the expectation of all, Mr Redfern opened his eyes and spoke. For a few days he seemed to revive so rapidly that the doctor had hopes of his entire recovery. It would be a work of time, he said. His back had been much injured by the fall. He could never expect to be so strong as he had been before; but he did not doubt that a few weeks would restore him to a good degree of health and strength again. And so they all took courage.Effie, who had been summoned home, would fain have remained for the winter; but this did not seem best. The surplus of the harvest, over which she and Christie had so lately rejoiced, would be required to pay the wages of the man who must for the winter take their father’s place; and Effie’s increased salary would be of more value than ever to the family. With a face which she strove to make cheerful for the sake of those she left behind, she went away; but her heart was heavy, and when she kissed Christie a good-bye and bade her keep her courage up for the sake of all, she could hardly restrain her tears till the words were spoken.Those who were left at home needed all the cheerfulness they could gather from each other; for it was a very dreary winter that lay before them. The passing weeks did not bring to Mr Redfern the health and strength so confidently promised by the doctor and so earnestly hoped for by his children. In her brief visits, Effie could see little change in him from week to week—certainly none for the better. He gradually came to suffer less, and was always cheerful and patient; but the times when he could be relieved from the weariness of his bed by changing his position to the arm-chair were briefer and at longer intervals.And, in the meantime, another cloud was gathering over them. Aunt Elsie’s rheumatism, which during the autumn had given her much trouble from time to time, was growing daily worse. Painful days and sleepless nights were no longer the exception, but the rule; and not long after the coming in of the New Year, the help which for a long time she had positively and even sternly refused, became a necessity to her. She could neither rise nor lie down without assistance, and she was fast losing the use of her limbs. She was patient, or at least she strove to be, towards her nieces; but she murmured audibly against God, who had so heavily afflicted them.The firm health and cheerful spirits of the girls, Annie and Sarah, stood them in good stead during those long months of suffering. Sarah was the housekeeper, and she fulfilled the many and complicated duties of her office with an alacrity and success that might well surprise them all. She planned and arranged with the skill of a woman of experience, and carried out her plans with an energy and patience that seldom flagged. Indeed, she seemed to find positive pleasure in the little make-shifts which their straitened means made every day more necessary, and boasted of her wonderful powers in a way so merry and triumphant that she cheered the rest when they needed it most.Annie’s task was harder than her sister’s. The constant attendance upon the sick-beds of her father and her aunt was very trying to a girl accustomed to daily exercise in the open air; and there were days when her voice was not so cheerful nor so often heard among them as it might have been. But she was strong and patient, and grew daily more efficient as a nurse; and though she did not know it, she was getting just the discipline that she needed to check some faults and to strengthen her character at the points where it needed strengthening most.As for Christie, she was neither nurse nor housekeeper; or rather, I ought to say, she was both by turns. It was still her duty to attend to little items here and there, which seem little when done, but the neglect of which would soon throw a household into confusion. It was “Christie, come here,” and “Christie, go there,” and “Christie, do this and that,” from morning till night, till she was too weary even to sleep when night came. Her sisters did not mean to be exacting. Indeed, they meant to be very kind and forbearing, and praised and petted her till she was ready to forget her weariness, as well as their unmindfulness of it. She did try very hard to be gentle, and patient, and useful, and almost always she succeeded; and the homecoming of Effie on Saturday night was the one event to which all her thoughts turned through the week, whether she was successful or not.And, indeed, Christie was not the only one of them whose chief pleasure was a glimpse of Effie’s cheerful face. It did them all good to have her among them for a day or two every week. All looked to her for help and counsel; and she seldom failed or disappointed any one. Whatever sad thoughts of the present or misgivings for the future she might have, she kept them, during her visits at home, quite to herself. So they who needed it so much enjoyed the good of her cheerfulness, and she suffered the doubts and suspense and painful anxiety of an elder sister in silence.The winter passed slowly and sadly away to the two invalids, in spite of the hopes that spring might do for them what those long winter months failed to do. March came and passed, and April brought new cares and duties. The coming of the young lambs first, and afterwards the care of the calves and the dairy, gave Annie and Sarah full employment for a time. Annie’s cheeks, that had grown thin and pale during the winter’s confinement, began to get back their bright colour again.From this time the care of her father devolved almost entirely on Christie. Her aunt was, in one respect, better than she used to be. She rarely suffered such intense pain as during the first part of the winter; but every day was making it more apparent that she could never hope to have full use of her limbs again. To an affliction like this, Aunt Elsie could not look forward submissively. She came at last to acknowledge, in words, that her trouble was sent by God, and that she ought to submit, believing that out of the present trial He could bring blessing. But in her heart she murmured bitterly. She could not bear to think that her helplessness added greatly to the burden of care that their father’s illness had brought on these young girls. Yet her murmuring and repining spirit added to their troubles more than her helplessness did. Those days were very dreary to Aunt Elsie.And on none of the family did the burden of her great unhappiness rest so heavily as upon Christie. Not that she had very much to do for her. After she was dressed by Annie and settled in her low chair for the day, she asked and needed little further care. Indeed, in the first misery of her helplessness she rather shrank from all assistance that was not absolutely indispensable, and almost resented all attempts to add to her comfort or relieve her pain. Christie was never quite sure that her aunt was satisfied with anything that was done for her. She never complained; but her acceptance of service seemed always under protest, as though she would fain have refused it if she had had the power. Her very sympathy with the child in her weariness was so expressed as to seem like a reproach.In her attendance upon her father it was very different. All that was done for him was right; and his gentle thanks for her constant ministrations made the service sweet to his weary little daughter. No doubt he passed many a sorrowful day during that long and painful winter; but he suffered no murmur of his to add to the distress of those dear to him. In the silence of many a long and wakeful night, he could not but look in the face the possibility that his children might be left orphans, and the thought could not be otherwise than one of great pain. But he suffered no expression of doubt or fear to discourage them. He wished to live for their sakes; and for a long time he believed that he should live. But the hope passed away with the winter. As the days began to grow long, and the time approached when his children hoped he would be well again, the conviction gradually dawned upon him that the summer air would bring no healing. He felt that he had taken his last look of the snows of winter, that the willow buds and the pale spring blossoms that his little ones brought to him so lovingly were the last he should ever see. For himself it would be well; but for his children—! None but He who knoweth all things knew the pang that rent his heart at the thought of them! Orphans and strangers in a strange land, what was to become of his young daughters? Some of those bright May days were dark enough, as he groped amid the gloom of his great fear for them.But the faith of the Christian triumphed. Before the time came to speak the words which were to chase all hope from their hearts, he could speak them calmly and even hopefully. The voice that never speaks in vain had said to the ear of faith, “Leave thy fatherless children withMe;” and he was thenceforth at peace. He sometimes sighed when he noticed the look of care that could not always be chased from the brow of his elder girls; but almost always he was at peace about them and their future.As for them, they were altogether hopeful. They never saw the cloud that was growing darker and drawing nearer during those bright spring days. In after days, they wondered at their strange unconcern, and said to one another, “How could we have been so blind?” They were grave and anxious many a time, but never with the fear of death. They held long consultations together when Effie was at home; but it was always how they might arrange their affairs so that they need not vex nor annoy their father while he was not strong. They did not apprehend how near was the time when no earthly care should have power to vex him. Even Effie, more thoughtful and anxious than the rest, cheated herself with the hope that time alone was needed to restore him. Whatever Aunt Elsie saw in her brother’s changing face, she said nothing of her fears till the time for self-deception was past with them all.When the time of his departure drew very near, they even thought him better, because he suffered less, and because a far greater part of his time was spent in his arm-chair, or in moving about the room. More than once, too, he was able, by the help of his staff and of a daughter’s willing arm, to go into the garden, or to the turf seat at the end of the house; and his enjoyment of the pleasant spring air and the pleasant spring sights and sounds beguiled them into the belief that he was becoming himself again. But, alas! it was not so. When the suffering passed away, there came in its place a feeling of restlessness that could not be controlled. There was rest for him nowhere. He grew weary of the bed, weary of the arm-chair, weary of his aimless wanderings up and down. At such times, Christie’s voice, singing or reading, had, now and then, a power to soothe, sometimes to quiet, sometimes even to put him to sleep. And, indeed, she grew very skilful in her efforts to soothe and amuse him; and at any hour of the night or day a movement of his would bring her to his side. A softly-spoken word, or the loving touch of his hand upon her head, was enough to make her forget all her weakness and weariness; and during her whole life, or, at least, since her mother’s death, Christie had passed no happier days than in that last month of her father’s life.“Your voice is like your mother’s, Christie, my lassie,” he said one night, when all but themselves were sleeping.Christie gave a quick look into his face. He smiled.“Yes, and you have reminded me of her in various ways during the last few weeks. I hope you will be as good a woman as your mother was, Christie.”She was not a demonstrative child, usually; but now she dropped her face upon her fathers hand, and he felt the fall of her warm tears. It was gently withdrawn, and laid upon her head, and in words that Christie never forgot, he prayed God to bless her. But even with the joy that thrilled her there came upon her a shudder of awe—a fearful certainty that she was listening to the words of a dying man. For a time she lay quite motionless, and her father slumbered with his hand still upon her head. He breathed quite softly and regularly, and in a little time Christie found courage to raise herself and to look into his face. There was no change on it, such as she had heard comes always to the face of the dying, and gradually the quick beating of her heart ceased. As she stood gazing, he opened his eyes and met her look.“You are weary and wan, poor child,” he said. “You should have let Annie or Sarah be with me to-night. Lie down and rest.”“Are you worse, father? Would you like to have me call Annie or Sarah?”He looked surprised.“No; I am very comfortable. I think I shall sleep. Lie down and rest, my poor, weary lamb.”She moved the light so that his face might be in the shadow, and then laid herself down on the low bed near him. She did not mean to sleep; she thought she could not, but weariness overcame her, and she did not waken till Annie lifted the window-curtain and let the light stream in on her face. She woke with a start and a cry; but a glance at her sister’s serene face reassured her.“You frightened little creature! What makes you jump out of your sleep in that way? I doubt if you have slept much, and yet father says he has had a good night.”“Oh, yes, I have,” said she, with a sigh of relief. “I think I have been dreaming.”Looking into her father’s face for confirmation of Annie’s assurance that he was better, he met her look with a smile which quite banished her fears, saying he was very comfortable and had slept well. Once or twice during the day her fears came back; but she strove to chase them away, calling herself foolish and unthankful. And she could easily do so; for he did seem really better. He conversed more than usual with Aunt Elsie—though Christie did not understand all they said. She only knew that they spoke earnestly, and that her father spoke cheerfully. Aunt Elsie looked grave and doubtful enough. “But she always does,” thought Christie. “I can judge nothing by that.”He went farther down the garden-walk than he had ever gone yet; and he looked so cheerful, sitting in the sunshine, that Christie smiled at her unreasonable fears. Alas! that day was to be ever memorable to the Redfern children, as the last on which the sunshine ever rested on their father’s face. He never trod the garden path again.That night Effie came home, and did not go away again till all was over. Christie never knew very well how those days passed. She remembered running down the lane to meet her sister in the twilight, and the irresistible impulse that came over her to tell of the terrible fear that had come upon her as she sat that night with her father’s hand on her head. She called herself foolish and weak, and hastened to tell her sister how much better he had been through the day, how he had walked down the garden and enjoyed the sunshine, and how easy and peaceful he had been since then. But the shadow that had fallen on Effie’s face at her first words did not pass away as she continued to speak; and it was with eyes opened to see “the beginning of the end” that she came into her father’s chamber.She did not leave him again. Christie slept on the couch near him; but all night long Effie sat with her eyes fixed on her father’s changing face. He did not bid her lie down, as he was wont to do. He always smiled when he met her look, and once he said, “I have much to say to you, Effie;” but, while she listened for more, he slumbered again. And so the night passed.The light of the morning made the change more visible. Sarah saw it when she came in. They did not need to tell each other what they feared. When Christie awoke, it was to see the anxious faces of the three sisters bending over their father. She rose mechanically, and stood beside them.“Is he worse?” she asked. “He seems sleeping quietly.”She did not need to say more.“Annie,” said Effie, in a little time, beckoning her sister away from the bed, “Aunt Elsie must have her breakfast before she is told this; and the bairns—” Effie’s voice failed her for a moment. “We must try and keep them quiet.”Annie said something in a low voice about the doctor; Effie shook her head.“It’s of no use,” said Effie. “Still, we might send. I’ll tell James.” And she went out.A little after daybreak he seemed to rouse himself for a moment; but he soon slumbered again. By and by their neighbours, who had heard from the messenger sent for the doctor that Mr Redfern was worse, came dropping in. They looked in for a moment upon the group of girls gathered round their father’s bed, and then, for the most part, seated themselves in the outer room with Aunt Elsie. Mrs Nesbitt and her son John lingered in the room, and whispered together. In a little while the mother beckoned to Effie.“My poor bairn,” she said, “if you have anything to say to your father, or anything to ask of him, it had better be now.”Effie gave a quick, startled look.“Now?” she said. “So soon?”“Effie, my bairn, for the sake of the rest,” whispered her friend.In a minute or two she was able to take her old place by the pillow. As she bent over her father, the doctor came in. He stood for a moment looking down on him.“Speak to him,” he said.“Father,” said Effie, stooping, with her face close to his. “Father.”He stirred a little at the sound of her voice, and his fingers wandered aimlessly over the coverlet.“Is it morning?” he asked.“Father,” repeated Effie, “Dr Grey is here.”He opened his eyes at that, and met the look of the doctor fixed on him.“Oh, is the end come?” he asked. “I didna think it would be so soon. Did I hear Effie’s voice? I have so much to say to her! My poor bairns!”Effie bent her face again close to his. Her voice was low, but firm and clear.“Father, don’t let any thought of us disturb you now. God is good. I am not afraid.”“And your aunt, she has suffered much, sacrificed much for us. Consider her first in all things. Be guided by her.”“Yes, father.”“There are other things. I didna think this was to be so soon; and now it is too late. But you have some kind friends. Did I hear John Nesbitt’s voice?”“Yes, father; he is here.” And she beckoned to John to come nearer. But he seemed to have forgotten him John stooped towards him, and said, in a low voice:“Is there anything I can say that would make it easier for you to leave them?”The eyes of the dying man turned towards him, slowly.“John, you are a good man, and true. They will be very solitary. You will be their friend?”“Always. So help me God!”The words were spoken like the words of a vow.The dying man’s mind seemed to wander a little after that; for he asked again if it was morning, and what was to be done in the field to-day. But Effie’s pale face bending over him seemed to recall all.“Effie,” he said, “I leave them all with you—just as I would have left them with your mother. Be to them what she would have been to you all. You will ay be mindful of the little ones, Effie?”“Father, with God’s help, I will,” she answered, firmly.“Poor little ones! Poor wee Christie!” he murmured.They brought them to him, guiding his hand till it rested on each head, one after the other.“Fear God, and love one another.” It was all he had strength to say, now. John Nesbitt read from the Bible a verse or two now and then, speaking slowly, that the dying man might hear. Then an old man, one of the elders of the kirk, prayed by the bedside. The uneasy movement of his head upon the pillow, and the aimless efforts of his hands to grasp something, were the only signs of suffering that he gave; and when Effie took his hand in hers, these ceased.“If Christie would sing, I think I could sleep,” he said. “Her voice is like her mother’s.”Effie beckoned to her sister.“Try, Christie; try,” she said.But Christie’s lips could utter no sound. John Nesbitt began, “The Lord’s my Shepherd;” and in a little time several trembling voices joined. When they came to the verse:“Yea, though I walk through Death’s dark vale,Yet will I fear no ill;For Thou art with me, and Thy rodAnd staff me comfort still,—”they rose full, clear, and triumphant. They were the last sounds he heard on earth. When they ended, Mrs Nesbitt’s hand was gently laid on their father’s eyelids, and at the sight of that the children knew they were orphans.

When Christie was complaining of the small vexations and unvaried sameness of her daily life, she little dreamed how near at hand was the time when Effie’s words were to prove true. Before the frost came to hush the pleasant murmur of the brook, or the snow had hidden alike the turf seat and the sear leaves of the birch-tree beside it, Christie was looking back over the stolen moments passed there on summer afternoons, with feelings with which were mingled wonder and pain and self-reproach. For the shadow of a coming sorrow was over their household. Day by day they seemed to be drawing nearer to a change which all saw, but which none had courage to name. The neighbours came and went, and spoke hopefully to the awed and anxious children; but they were grave, and said to one another that the poor young Redferns would soon be fatherless.

The harvest was quite over, and the assistance of the girls was no longer necessary out-of-doors, when one day Mr Redfern went alone to bring home the last load of turnips from a distant field; and when his children saw his face again it was like the face of the dead. Whether he had been thrown from the cart he had been driving, or whether he had fallen in some sort of fit, they could not tell. Even the doctor, who had been sent for from the next town, could not account for the state of stupor in which he found him. Two days of painful suspense passed; and then, contrary to the expectation of all, Mr Redfern opened his eyes and spoke. For a few days he seemed to revive so rapidly that the doctor had hopes of his entire recovery. It would be a work of time, he said. His back had been much injured by the fall. He could never expect to be so strong as he had been before; but he did not doubt that a few weeks would restore him to a good degree of health and strength again. And so they all took courage.

Effie, who had been summoned home, would fain have remained for the winter; but this did not seem best. The surplus of the harvest, over which she and Christie had so lately rejoiced, would be required to pay the wages of the man who must for the winter take their father’s place; and Effie’s increased salary would be of more value than ever to the family. With a face which she strove to make cheerful for the sake of those she left behind, she went away; but her heart was heavy, and when she kissed Christie a good-bye and bade her keep her courage up for the sake of all, she could hardly restrain her tears till the words were spoken.

Those who were left at home needed all the cheerfulness they could gather from each other; for it was a very dreary winter that lay before them. The passing weeks did not bring to Mr Redfern the health and strength so confidently promised by the doctor and so earnestly hoped for by his children. In her brief visits, Effie could see little change in him from week to week—certainly none for the better. He gradually came to suffer less, and was always cheerful and patient; but the times when he could be relieved from the weariness of his bed by changing his position to the arm-chair were briefer and at longer intervals.

And, in the meantime, another cloud was gathering over them. Aunt Elsie’s rheumatism, which during the autumn had given her much trouble from time to time, was growing daily worse. Painful days and sleepless nights were no longer the exception, but the rule; and not long after the coming in of the New Year, the help which for a long time she had positively and even sternly refused, became a necessity to her. She could neither rise nor lie down without assistance, and she was fast losing the use of her limbs. She was patient, or at least she strove to be, towards her nieces; but she murmured audibly against God, who had so heavily afflicted them.

The firm health and cheerful spirits of the girls, Annie and Sarah, stood them in good stead during those long months of suffering. Sarah was the housekeeper, and she fulfilled the many and complicated duties of her office with an alacrity and success that might well surprise them all. She planned and arranged with the skill of a woman of experience, and carried out her plans with an energy and patience that seldom flagged. Indeed, she seemed to find positive pleasure in the little make-shifts which their straitened means made every day more necessary, and boasted of her wonderful powers in a way so merry and triumphant that she cheered the rest when they needed it most.

Annie’s task was harder than her sister’s. The constant attendance upon the sick-beds of her father and her aunt was very trying to a girl accustomed to daily exercise in the open air; and there were days when her voice was not so cheerful nor so often heard among them as it might have been. But she was strong and patient, and grew daily more efficient as a nurse; and though she did not know it, she was getting just the discipline that she needed to check some faults and to strengthen her character at the points where it needed strengthening most.

As for Christie, she was neither nurse nor housekeeper; or rather, I ought to say, she was both by turns. It was still her duty to attend to little items here and there, which seem little when done, but the neglect of which would soon throw a household into confusion. It was “Christie, come here,” and “Christie, go there,” and “Christie, do this and that,” from morning till night, till she was too weary even to sleep when night came. Her sisters did not mean to be exacting. Indeed, they meant to be very kind and forbearing, and praised and petted her till she was ready to forget her weariness, as well as their unmindfulness of it. She did try very hard to be gentle, and patient, and useful, and almost always she succeeded; and the homecoming of Effie on Saturday night was the one event to which all her thoughts turned through the week, whether she was successful or not.

And, indeed, Christie was not the only one of them whose chief pleasure was a glimpse of Effie’s cheerful face. It did them all good to have her among them for a day or two every week. All looked to her for help and counsel; and she seldom failed or disappointed any one. Whatever sad thoughts of the present or misgivings for the future she might have, she kept them, during her visits at home, quite to herself. So they who needed it so much enjoyed the good of her cheerfulness, and she suffered the doubts and suspense and painful anxiety of an elder sister in silence.

The winter passed slowly and sadly away to the two invalids, in spite of the hopes that spring might do for them what those long winter months failed to do. March came and passed, and April brought new cares and duties. The coming of the young lambs first, and afterwards the care of the calves and the dairy, gave Annie and Sarah full employment for a time. Annie’s cheeks, that had grown thin and pale during the winter’s confinement, began to get back their bright colour again.

From this time the care of her father devolved almost entirely on Christie. Her aunt was, in one respect, better than she used to be. She rarely suffered such intense pain as during the first part of the winter; but every day was making it more apparent that she could never hope to have full use of her limbs again. To an affliction like this, Aunt Elsie could not look forward submissively. She came at last to acknowledge, in words, that her trouble was sent by God, and that she ought to submit, believing that out of the present trial He could bring blessing. But in her heart she murmured bitterly. She could not bear to think that her helplessness added greatly to the burden of care that their father’s illness had brought on these young girls. Yet her murmuring and repining spirit added to their troubles more than her helplessness did. Those days were very dreary to Aunt Elsie.

And on none of the family did the burden of her great unhappiness rest so heavily as upon Christie. Not that she had very much to do for her. After she was dressed by Annie and settled in her low chair for the day, she asked and needed little further care. Indeed, in the first misery of her helplessness she rather shrank from all assistance that was not absolutely indispensable, and almost resented all attempts to add to her comfort or relieve her pain. Christie was never quite sure that her aunt was satisfied with anything that was done for her. She never complained; but her acceptance of service seemed always under protest, as though she would fain have refused it if she had had the power. Her very sympathy with the child in her weariness was so expressed as to seem like a reproach.

In her attendance upon her father it was very different. All that was done for him was right; and his gentle thanks for her constant ministrations made the service sweet to his weary little daughter. No doubt he passed many a sorrowful day during that long and painful winter; but he suffered no murmur of his to add to the distress of those dear to him. In the silence of many a long and wakeful night, he could not but look in the face the possibility that his children might be left orphans, and the thought could not be otherwise than one of great pain. But he suffered no expression of doubt or fear to discourage them. He wished to live for their sakes; and for a long time he believed that he should live. But the hope passed away with the winter. As the days began to grow long, and the time approached when his children hoped he would be well again, the conviction gradually dawned upon him that the summer air would bring no healing. He felt that he had taken his last look of the snows of winter, that the willow buds and the pale spring blossoms that his little ones brought to him so lovingly were the last he should ever see. For himself it would be well; but for his children—! None but He who knoweth all things knew the pang that rent his heart at the thought of them! Orphans and strangers in a strange land, what was to become of his young daughters? Some of those bright May days were dark enough, as he groped amid the gloom of his great fear for them.

But the faith of the Christian triumphed. Before the time came to speak the words which were to chase all hope from their hearts, he could speak them calmly and even hopefully. The voice that never speaks in vain had said to the ear of faith, “Leave thy fatherless children withMe;” and he was thenceforth at peace. He sometimes sighed when he noticed the look of care that could not always be chased from the brow of his elder girls; but almost always he was at peace about them and their future.

As for them, they were altogether hopeful. They never saw the cloud that was growing darker and drawing nearer during those bright spring days. In after days, they wondered at their strange unconcern, and said to one another, “How could we have been so blind?” They were grave and anxious many a time, but never with the fear of death. They held long consultations together when Effie was at home; but it was always how they might arrange their affairs so that they need not vex nor annoy their father while he was not strong. They did not apprehend how near was the time when no earthly care should have power to vex him. Even Effie, more thoughtful and anxious than the rest, cheated herself with the hope that time alone was needed to restore him. Whatever Aunt Elsie saw in her brother’s changing face, she said nothing of her fears till the time for self-deception was past with them all.

When the time of his departure drew very near, they even thought him better, because he suffered less, and because a far greater part of his time was spent in his arm-chair, or in moving about the room. More than once, too, he was able, by the help of his staff and of a daughter’s willing arm, to go into the garden, or to the turf seat at the end of the house; and his enjoyment of the pleasant spring air and the pleasant spring sights and sounds beguiled them into the belief that he was becoming himself again. But, alas! it was not so. When the suffering passed away, there came in its place a feeling of restlessness that could not be controlled. There was rest for him nowhere. He grew weary of the bed, weary of the arm-chair, weary of his aimless wanderings up and down. At such times, Christie’s voice, singing or reading, had, now and then, a power to soothe, sometimes to quiet, sometimes even to put him to sleep. And, indeed, she grew very skilful in her efforts to soothe and amuse him; and at any hour of the night or day a movement of his would bring her to his side. A softly-spoken word, or the loving touch of his hand upon her head, was enough to make her forget all her weakness and weariness; and during her whole life, or, at least, since her mother’s death, Christie had passed no happier days than in that last month of her father’s life.

“Your voice is like your mother’s, Christie, my lassie,” he said one night, when all but themselves were sleeping.

Christie gave a quick look into his face. He smiled.

“Yes, and you have reminded me of her in various ways during the last few weeks. I hope you will be as good a woman as your mother was, Christie.”

She was not a demonstrative child, usually; but now she dropped her face upon her fathers hand, and he felt the fall of her warm tears. It was gently withdrawn, and laid upon her head, and in words that Christie never forgot, he prayed God to bless her. But even with the joy that thrilled her there came upon her a shudder of awe—a fearful certainty that she was listening to the words of a dying man. For a time she lay quite motionless, and her father slumbered with his hand still upon her head. He breathed quite softly and regularly, and in a little time Christie found courage to raise herself and to look into his face. There was no change on it, such as she had heard comes always to the face of the dying, and gradually the quick beating of her heart ceased. As she stood gazing, he opened his eyes and met her look.

“You are weary and wan, poor child,” he said. “You should have let Annie or Sarah be with me to-night. Lie down and rest.”

“Are you worse, father? Would you like to have me call Annie or Sarah?”

He looked surprised.

“No; I am very comfortable. I think I shall sleep. Lie down and rest, my poor, weary lamb.”

She moved the light so that his face might be in the shadow, and then laid herself down on the low bed near him. She did not mean to sleep; she thought she could not, but weariness overcame her, and she did not waken till Annie lifted the window-curtain and let the light stream in on her face. She woke with a start and a cry; but a glance at her sister’s serene face reassured her.

“You frightened little creature! What makes you jump out of your sleep in that way? I doubt if you have slept much, and yet father says he has had a good night.”

“Oh, yes, I have,” said she, with a sigh of relief. “I think I have been dreaming.”

Looking into her father’s face for confirmation of Annie’s assurance that he was better, he met her look with a smile which quite banished her fears, saying he was very comfortable and had slept well. Once or twice during the day her fears came back; but she strove to chase them away, calling herself foolish and unthankful. And she could easily do so; for he did seem really better. He conversed more than usual with Aunt Elsie—though Christie did not understand all they said. She only knew that they spoke earnestly, and that her father spoke cheerfully. Aunt Elsie looked grave and doubtful enough. “But she always does,” thought Christie. “I can judge nothing by that.”

He went farther down the garden-walk than he had ever gone yet; and he looked so cheerful, sitting in the sunshine, that Christie smiled at her unreasonable fears. Alas! that day was to be ever memorable to the Redfern children, as the last on which the sunshine ever rested on their father’s face. He never trod the garden path again.

That night Effie came home, and did not go away again till all was over. Christie never knew very well how those days passed. She remembered running down the lane to meet her sister in the twilight, and the irresistible impulse that came over her to tell of the terrible fear that had come upon her as she sat that night with her father’s hand on her head. She called herself foolish and weak, and hastened to tell her sister how much better he had been through the day, how he had walked down the garden and enjoyed the sunshine, and how easy and peaceful he had been since then. But the shadow that had fallen on Effie’s face at her first words did not pass away as she continued to speak; and it was with eyes opened to see “the beginning of the end” that she came into her father’s chamber.

She did not leave him again. Christie slept on the couch near him; but all night long Effie sat with her eyes fixed on her father’s changing face. He did not bid her lie down, as he was wont to do. He always smiled when he met her look, and once he said, “I have much to say to you, Effie;” but, while she listened for more, he slumbered again. And so the night passed.

The light of the morning made the change more visible. Sarah saw it when she came in. They did not need to tell each other what they feared. When Christie awoke, it was to see the anxious faces of the three sisters bending over their father. She rose mechanically, and stood beside them.

“Is he worse?” she asked. “He seems sleeping quietly.”

She did not need to say more.

“Annie,” said Effie, in a little time, beckoning her sister away from the bed, “Aunt Elsie must have her breakfast before she is told this; and the bairns—” Effie’s voice failed her for a moment. “We must try and keep them quiet.”

Annie said something in a low voice about the doctor; Effie shook her head.

“It’s of no use,” said Effie. “Still, we might send. I’ll tell James.” And she went out.

A little after daybreak he seemed to rouse himself for a moment; but he soon slumbered again. By and by their neighbours, who had heard from the messenger sent for the doctor that Mr Redfern was worse, came dropping in. They looked in for a moment upon the group of girls gathered round their father’s bed, and then, for the most part, seated themselves in the outer room with Aunt Elsie. Mrs Nesbitt and her son John lingered in the room, and whispered together. In a little while the mother beckoned to Effie.

“My poor bairn,” she said, “if you have anything to say to your father, or anything to ask of him, it had better be now.”

Effie gave a quick, startled look.

“Now?” she said. “So soon?”

“Effie, my bairn, for the sake of the rest,” whispered her friend.

In a minute or two she was able to take her old place by the pillow. As she bent over her father, the doctor came in. He stood for a moment looking down on him.

“Speak to him,” he said.

“Father,” said Effie, stooping, with her face close to his. “Father.”

He stirred a little at the sound of her voice, and his fingers wandered aimlessly over the coverlet.

“Is it morning?” he asked.

“Father,” repeated Effie, “Dr Grey is here.”

He opened his eyes at that, and met the look of the doctor fixed on him.

“Oh, is the end come?” he asked. “I didna think it would be so soon. Did I hear Effie’s voice? I have so much to say to her! My poor bairns!”

Effie bent her face again close to his. Her voice was low, but firm and clear.

“Father, don’t let any thought of us disturb you now. God is good. I am not afraid.”

“And your aunt, she has suffered much, sacrificed much for us. Consider her first in all things. Be guided by her.”

“Yes, father.”

“There are other things. I didna think this was to be so soon; and now it is too late. But you have some kind friends. Did I hear John Nesbitt’s voice?”

“Yes, father; he is here.” And she beckoned to John to come nearer. But he seemed to have forgotten him John stooped towards him, and said, in a low voice:

“Is there anything I can say that would make it easier for you to leave them?”

The eyes of the dying man turned towards him, slowly.

“John, you are a good man, and true. They will be very solitary. You will be their friend?”

“Always. So help me God!”

The words were spoken like the words of a vow.

The dying man’s mind seemed to wander a little after that; for he asked again if it was morning, and what was to be done in the field to-day. But Effie’s pale face bending over him seemed to recall all.

“Effie,” he said, “I leave them all with you—just as I would have left them with your mother. Be to them what she would have been to you all. You will ay be mindful of the little ones, Effie?”

“Father, with God’s help, I will,” she answered, firmly.

“Poor little ones! Poor wee Christie!” he murmured.

They brought them to him, guiding his hand till it rested on each head, one after the other.

“Fear God, and love one another.” It was all he had strength to say, now. John Nesbitt read from the Bible a verse or two now and then, speaking slowly, that the dying man might hear. Then an old man, one of the elders of the kirk, prayed by the bedside. The uneasy movement of his head upon the pillow, and the aimless efforts of his hands to grasp something, were the only signs of suffering that he gave; and when Effie took his hand in hers, these ceased.

“If Christie would sing, I think I could sleep,” he said. “Her voice is like her mother’s.”

Effie beckoned to her sister.

“Try, Christie; try,” she said.

But Christie’s lips could utter no sound. John Nesbitt began, “The Lord’s my Shepherd;” and in a little time several trembling voices joined. When they came to the verse:

“Yea, though I walk through Death’s dark vale,Yet will I fear no ill;For Thou art with me, and Thy rodAnd staff me comfort still,—”

“Yea, though I walk through Death’s dark vale,Yet will I fear no ill;For Thou art with me, and Thy rodAnd staff me comfort still,—”

they rose full, clear, and triumphant. They were the last sounds he heard on earth. When they ended, Mrs Nesbitt’s hand was gently laid on their father’s eyelids, and at the sight of that the children knew they were orphans.

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