Chapter Twenty One.

Chapter Twenty One.The night grows darker.But the thing which “might happen,” and at the thought of which Christie shuddered and turned pale, was not what Mr Sherwood supposed it to be. It was not the natural shrinking from death which all must feel when it is first impressed upon the mind not only that it is inevitable, but that it is near. Christie knew that she was very ill. She knew that she was not growing better, but rather worse. Yet it had never entered into her mind that possibly she was to die soon. The dread that was upon her was not the dread of death. I think if she had suddenly been told that she was going to die, the tidings might have startled her, because not anticipated; but believing, as she did, that death could not separate her from her chief treasure, she would not have been afraid. It was of something else that she was thinking, when she said to her kind friend that Effie would be shocked if it came to pass.She had awakened one day from a momentary slumber into which she had fallen to hear some very terrible words spoken beside her. She thought she had been dreaming till she heard them repeated, and then she opened her eyes to see the kind faces of the attending physician and another looking at her.“You have been asleep,” said one of them, kindly and Christie thought again she must have been dreaming, for they spoke to her just as usual, praising her patience and bidding her take courage, for she would soon be well again. She must have been dreaming, she said to herself, twenty times that day. Nothing so terrible as the dread that was upon her could possibly be true; and yet the thought came back again and again.“I am afraid she must lose it,” she thought she heard one of them say.“Yes; it looks like that now,” as it seemed to her was the reply.She could not forget the expression; and during the days and nights that followed, the remembrance of the words came back, sometimes as a dream, sometimes as a certainty. Had she been asleep, or was it true that she must be a cripple all her life? Must she henceforth be helpless and dependent, when her help was so much and in so many ways needed? Had her terrible sufferings been all in vain? Were all these restless days and nights only to have this sorrowful ending? How could she ever bear it? How could she ever tell Effie and the rest at home?Many times in the day, when there was no one near, she determined to ask the doctor, that she might know the worst or have her fears set at rest, but she could not find the courage to do so. She did speak to the nurse, but she knew nothing about the matter, or said she did not, and quite laughed at her fancies, as she called them. But the fancies still lingered, and for a week or two the face she turned to meet her friend was grave and anxious enough.He came almost every day now, he hardly knew why. Whatever the cause might be, he could not but see that his coming was always hailed with delight. Wherever the charm might be, whether in his voice or in the words he read, he could not tell; but he saw that his visits soothed her restlessness, and helped to banish the look of doubt and pain that too often saddened her face.Sometimes he read the Bible, and stranger as he had for many years been to its sacred pages, he could not help yielding himself to the charm which the wonderful words he read there must ever have to a thoughtful mind. But the charm which the words had for his patient listener was something quite different from this. It was not the grandeur or sublimity of the style, or even the loftiness of the thought, that made her listen with such interest. She liked the simplest passages best. The simple narratives of the evangelists never lost their power to please her. Some word or promise, in which he saw little beauty, had often power to excite her deepest emotion, and he could not but wonder as he saw it.He read other books too—little books left by visitors; very foolish little books he thought them often, and he could not but smile as he marked the interest with which she listened; but he never by smile or word intimated to her that he thought them trifling, at least he was never conscious of doing so. But he sometimes read in the grave, questioning eyes which Christie turned on him, a doubt whether that which was so real and so comforting to her was of any value to him.He could not but confess to himself that, seen from Christie’s point of view, the subjects discussed in them must seem of grave importance; and he never lost the feeling, as he sat by her bed, that they had a meaning to her that was hidden from him.Very few words were spoken between them at such times. When Christie asked a question or made a remark, there was a clearness and simplicity in her way of speaking, a strength and freshness in what she said, that often surprised as well as interested him. He did not always understand her, and yet he could not believe that she was speaking of things too high for her.The thought flashed upon his mind one day, as he sat by her bed. What if among these things which were revealed to her but hidden from him, lay the secret of the happiness he had been so long and so vainly pursuing? There are things hidden from the wise and prudent, and revealed only to babes—even to such little ones as this suffering child.Looking up as the thought passed through his mind, he met her eyes fixed wistfully upon him. She withdrew the gaze quickly, in some confusion, but in a moment looked up again.“What is it, Christie? You looked as though you were afraid. I would read your thoughts. What grave question are you meditating now?”Christie smiled.“No, I was not afraid. I was wondering what could make you so kind to me. I need not have wondered, though. I know quite well why it is.”“Do you? Well, suppose you tell me what you mean by ‘so kind,’ and then why it is that I am ‘so kind’ to you. I should really like to know,” said Mr Sherwood, laughing.“I need not tell you the first,” she said, with a smile. “You know that very well, and it would take me too long to tell all. I think the reason of your kindness is because God has put it into your heart to be so. It is one of the ways He takes to help me to bear my troubles.”The last words were spoken very gravely.“Then it seems you don’t think I am one of the good people who take delight in kind offices.”“I am sure no one could be kinder than you have been to me,” she said, eagerly.“But you don’t think it is my way to be kind to people generally; I am not a philanthropist. Is that it?”Christie looked puzzled and a little anxious. “Nay, you are not to look disconsolate about it,” said Mr Sherwood, laughing. “It is quite true. I am not at all like a benevolent person in a book. I was kind to you, as you call it, first to please my little cousin Gertrude, and then to please myself. So now you have the secret of it all.”“Oh, but it is true for all that that God put it into your heart to come so often,” said Christie, with glistening eyes. “Your kindness gives me double pleasure when I think of it in that way.”“Well, it may be so,” said Mr Sherwood, gravely; “but I don’t think it is generally supposed that God chooses to comfort His little ones by means of such a person as I am.”Christie’s eyes were fixed wistfully upon him again.“Such as you!” she exclaimed, quite unconsciously, as Mr Sherwood thought, for she said no more just then.“I was writing to Effie to-day, and I tried to tell her how good you have been to me. But I could not. I could never make her understand it, I know. She would need to see it for herself.”“My poor child,” said Mr Sherwood, smiling, “do you know you are talking foolishly? and that is a thing you seldom do. You are making a great deal out of a very little matter. The chances are that you do quite as much good to me as I shall ever do to you.”“Oh, I wish I could think so! If I could get my wish for you—” She paused suddenly.“Well, what would you wish for me?” asked Mr Sherwood, still smiling at her eagerness. “I dare say I should have no more trouble in this world if you could have your wish.”Christie shook her head.“I don’t think I ever wished that for you, and yet I have, too, in a way; for if that which I ask for you every day were to come to pass, youmighthave trouble, but it would never seem like trouble to you any more.”“Well, I suppose that would answer every purpose of not having any more trouble, and you are very kind to wish it. But you say ‘ask’; so I suppose it is something which is in the giving of your Friend above?”“Yes,” said Christie, softly; and then there was a pause.“And what is it? Is it the ‘new heart and the right spirit’ we were reading about the other day? That seems to be the very best blessing that one can have, in your opinion. And do you really think I shall ever get it?”“I hope you will,” she answered, eagerly. “I believe you will, if you only ask for it.”“Ah, well, I don’t know. I have a fancy that your asking will be more to the purpose than mine.”“I shall never forget to ask it for you. I have never forgotten it since—” she hesitated.“Since when?” asked Mr Sherwood.“Do you remember the day you came into the cedar walk, when I was telling little Claude the story of the blind man, and what you said to me that day? I don’t think I have ever forgotten since to pray the blind man’s prayer for you.”Mr Sherwood was greatly surprised and touched. That was long ago. He had been far-away since then. Once or twice, perhaps, in connection with the remembrance of his little cousins, the thought of their kind, quiet nurse had come back to him. And yet she had never in all that time forgotten to ask for him what seemed to her to be the best of all blessings.“And do you do that for all your friends?” he said. “How came you to think of doing this for me?”“You did not seem very happy, I thought. You seemed like one searching for something that you could not find; and so I asked that your eyes might be opened.”“Well, some day you must tell me how your eyes were opened, and perhaps that may help me.”“Oh, no. I have nothing to tell, only I was very miserable often and discontented and troublesome. Afterwards it was all changed, and I was at peace.”She lay quite still, as if she were weary, and when Mr Sherwood spoke again it was only to say good-bye.But afterwards, at different times, she told him of the great happiness that had come to her through the grace of God, and he listened with an interest which sometimes increased to wonder. He mused on the simple recitals of the young girl with an earnestness which he could not explain to himself, and read the chapters which she pointed out as having done her good, partly for the pleasure of talking them over with her, and partly, too, because he began to see in God’s Word what he had never seen in it before.But I had no thought of saying all this about Mr Sherwood. It was of the sad, yet happy days that Christie passed in the hospital that I wished to write, and they were drawing to a close now. But let me say just one word more about her friend. It all came to pass as Christie had been sure it would. The day came when, earnestly as blind Bartimeus, he prayed, ‘Lord, that mine eyes may be opened!’ And He who had compassion on the wayside beggar had compassion on him, and called him out of darkness into His marvellous light. I dare say she knows the glad tidings now. If she does not, she will know them soon, on the happy day when the friends shall meet “on the other side of the river.”One day when Mr Sherwood came, he brought Gertrude with him. She had been prepared to find Christie very ill, but she had no thought of finding her so greatly changed. She was scarcely able to restrain her emotion at the sight of the pale, suffering face that told so sad a tale, and she was so much excited that Mr Sherwood did not like to go away and leave them together, as he had at first meant to do. She tried to say how grieved she was to see Christie so ill, but when she began to count how many months she had been lying there, her voice suddenly failed her.“Yes; it is a long time,” Christie faintly said. But she thought herself no worse for a few days past. She had suffered much less with her knee of late, and she was beginning to hope that the worst was passed. She did not say much more about herself, except in telling how kind Mr Sherwood had been to her; but she had a great many questions to ask about the little boys, especially Claude, and about Gertrude herself, and all that she had been doing since they parted.What a contrast they presented, these two young girls. There stood the one, bright and strong, possessing all that we are wont to covet for those we love—health and beauty, home and friends, and a fair prospect of a long and happy life. Sick and sorrowful and alone lay the other, her life silently ebbing away, her hold on the world and all it has to give slowly but surely loosening. Yet, in the new light which was beginning to dawn upon him, Mr Sherwood caught a glimpse of a contrast more striking still. On the couch before him lay a little suffering form, wasted and weary, soon to be hidden from the light, little to be mourned, quickly to be forgotten. But it soon vanished as from that lowly cot there rose before his gaze a spirit crowned and radiant and immortal.Which was to be pitied? which to be envied? Before one lay life and its struggles, its trials and its temptations. With the other, these were past. A step more and the river is passed, and beyond lies a world of endless glory and bliss.They did not linger very long. Promising to bring her back soon, Mr Sherwood hurried Gertrude away.“Cousin Charles,” said she, eagerly, as they went down the long passage together, “we must take her away from this place. Nay, don’t shake your head. Mother will listen to what you say, and she will be willing to do much for one who did so much for her little boy. Only think of her lying all these months in that dreary room! Did you not hear her say she had not seen a flower growing all the summer? Oh, Cousin Charles, you will surely help me to persuade mother?”“My dear,” said Mr Sherwood, gravely, “I fear she is not well enough to be moved. I do not think the physicians would consent to let her be taken away.”“But are they making her better? I am sure the fresh air of the country would do her more good than all their medicines. Oh, such a suffering face! And her hands, Cousin Charles—did you notice her hands? I am afraid I have come too late. But she will surely grow better again when she is taken away from this place. It would kill any one to lie there long in that great room among all those poor suffering creatures. If I could only get her away! It would not cost much to take her, with a nurse, to some quiet place, if we could not have her at the house. I shall have money of my own some time. Cousin Charles, will not you speak to mother for me?” She was growing very eager and excited.“Hush!” he said, gently. “Nothing but the impracticability of it could have prevented me from removing her to her own home, for which she has been pining so sadly. Have patience, and we will try what can be done. We will speak to the doctor about it.”The physician was, fortunately, disengaged, and the subject of Christie’s removal suggested to him. But he objected to it more decidedly now than he had when Mr Sherwood had spoken of it some time before. It was doubtful whether in her present weak state she could bear removal, even if she could be as well cared for elsewhere. It was becoming doubtful whether her constitution could hold out much longer. Indeed, it could hardly be said to be doubtful. There was just one chance for her, he said; and then he spoke low, as though he did not wish Miss Gertrude to hear—but she did.“You do not mean that her knee is never to be well again?” she asked, with a shudder.“We have for some time feared so,” said the doctor. “Within a day or two symptoms have appeared which seem to indicate an absolute and speedy necessity for amputation. Poor little thing! It is very sad for her, of course.”“Does she know it?” asked Miss Gertrude, steadying her voice with a great effort.“I think she is not altogether unprepared for it. She must know that she is not getting better, and I fancy she must suspect the necessity from something she once said to the nurse. Poor girl! she seems to grieve quite as much on account of her friends as on her own.”“Have they been informed of this—of the possible result of her illness?” asked Mr Sherwood.“She has written to them several times during the summer, I believe. They seem to be very poor people, living at a distance—quite unable to do anything for her.”They were soon on their way to meet Mrs Seaton, who had made an appointment with them, but Miss Gertrude was quite overcome by what she had seen and heard.“Poor Christie! To think that all these weary months of waiting must end thus! I cannot help thinking we have been to blame.”“My child, why should you say so?”“To think of it coming to this with her, and her friends not knowing it! Her sister never would have left her here all this time, if she had thought her in danger. She ought to know at once.”“Yes; they must be told at once,” said Mr Sherwood. “But I fancy, from what the doctor said, they can’t do much for her; and from the poor little thing herself I have gathered that the only one who could come to her is her elder sister, on whom the rest seem to be quite dependent.”“But she must come, too,” said Gertrude, eagerly. “That is Effie. There is no one in all the world like Effie, Christie thinks. Oh, Cousin Charles, they have not always been poor. And they have suffered so much—and they love each other so dearly!”“Gertrude, my child, there is a bright side even to this sad picture. Do you think that the suffering little creature, lying there all these months, has been altogether unhappy?”Gertrude struggled with her tears, and said:“She has the true secret of happiness.”“Yes, I am sure of it. Seeing her, as I have, lying on that bed of pain, I have felt inclined rather to envy than to pity her. She has that for her own that a kingdom could not purchase—a peace that cannot be taken from her. I do not believe that even the sad necessity that awaits her will move her much now.”His first words had stilled Miss Gertrude quite, and soon she found voice to say:“Not for herself, but for her sisters. I am afraid they will think we have been very cruel. But it will be well with Christie, whatever happens.”“Yes; it will be well with her, I do believe,” said Mr Sherwood, gravely; and neither spoke again till they reached home.

But the thing which “might happen,” and at the thought of which Christie shuddered and turned pale, was not what Mr Sherwood supposed it to be. It was not the natural shrinking from death which all must feel when it is first impressed upon the mind not only that it is inevitable, but that it is near. Christie knew that she was very ill. She knew that she was not growing better, but rather worse. Yet it had never entered into her mind that possibly she was to die soon. The dread that was upon her was not the dread of death. I think if she had suddenly been told that she was going to die, the tidings might have startled her, because not anticipated; but believing, as she did, that death could not separate her from her chief treasure, she would not have been afraid. It was of something else that she was thinking, when she said to her kind friend that Effie would be shocked if it came to pass.

She had awakened one day from a momentary slumber into which she had fallen to hear some very terrible words spoken beside her. She thought she had been dreaming till she heard them repeated, and then she opened her eyes to see the kind faces of the attending physician and another looking at her.

“You have been asleep,” said one of them, kindly and Christie thought again she must have been dreaming, for they spoke to her just as usual, praising her patience and bidding her take courage, for she would soon be well again. She must have been dreaming, she said to herself, twenty times that day. Nothing so terrible as the dread that was upon her could possibly be true; and yet the thought came back again and again.

“I am afraid she must lose it,” she thought she heard one of them say.

“Yes; it looks like that now,” as it seemed to her was the reply.

She could not forget the expression; and during the days and nights that followed, the remembrance of the words came back, sometimes as a dream, sometimes as a certainty. Had she been asleep, or was it true that she must be a cripple all her life? Must she henceforth be helpless and dependent, when her help was so much and in so many ways needed? Had her terrible sufferings been all in vain? Were all these restless days and nights only to have this sorrowful ending? How could she ever bear it? How could she ever tell Effie and the rest at home?

Many times in the day, when there was no one near, she determined to ask the doctor, that she might know the worst or have her fears set at rest, but she could not find the courage to do so. She did speak to the nurse, but she knew nothing about the matter, or said she did not, and quite laughed at her fancies, as she called them. But the fancies still lingered, and for a week or two the face she turned to meet her friend was grave and anxious enough.

He came almost every day now, he hardly knew why. Whatever the cause might be, he could not but see that his coming was always hailed with delight. Wherever the charm might be, whether in his voice or in the words he read, he could not tell; but he saw that his visits soothed her restlessness, and helped to banish the look of doubt and pain that too often saddened her face.

Sometimes he read the Bible, and stranger as he had for many years been to its sacred pages, he could not help yielding himself to the charm which the wonderful words he read there must ever have to a thoughtful mind. But the charm which the words had for his patient listener was something quite different from this. It was not the grandeur or sublimity of the style, or even the loftiness of the thought, that made her listen with such interest. She liked the simplest passages best. The simple narratives of the evangelists never lost their power to please her. Some word or promise, in which he saw little beauty, had often power to excite her deepest emotion, and he could not but wonder as he saw it.

He read other books too—little books left by visitors; very foolish little books he thought them often, and he could not but smile as he marked the interest with which she listened; but he never by smile or word intimated to her that he thought them trifling, at least he was never conscious of doing so. But he sometimes read in the grave, questioning eyes which Christie turned on him, a doubt whether that which was so real and so comforting to her was of any value to him.

He could not but confess to himself that, seen from Christie’s point of view, the subjects discussed in them must seem of grave importance; and he never lost the feeling, as he sat by her bed, that they had a meaning to her that was hidden from him.

Very few words were spoken between them at such times. When Christie asked a question or made a remark, there was a clearness and simplicity in her way of speaking, a strength and freshness in what she said, that often surprised as well as interested him. He did not always understand her, and yet he could not believe that she was speaking of things too high for her.

The thought flashed upon his mind one day, as he sat by her bed. What if among these things which were revealed to her but hidden from him, lay the secret of the happiness he had been so long and so vainly pursuing? There are things hidden from the wise and prudent, and revealed only to babes—even to such little ones as this suffering child.

Looking up as the thought passed through his mind, he met her eyes fixed wistfully upon him. She withdrew the gaze quickly, in some confusion, but in a moment looked up again.

“What is it, Christie? You looked as though you were afraid. I would read your thoughts. What grave question are you meditating now?”

Christie smiled.

“No, I was not afraid. I was wondering what could make you so kind to me. I need not have wondered, though. I know quite well why it is.”

“Do you? Well, suppose you tell me what you mean by ‘so kind,’ and then why it is that I am ‘so kind’ to you. I should really like to know,” said Mr Sherwood, laughing.

“I need not tell you the first,” she said, with a smile. “You know that very well, and it would take me too long to tell all. I think the reason of your kindness is because God has put it into your heart to be so. It is one of the ways He takes to help me to bear my troubles.”

The last words were spoken very gravely.

“Then it seems you don’t think I am one of the good people who take delight in kind offices.”

“I am sure no one could be kinder than you have been to me,” she said, eagerly.

“But you don’t think it is my way to be kind to people generally; I am not a philanthropist. Is that it?”

Christie looked puzzled and a little anxious. “Nay, you are not to look disconsolate about it,” said Mr Sherwood, laughing. “It is quite true. I am not at all like a benevolent person in a book. I was kind to you, as you call it, first to please my little cousin Gertrude, and then to please myself. So now you have the secret of it all.”

“Oh, but it is true for all that that God put it into your heart to come so often,” said Christie, with glistening eyes. “Your kindness gives me double pleasure when I think of it in that way.”

“Well, it may be so,” said Mr Sherwood, gravely; “but I don’t think it is generally supposed that God chooses to comfort His little ones by means of such a person as I am.”

Christie’s eyes were fixed wistfully upon him again.

“Such as you!” she exclaimed, quite unconsciously, as Mr Sherwood thought, for she said no more just then.

“I was writing to Effie to-day, and I tried to tell her how good you have been to me. But I could not. I could never make her understand it, I know. She would need to see it for herself.”

“My poor child,” said Mr Sherwood, smiling, “do you know you are talking foolishly? and that is a thing you seldom do. You are making a great deal out of a very little matter. The chances are that you do quite as much good to me as I shall ever do to you.”

“Oh, I wish I could think so! If I could get my wish for you—” She paused suddenly.

“Well, what would you wish for me?” asked Mr Sherwood, still smiling at her eagerness. “I dare say I should have no more trouble in this world if you could have your wish.”

Christie shook her head.

“I don’t think I ever wished that for you, and yet I have, too, in a way; for if that which I ask for you every day were to come to pass, youmighthave trouble, but it would never seem like trouble to you any more.”

“Well, I suppose that would answer every purpose of not having any more trouble, and you are very kind to wish it. But you say ‘ask’; so I suppose it is something which is in the giving of your Friend above?”

“Yes,” said Christie, softly; and then there was a pause.

“And what is it? Is it the ‘new heart and the right spirit’ we were reading about the other day? That seems to be the very best blessing that one can have, in your opinion. And do you really think I shall ever get it?”

“I hope you will,” she answered, eagerly. “I believe you will, if you only ask for it.”

“Ah, well, I don’t know. I have a fancy that your asking will be more to the purpose than mine.”

“I shall never forget to ask it for you. I have never forgotten it since—” she hesitated.

“Since when?” asked Mr Sherwood.

“Do you remember the day you came into the cedar walk, when I was telling little Claude the story of the blind man, and what you said to me that day? I don’t think I have ever forgotten since to pray the blind man’s prayer for you.”

Mr Sherwood was greatly surprised and touched. That was long ago. He had been far-away since then. Once or twice, perhaps, in connection with the remembrance of his little cousins, the thought of their kind, quiet nurse had come back to him. And yet she had never in all that time forgotten to ask for him what seemed to her to be the best of all blessings.

“And do you do that for all your friends?” he said. “How came you to think of doing this for me?”

“You did not seem very happy, I thought. You seemed like one searching for something that you could not find; and so I asked that your eyes might be opened.”

“Well, some day you must tell me how your eyes were opened, and perhaps that may help me.”

“Oh, no. I have nothing to tell, only I was very miserable often and discontented and troublesome. Afterwards it was all changed, and I was at peace.”

She lay quite still, as if she were weary, and when Mr Sherwood spoke again it was only to say good-bye.

But afterwards, at different times, she told him of the great happiness that had come to her through the grace of God, and he listened with an interest which sometimes increased to wonder. He mused on the simple recitals of the young girl with an earnestness which he could not explain to himself, and read the chapters which she pointed out as having done her good, partly for the pleasure of talking them over with her, and partly, too, because he began to see in God’s Word what he had never seen in it before.

But I had no thought of saying all this about Mr Sherwood. It was of the sad, yet happy days that Christie passed in the hospital that I wished to write, and they were drawing to a close now. But let me say just one word more about her friend. It all came to pass as Christie had been sure it would. The day came when, earnestly as blind Bartimeus, he prayed, ‘Lord, that mine eyes may be opened!’ And He who had compassion on the wayside beggar had compassion on him, and called him out of darkness into His marvellous light. I dare say she knows the glad tidings now. If she does not, she will know them soon, on the happy day when the friends shall meet “on the other side of the river.”

One day when Mr Sherwood came, he brought Gertrude with him. She had been prepared to find Christie very ill, but she had no thought of finding her so greatly changed. She was scarcely able to restrain her emotion at the sight of the pale, suffering face that told so sad a tale, and she was so much excited that Mr Sherwood did not like to go away and leave them together, as he had at first meant to do. She tried to say how grieved she was to see Christie so ill, but when she began to count how many months she had been lying there, her voice suddenly failed her.

“Yes; it is a long time,” Christie faintly said. But she thought herself no worse for a few days past. She had suffered much less with her knee of late, and she was beginning to hope that the worst was passed. She did not say much more about herself, except in telling how kind Mr Sherwood had been to her; but she had a great many questions to ask about the little boys, especially Claude, and about Gertrude herself, and all that she had been doing since they parted.

What a contrast they presented, these two young girls. There stood the one, bright and strong, possessing all that we are wont to covet for those we love—health and beauty, home and friends, and a fair prospect of a long and happy life. Sick and sorrowful and alone lay the other, her life silently ebbing away, her hold on the world and all it has to give slowly but surely loosening. Yet, in the new light which was beginning to dawn upon him, Mr Sherwood caught a glimpse of a contrast more striking still. On the couch before him lay a little suffering form, wasted and weary, soon to be hidden from the light, little to be mourned, quickly to be forgotten. But it soon vanished as from that lowly cot there rose before his gaze a spirit crowned and radiant and immortal.

Which was to be pitied? which to be envied? Before one lay life and its struggles, its trials and its temptations. With the other, these were past. A step more and the river is passed, and beyond lies a world of endless glory and bliss.

They did not linger very long. Promising to bring her back soon, Mr Sherwood hurried Gertrude away.

“Cousin Charles,” said she, eagerly, as they went down the long passage together, “we must take her away from this place. Nay, don’t shake your head. Mother will listen to what you say, and she will be willing to do much for one who did so much for her little boy. Only think of her lying all these months in that dreary room! Did you not hear her say she had not seen a flower growing all the summer? Oh, Cousin Charles, you will surely help me to persuade mother?”

“My dear,” said Mr Sherwood, gravely, “I fear she is not well enough to be moved. I do not think the physicians would consent to let her be taken away.”

“But are they making her better? I am sure the fresh air of the country would do her more good than all their medicines. Oh, such a suffering face! And her hands, Cousin Charles—did you notice her hands? I am afraid I have come too late. But she will surely grow better again when she is taken away from this place. It would kill any one to lie there long in that great room among all those poor suffering creatures. If I could only get her away! It would not cost much to take her, with a nurse, to some quiet place, if we could not have her at the house. I shall have money of my own some time. Cousin Charles, will not you speak to mother for me?” She was growing very eager and excited.

“Hush!” he said, gently. “Nothing but the impracticability of it could have prevented me from removing her to her own home, for which she has been pining so sadly. Have patience, and we will try what can be done. We will speak to the doctor about it.”

The physician was, fortunately, disengaged, and the subject of Christie’s removal suggested to him. But he objected to it more decidedly now than he had when Mr Sherwood had spoken of it some time before. It was doubtful whether in her present weak state she could bear removal, even if she could be as well cared for elsewhere. It was becoming doubtful whether her constitution could hold out much longer. Indeed, it could hardly be said to be doubtful. There was just one chance for her, he said; and then he spoke low, as though he did not wish Miss Gertrude to hear—but she did.

“You do not mean that her knee is never to be well again?” she asked, with a shudder.

“We have for some time feared so,” said the doctor. “Within a day or two symptoms have appeared which seem to indicate an absolute and speedy necessity for amputation. Poor little thing! It is very sad for her, of course.”

“Does she know it?” asked Miss Gertrude, steadying her voice with a great effort.

“I think she is not altogether unprepared for it. She must know that she is not getting better, and I fancy she must suspect the necessity from something she once said to the nurse. Poor girl! she seems to grieve quite as much on account of her friends as on her own.”

“Have they been informed of this—of the possible result of her illness?” asked Mr Sherwood.

“She has written to them several times during the summer, I believe. They seem to be very poor people, living at a distance—quite unable to do anything for her.”

They were soon on their way to meet Mrs Seaton, who had made an appointment with them, but Miss Gertrude was quite overcome by what she had seen and heard.

“Poor Christie! To think that all these weary months of waiting must end thus! I cannot help thinking we have been to blame.”

“My child, why should you say so?”

“To think of it coming to this with her, and her friends not knowing it! Her sister never would have left her here all this time, if she had thought her in danger. She ought to know at once.”

“Yes; they must be told at once,” said Mr Sherwood. “But I fancy, from what the doctor said, they can’t do much for her; and from the poor little thing herself I have gathered that the only one who could come to her is her elder sister, on whom the rest seem to be quite dependent.”

“But she must come, too,” said Gertrude, eagerly. “That is Effie. There is no one in all the world like Effie, Christie thinks. Oh, Cousin Charles, they have not always been poor. And they have suffered so much—and they love each other so dearly!”

“Gertrude, my child, there is a bright side even to this sad picture. Do you think that the suffering little creature, lying there all these months, has been altogether unhappy?”

Gertrude struggled with her tears, and said:

“She has the true secret of happiness.”

“Yes, I am sure of it. Seeing her, as I have, lying on that bed of pain, I have felt inclined rather to envy than to pity her. She has that for her own that a kingdom could not purchase—a peace that cannot be taken from her. I do not believe that even the sad necessity that awaits her will move her much now.”

His first words had stilled Miss Gertrude quite, and soon she found voice to say:

“Not for herself, but for her sisters. I am afraid they will think we have been very cruel. But it will be well with Christie, whatever happens.”

“Yes; it will be well with her, I do believe,” said Mr Sherwood, gravely; and neither spoke again till they reached home.

Chapter Twenty Two.A cloud with a silver lining.The shadows were lengthening one September afternoon, when Effie Redfern closed behind her the door of her school-room, and took her way along the shady road that led to the cottage which for more than two years had been her home. The air was mild and pleasant. The leaves on some of the trees were changing. Here a yellow birch and beech, and there a crimson maple betrayed the silent approach of winter. But the saddest of the autumn days had not come. Here and there lay bare, grey fields and stubble land, with a dreary wintry look; but the low pastures were green yet, and the gaudy autumn flowers lingered untouched along the fences and waysides.It was a very lovely afternoon, and sending on the children, who were inclined to lag, Effie lingered behind to enjoy it. Her life was a very busy one. Except an occasional hour stolen from sleep, she had very little time she could call her own. Even now, her enjoyment of the fresh air and the fair scene was marred by a vague feeling that she ought to hasten home to the numberless duties awaiting her.These years had told on Effie. She was hopeful and trustful still, but it was not quite so easy as it used to be to throw off her burden, and forget, in the enjoyment of present pleasure, past weariness and fears for the future. No burden she had yet been called to bear had bowed her down; and though she looked into the future with the certainty that these would grow heavier rather than lighter, the knowledge had no power to appal her. She was strong and cheerful, and contented with her lot.But burdens borne cheerfully may still press heavily; and quite unconsciously to herself, Effie wore on her fair face some tokens of her labours and her cares. The gravity that used to settle on it during the anxious consideration of ways and means was habitual now. It passed away when she spoke or smiled, but when her face settled to repose again, the grave look was on it still, and lay there like a shadow, as she passed along the solitary road that afternoon. Her thoughts were not sad—at least, they were not at first sad. She had been considering various possibilities as to winter garments, and did not see her way quite clear to the end of her labours. But she had often been in that predicament before. There was nothing in it then to make her look particularly grave. She had become accustomed to more perplexing straits than little Will’s jacket could possibly bring to her, and she soon put all thoughts of such cares away from her, saying to herself that she would not let the pleasure of her walk be spoiled by them.So she sent her glance over the bare fields and changing woods and up into the clear sky, with a sense of release and enjoyment which only they can feel who have been kept close all day and for many days at a task which, though not uncongenial, is yet exhausting to strength and patience; but the shadow rested on her still. It deepened even as her eye came back from its wanderings, and fell on the dusty path she was treading.Amid all the cares and anxieties of the summer—and what with the illness of the children and their narrow means they had not been few nor light—there had come and gone and come again a vague fear as to the welfare of her sister, Christie. Christie’s first letter—the only one she had as yet received from her—did not alarm her much. She, poor child, had said so little that was discouraging about her own situation, and had spoken so hopefully of being out of the hospital soon, that they had never dreamed that anything very serious was the matter with her. Of course, the fact of her having to go to the hospital at all gave them pain, but still it seemed the best thing she could have done in her circumstances, and they never doubted but all would soon be well.As the weeks passed on with no further tidings, Effie grew anxious at times, and wondered much that her sister did not write, but it never came into her mind that she was silent because that by writing she could only give them pain. They all thought she must be better—that possibly she had gone to the sea-side with the family, and that, in the bustle of departure, either she had not written, or her letter had been mislaid and never been sent.But somehow, as Effie walked along that afternoon, the vague fear that had so often haunted her came back with a freshness that startled her. She could not put it from her, as she might have tried to do had she been speaking to any one of it. The remembrance that it was the night of the mail, and that, if no letter came, she must endure another week of waiting, made her heart sicken with impatient longing. And yet, what could she do but wait and hope?“And I must wait cheerfully too,” she said to herself, as she drew near home and heard the voices of the children. “And after all, I need not fear for Christie. I do believe it will be well with her, whatever happens. Surely I can trust her in a Father’s hands.”“How long you have been, Effie!” cried her little sister, Kate, as she made her appearance. “Mrs Nesbitt is here, and Nellie and I have made tea ready, and you’ll need to hasten, for Mrs Nesbitt canna bide long; it is dark so soon now.”Effie’s face brightened, as it always did at the sight of a friend, and she greeted Mrs Nesbitt very cheerfully.“Mrs Nesbitt has a letter for you, Effie,” said Aunt Elsie; “but you must make tea first. The bairns have it ready, and Mrs Nesbitt needs it after her walk.”Effie fancied that the letter Mrs Nesbitt had brought came from some one else than Christie, or she might not have assented with such seeming readiness to the proposal to have tea first. As it was, she hastened Nellie’s nearly-completed arrangements, and seated herself behind the tray. Mrs Nesbitt looked graver than usual, she thought; and as she handed her her cup of tea, she said, quietly:“You have had no bad news, I hope?”“I have had no news,” said Mrs Nesbitt. “Alexander told me there were two letters for you in the post, so I sent him for them, and I have come to you for the news.”As she spoke she laid the two letters on the table. One was from Christie, but she broke the seal of the other one first. It was very short, but before she had finished it her face was as colourless as the paper in her hand.“Well, what is it?” said her aunt and Mrs Nesbitt, in the same breath. She turned the page and read from the beginning:“My dear Miss Redfern,—I have just returned from visiting your sister at the hospital. I do not think you can have gathered from her letters how ill she is, and I think you ought to know. I do not mean that she is dangerously ill, but she has been lying there a long time; and if you can possibly come to her, I am sure the sight of you would do her more good than anything else in the world. Christie does not know that I am writing. I think she has not told you how ill she is, for fear of making you unhappy; and now she is troubled lest anything should happen, and her friends be quite unprepared for it. Not that you must think anything is going to happen,—but come if you can.“My dear Miss Redfern, I hope you will not think me impertinent, but father wishes me to say to you that we all beg you will let no consideration of expense prevent your coming. It will be such a comfort to Christie to have you here.”There was a postscript, saying that the poor girl had been in the hospital since the end of April.“The end of April!” echoed Aunt Elsie and Mrs Nesbitt at once. Effie said nothing, but her hands trembled very much as she opened the other letter. I need not copy Christie’s letter, we already know all she had to tell. Effie’s voice failed her more than once as she read it.Fearing to make them unhappy at home, yet desiring to have them prepared for whatever might happen to her, the letter had cost Christie a great deal of anxious thought. One thing was plain enough to all; she was very ill and a little despondent, and longed above all things to see Effie and get home again. The elder sister having read it all, laid it down without speaking.“Effie, my dear,” said Aunt Elsie, “you will need to go.”“Yes; I must go. How I could have contented myself all this time, knowing she might be ill, I am sure I cannot tell. My poor child!”Mrs Nesbitt looked at her anxiously, as she said: “My dear bairn, you have nothing to reproach yourself with. You have had a very anxious summer, what with one care and another.”Effie rose with a gesture of impatience, but sat down again without speaking. She blamed herself severely; but what was the use of speaking about it now? She took up Christie’s letter and read again the last sentence.“It grieves me to add to your burdens, Effie. I hoped to be able to lighten them, rather. But such is not God’s will, and He sees what is best for us all. I do so long to see you again—to get home. But I must have patience.”“Have patience!” she repeated aloud. “Oh, poor child! To think of her lying there all these weary months! How can I ever forgive myself!”She rose from the table hastily. Oh, how glad she would have been to go to her that very moment. But she could not, nor the next day either. There were many things to be considered. They were too dependent on her school to permit her to give it up at once. Some one must be found to take her place during her absence. Sarah must be sent for at the neighbouring village, where she had been staying for the last month. The children and Aunt Elsie must not be left alone. There were other arrangements to be made, too, and two days passed before Effie was ready to go.She saw Mrs Nesbitt again before she went, and her kind old friend said to her some of the things she had meant to say that night when the letters were read. She was able to hear them now. They would have done no good in the first moments of her sorrow, as Mrs Nesbitt very well knew.“Effie, my bairn,” said she, gravely, “you have trouble enough to bear without needlessly adding to it by blaming yourself when you ought not. Even if you had known all, you could not have gone to your sister, except in the sorest need. Has there been a single day when you could have been easily spared? And you could have done little for her, I dare say, poor lassie. And you may be sure the Lord has been caring for her all this time. He has not forgotten her.”“She says that in her letter many times,” said Effie.“My dear, there is a bright side to this dark cloud, you may be sure. Whichever way this trouble ends, it will end well for this precious lamb of Christ’s fold. And you are not to go to her in a repining spirit, as though, if you had but known, you could have done other and better for her than the Lord has been doing. We cannot see the end from the beginning, and we must trust the Lord both in the light and in the darkness.”Effie made no answer for a moment. She then said, in a low voice:“But I never felt sure that it was right for her to go from home. She never was strong.”“But you were not sorry, when you saw her in the winter, that she had gone. You mind you told me how much she had improved?”“Yes; if I had only brought her home with me then. She must have been worse than I thought. And it must seem to her so neglectful in us to leave her so all the summer.”“My dear lassie,” said Mrs Nesbitt, gravely, “it is in vain to go back to that now. It has been all ordered, and it has been ordered for good, too. The Lord has many ways of doing things; and if He has taken this way of quickly ripening your little sister for heaven, why should it grieve us?”“But,” said Effie, eagerly, “you did not gather from the letter that she was so very ill? Miss Gertrude said not dangerously, and oh, I cannot but think she will be better when we get her home again.”“That will be just as God wills. But what I want to say is this. You must go cheerfully to her. If, by all this, God has been preparing her for His presence, you must not let a shadow fall on her last days. It is a wonderful thing to be permitted to walk to the rivers brink with one whom God has called to go over—an honour and blessing greatly to be coveted; and you must not lose the blessing it may be to you, by giving way to a murmuring spirit. Not that I am afraid for you,” she added, laying her hand on Effie’s arm. “All will be well; for I do believe you, and your sister too, are among those whom God will keep from all that can really harm. Don’t vex yourself with trying to make plain things which He has hidden. Trust all to Him, and nothing can go far wrong with you then.”But it was with an inexpressible sinking of the heart that Effie, when her hurried journey was over, found herself standing at the door of the hospital. It was the usual hour when the patients are visited by their friends; and the servant, thinking she was some one sent by the Seatons, sent her up to the ward at once, without reference to the doctor or the matron of the institution. Thus it was that with no preparation she came upon the changed face of her sister.If Effie should live to be a hundred years old, she would never forget the first glimpse she had of that long room, with its rows of white beds against the wall. Every one of the suffering faces that she passed stamped itself upon her memory in characters that can never fade; and then she saw her sister.But was it her sister? Could that face, white as the pillow on which it lay, be Christie’s? One thin, transparent hand supported her cheek; the other—the very shadow of a hand—lay on the coverlet. Was she sleeping? Did she breathe? Effie stooped low to listen, and raising herself up again, saw what almost made her heart cease to beat.That which Christie had dreaded all these weary weeks, that which she could find no words to tell her sister, had come upon her. “I shall be a cripple all my life,” she had written; that was all. Now the thin coverlet betrayed with terrible distinctness her mutilated form. Effie saw it, and the sight of it made the row of white beds and the suffering faces on them turn round. She took one step forward, putting forth her hands like one who is blind, and then fell to the floor.The shock to Effie was a terrible one. For a while she struggled in vain with the deadly faintness that returned with every remembrance of that first terrible discovery. She was weary with her journey, and exhausted for want of nourishment, having eaten nothing all day. Her very heart seemed to die within her, and the earth seemed to be gliding from beneath her feet. She was brought back to full consciousness with a start, as she heard some one say:“She ought not to have seen her. She must not see her again to-night. She must go away and come again in the morning.”With a great effort she rose.“No,” she said, quietly and solemnly; “I cannot go away. I shall never leave her again, so help me God!”She rose up, and with trembling fingers began to arrange her hair, which had fallen over her face. Some one gently forced her into a chair.“You are not able to stand. It is in vain for you to make the effort,” said the doctor. Effie turned and saw him.“I am tired with my journey,” she said, “and I have eaten nothing all day; but I am perfectly well and strong. I cannot go away. I must see my sister to-night. It was the surprise that overcame me, but I shall not be so again.”There is not more than one woman in a thousand whose words the doctor would have heeded at such a time. Effie was that one. Instead of answering her, he spoke to the nurse, who left the room and soon returned with a biscuit and a cup of warm tea. Effie forced herself to take the food, and was refreshed. In a little while she was able to follow the nurse to the ward, and to seat herself calmly by her sister’s bed.Christie was still asleep, but happily for Effie she soon awoke. She could not have endured many minutes of that silent waiting. There was pleasure, but scarcely surprise, in the eyes that opened to fix themselves on her face.“Have you come, Effie? I was dreaming about you. I am very glad.”Effie kneeled down and kissed her over and over again, but she could not speak a word. Soon she laid her head down on the pillow, and Christie put her arms round her neck. There was a long silence, so long that Effie moved gently at last, and removing her sister’s arms from her neck, found her fast asleep. The daylight faded, and the night-lamps were lighted in the room. There was moving to and fro among the beds, as the preparations for the night were made. But Effie did not stir till the nurse spoke to her.“Your sister is still under the influence of the draught the doctor gave her. But we must waken her to give her some nourishment before she settles down for the night.”The eyes, which Effie thought had grown strangely large, opened with a smile.“Will they let you stay, Effie?” said she.“Nothing shall ever make me leave you again.”That was all that passed between them. Christie slept nearly all night, but to Effie the hours passed slowly and sorrowfully away. There was never entire quiet in the ward. There was moaning now and then, and feverish tossing to and fro on one or another of those white beds. The night-nurse moved about among them, smoothing the pillow of one, holding a cup to the lips of another, soothing or chiding, as the case of each required. To Effie the scene was as painful as it was strange. She had many unhappy and some rebellious thoughts that night. But God did not forsake her. The same place of refuge that had sheltered her in former times of trouble was open to her still, and when Christie awoke in the morning it was to meet a smile as calm and bright as that she had often seen in her dreams. For a little while it seemed to her she was dreaming now.“If I shut my eyes, will you be here when I open them again?” she asked. “Oh, Effie, I have so longed for you! You will never leave me again?”“Never again,” was all that she had the power to answer.That day they removed her from the public ward to the room she had at first occupied, and Effie became her nurse. They were very quiet that day. Christie was still under the influence of the strong opiate that had been given her, and worn-out with anxiety and watching, Effie slumbered beside her.On the second day they had a visit from Gertrude, and Christie quite roused herself to rejoice with her over Effie’s coming. When the young lady declared, with delighted energy, that all Christie wanted to make her quite well again was the face of her sister smiling upon her, all three for a moment believed it. She was to have a week, or perhaps two, in which to grow a little stronger, and then she was to go home with Gertrude till she should be strong enough to go to Glengarry with Effie. No wonder she had been ill and discouraged, so long alone, or worse than alone, surrounded by so much suffering. Now she would soon be well again, Gertrude was quite sure.And she did seem better. Relieved from the terrible pain which her diseased limb had so long caused, for a time she seemed to revive. She thought herself better. She said many times a day that she felt like a different person, and Effie began to take courage.But she did not grow stronger. If she could only be taken out of town, where she could have better air, Effie thought she might soon be well. But to remove her in her present state of weakness was impossible. And every day that followed, the doubt forced itself with more and more strength on Effie that she would never be removed alive. The daily paroxysms of fever returned. At such times she grew restless, and sometimes, when she would wake with a start from troubled and uneasy slumbers, her mind seemed to wander. A word was enough to recall her to herself, and when she recognised her sister’s voice and opened her eyes to see her bending over her, her look of glad surprise, changing slowly into one of sweet content, was beautiful to see.She could not talk much, or even listen for a long time to reading, but she was always quite content and at rest with Effie sitting beside her. A visit from Gertrude or Mr Sherwood was all that happened to break the monotony of those days to them. Once little Claude and his brother were brought to see her. They had not forgotten her. Claude lay down beside her, and put his little hand on her cheek, as he used to do, and told her about the sea and the broad sands where they used to play, and prattled away happily enough of the time when Christie should come home quite well again. Clement was shy, and a little afraid of her altered face, and gave all his attention to Effie. But the visit exhausted Christie, and it never was repeated. Indeed, a very little thing exhausted her now.One day Christie awoke to find her sister watching the clouds and the autumn rain with a dark shadow resting on her face. Her first movement sent it away, but the remembrance of it lingered with Christie. After a little time, when she had been made comfortable, and Effie had seated herself with her work beside her, she said:“Are you longing to get home, Effie?”“No, indeed,” said Effie, cheerfully, “except for your sake.”“But I am sure they will miss you sadly.”“Yes, I dare say they will; but they don’t really need me. Sarah is at home, and Katie and Nellie are quite to be trusted even should she be called away. I am not in the least troubled about them. Still, I hope we shall soon get home, for your sake.”“But without your wages, how can they manage? I am afraid—”“I am not afraid,” said Effie. “I left all that in safe hands before I came here. Our garden did wonderfully well last year; and besides, we managed to lay by something—and God is good. I am not afraid.”“And they have all grown very much, you say. And little Will! Oh, how I should like to have seen them all! They will soon forget me, Effie.”Effie started. It was the first time she had ever said anything that seemed to imply a doubt of her recovery. Even now she was not quite sure that she meant that, and she hastened to say:“Oh, there is no fear of their forgetting you. You cannot think how delighted they all were when your letters came.”“They could not give you half the pleasure that yours gave me.”“Oh, yes, they did. We always liked to hear all about what you were doing, and about the children and Miss Gertrude. Why, I felt quite as though I had known Miss Gertrude for a long time when I first met her here the other day. I almost think I should have known her if I had met her anywhere. She looks older and more mature than I should have supposed from your letters, and then I used to fancy that she might be at times a little overbearing and exacting.”“Effie, I never could have said that about Miss Gertrude.”“No, you never said it, but I gathered it—less from what you said than from what you didn’t say, however. Has Miss Gertrude changed, do you think?”“No, oh no! she is just the very same. And yet I am not sure. I remember thinking when I first saw her that she was changed. She looks older, I think. I wonder if she will come to-day? She promised.”“But it rains so heavily,” said Effie. “No, I don’t think she will come to-day. It would not be wise.”But Effie was mistaken. She had hardly spoken when the door opened, and Gertrude entered.“Through all the rain!” exclaimed Effie and Christie, in a breath.“Yes, I thought you would be glad to see me this dull day,” said Miss Gertrude, laughing. “I am none the worse for the rain, but I can’t say as much for the horses, however. But Mr Sherwood was obliged to leave in the train this afternoon, and I begged to come in the carriage with him. Peter is to come for me again when he has taken him to the station. See what I have brought you,” she added, opening the basket she carried in her hand. There were several things for Christie in the basket, but thesomethingwhich Miss Gertrude meant was a bunch of buttercups placed against a spray of fragrant cedar and a few brown birch leaves.“We gathered them in the orchard yesterday. They are the very last of the season. We gathered them because Claude said you once told him that they reminded you of home; and then you told him of a shady place where they used to grow, and of the birch-tree by the burn. I had heard about the burn myself, but not about the buttercups.”Coming as they did, the little tuft of wild flowers pleased Christie better than the fairest bouquet of hothouse exotics could have done.Effie laughed.“Buttercups are not great favourites with us at home,” she said. “They generally grow best on poor, worn-out land.”“They are the very first I have seen this summer,” said Christie, with moist eyes.They were all silent a little while.“We were just speaking about you when you came in,” said she to Miss Gertrude.“Were you? Well, I hope you dealt gently with my faults?” she said, blushing a little as she noticed the glance which passed between the sisters.“We had not got to your faults,” said Christie.“Well, you must be merciful when you do. See, Christie, I have got something else for you,” she added, as she drew out a little book bound in blue and gold. “I thought of you when I read this. There is a good deal in the book you would not care about, but you will like this.” And she read:“Of all the thoughts of God that are Borne inward unto souls afar Along the Psalmist’s music deep, Now, tell me if that any is, For gift or grace, surpassing this—? He giveth His beloved sleep.”And so on to the end. “Do you like it?” she asked.“Yes,” said Christie. But her eyes said much more than that.“It reminded me of the time I found you sleeping among all the noises that were going on in the ward. There was talking and groaning and moving about, and you were quite unconscious of it all.“‘God makes a silence through them all,’”she repeated:“‘And never doleful dream againShall break his blessed slumbers, whenHe giveth His beloved sleep.’”There was a silence of several minutes, and then Christie said:“Miss Gertrude, when you came in I was telling Effie that I thought you had changed since I first knew you.”“And were you telling her that there was much need of a change?” said Miss Gertrude, with a playfulness assumed to hide the quick rush of feeling which the words called forth.“Do you mind how we used to speak of the great change that all must meet before we can be happy or safe? You don’t think about these things as you used to do. Miss Gertrude, has this change come to you?”“I don’t know, Christie. Sometimes I almost hope it has,” said she. But she could not restrain the tears. Effie saw them; Christie did not. Her eyes were closed, and her hands were clasped as if in prayer.“I was sure it would come,” she said, softly. “I am very glad.”She did not speak again during Miss Gertrude’s stay, and I need not repeat all that passed between the young lady and Effie. There were some words spoken that neither will forget till their dying day.Before she went away, Gertrude came and kissed Christie; and when she was gone Effie came and kissed her too, saying:“You ought to be very happy, Christie, with all your trouble. God has been very good to you, in giving you a message to Miss Gertrude.”“I am very happy, Effie,” answered she, softly. “I almost think I am beyond being troubled any more. It is coming very near now.”She lay still, with a smile on her face, till she fell into a quiet slumber; and as she sat watching her, Effie, amid all her sorrow, could not but rejoice at the thought of the blessed rest and peace that seemed coming so near now to her little sister.

The shadows were lengthening one September afternoon, when Effie Redfern closed behind her the door of her school-room, and took her way along the shady road that led to the cottage which for more than two years had been her home. The air was mild and pleasant. The leaves on some of the trees were changing. Here a yellow birch and beech, and there a crimson maple betrayed the silent approach of winter. But the saddest of the autumn days had not come. Here and there lay bare, grey fields and stubble land, with a dreary wintry look; but the low pastures were green yet, and the gaudy autumn flowers lingered untouched along the fences and waysides.

It was a very lovely afternoon, and sending on the children, who were inclined to lag, Effie lingered behind to enjoy it. Her life was a very busy one. Except an occasional hour stolen from sleep, she had very little time she could call her own. Even now, her enjoyment of the fresh air and the fair scene was marred by a vague feeling that she ought to hasten home to the numberless duties awaiting her.

These years had told on Effie. She was hopeful and trustful still, but it was not quite so easy as it used to be to throw off her burden, and forget, in the enjoyment of present pleasure, past weariness and fears for the future. No burden she had yet been called to bear had bowed her down; and though she looked into the future with the certainty that these would grow heavier rather than lighter, the knowledge had no power to appal her. She was strong and cheerful, and contented with her lot.

But burdens borne cheerfully may still press heavily; and quite unconsciously to herself, Effie wore on her fair face some tokens of her labours and her cares. The gravity that used to settle on it during the anxious consideration of ways and means was habitual now. It passed away when she spoke or smiled, but when her face settled to repose again, the grave look was on it still, and lay there like a shadow, as she passed along the solitary road that afternoon. Her thoughts were not sad—at least, they were not at first sad. She had been considering various possibilities as to winter garments, and did not see her way quite clear to the end of her labours. But she had often been in that predicament before. There was nothing in it then to make her look particularly grave. She had become accustomed to more perplexing straits than little Will’s jacket could possibly bring to her, and she soon put all thoughts of such cares away from her, saying to herself that she would not let the pleasure of her walk be spoiled by them.

So she sent her glance over the bare fields and changing woods and up into the clear sky, with a sense of release and enjoyment which only they can feel who have been kept close all day and for many days at a task which, though not uncongenial, is yet exhausting to strength and patience; but the shadow rested on her still. It deepened even as her eye came back from its wanderings, and fell on the dusty path she was treading.

Amid all the cares and anxieties of the summer—and what with the illness of the children and their narrow means they had not been few nor light—there had come and gone and come again a vague fear as to the welfare of her sister, Christie. Christie’s first letter—the only one she had as yet received from her—did not alarm her much. She, poor child, had said so little that was discouraging about her own situation, and had spoken so hopefully of being out of the hospital soon, that they had never dreamed that anything very serious was the matter with her. Of course, the fact of her having to go to the hospital at all gave them pain, but still it seemed the best thing she could have done in her circumstances, and they never doubted but all would soon be well.

As the weeks passed on with no further tidings, Effie grew anxious at times, and wondered much that her sister did not write, but it never came into her mind that she was silent because that by writing she could only give them pain. They all thought she must be better—that possibly she had gone to the sea-side with the family, and that, in the bustle of departure, either she had not written, or her letter had been mislaid and never been sent.

But somehow, as Effie walked along that afternoon, the vague fear that had so often haunted her came back with a freshness that startled her. She could not put it from her, as she might have tried to do had she been speaking to any one of it. The remembrance that it was the night of the mail, and that, if no letter came, she must endure another week of waiting, made her heart sicken with impatient longing. And yet, what could she do but wait and hope?

“And I must wait cheerfully too,” she said to herself, as she drew near home and heard the voices of the children. “And after all, I need not fear for Christie. I do believe it will be well with her, whatever happens. Surely I can trust her in a Father’s hands.”

“How long you have been, Effie!” cried her little sister, Kate, as she made her appearance. “Mrs Nesbitt is here, and Nellie and I have made tea ready, and you’ll need to hasten, for Mrs Nesbitt canna bide long; it is dark so soon now.”

Effie’s face brightened, as it always did at the sight of a friend, and she greeted Mrs Nesbitt very cheerfully.

“Mrs Nesbitt has a letter for you, Effie,” said Aunt Elsie; “but you must make tea first. The bairns have it ready, and Mrs Nesbitt needs it after her walk.”

Effie fancied that the letter Mrs Nesbitt had brought came from some one else than Christie, or she might not have assented with such seeming readiness to the proposal to have tea first. As it was, she hastened Nellie’s nearly-completed arrangements, and seated herself behind the tray. Mrs Nesbitt looked graver than usual, she thought; and as she handed her her cup of tea, she said, quietly:

“You have had no bad news, I hope?”

“I have had no news,” said Mrs Nesbitt. “Alexander told me there were two letters for you in the post, so I sent him for them, and I have come to you for the news.”

As she spoke she laid the two letters on the table. One was from Christie, but she broke the seal of the other one first. It was very short, but before she had finished it her face was as colourless as the paper in her hand.

“Well, what is it?” said her aunt and Mrs Nesbitt, in the same breath. She turned the page and read from the beginning:

“My dear Miss Redfern,—I have just returned from visiting your sister at the hospital. I do not think you can have gathered from her letters how ill she is, and I think you ought to know. I do not mean that she is dangerously ill, but she has been lying there a long time; and if you can possibly come to her, I am sure the sight of you would do her more good than anything else in the world. Christie does not know that I am writing. I think she has not told you how ill she is, for fear of making you unhappy; and now she is troubled lest anything should happen, and her friends be quite unprepared for it. Not that you must think anything is going to happen,—but come if you can.“My dear Miss Redfern, I hope you will not think me impertinent, but father wishes me to say to you that we all beg you will let no consideration of expense prevent your coming. It will be such a comfort to Christie to have you here.”

“My dear Miss Redfern,—I have just returned from visiting your sister at the hospital. I do not think you can have gathered from her letters how ill she is, and I think you ought to know. I do not mean that she is dangerously ill, but she has been lying there a long time; and if you can possibly come to her, I am sure the sight of you would do her more good than anything else in the world. Christie does not know that I am writing. I think she has not told you how ill she is, for fear of making you unhappy; and now she is troubled lest anything should happen, and her friends be quite unprepared for it. Not that you must think anything is going to happen,—but come if you can.

“My dear Miss Redfern, I hope you will not think me impertinent, but father wishes me to say to you that we all beg you will let no consideration of expense prevent your coming. It will be such a comfort to Christie to have you here.”

There was a postscript, saying that the poor girl had been in the hospital since the end of April.

“The end of April!” echoed Aunt Elsie and Mrs Nesbitt at once. Effie said nothing, but her hands trembled very much as she opened the other letter. I need not copy Christie’s letter, we already know all she had to tell. Effie’s voice failed her more than once as she read it.

Fearing to make them unhappy at home, yet desiring to have them prepared for whatever might happen to her, the letter had cost Christie a great deal of anxious thought. One thing was plain enough to all; she was very ill and a little despondent, and longed above all things to see Effie and get home again. The elder sister having read it all, laid it down without speaking.

“Effie, my dear,” said Aunt Elsie, “you will need to go.”

“Yes; I must go. How I could have contented myself all this time, knowing she might be ill, I am sure I cannot tell. My poor child!”

Mrs Nesbitt looked at her anxiously, as she said: “My dear bairn, you have nothing to reproach yourself with. You have had a very anxious summer, what with one care and another.”

Effie rose with a gesture of impatience, but sat down again without speaking. She blamed herself severely; but what was the use of speaking about it now? She took up Christie’s letter and read again the last sentence.

“It grieves me to add to your burdens, Effie. I hoped to be able to lighten them, rather. But such is not God’s will, and He sees what is best for us all. I do so long to see you again—to get home. But I must have patience.”

“Have patience!” she repeated aloud. “Oh, poor child! To think of her lying there all these weary months! How can I ever forgive myself!”

She rose from the table hastily. Oh, how glad she would have been to go to her that very moment. But she could not, nor the next day either. There were many things to be considered. They were too dependent on her school to permit her to give it up at once. Some one must be found to take her place during her absence. Sarah must be sent for at the neighbouring village, where she had been staying for the last month. The children and Aunt Elsie must not be left alone. There were other arrangements to be made, too, and two days passed before Effie was ready to go.

She saw Mrs Nesbitt again before she went, and her kind old friend said to her some of the things she had meant to say that night when the letters were read. She was able to hear them now. They would have done no good in the first moments of her sorrow, as Mrs Nesbitt very well knew.

“Effie, my bairn,” said she, gravely, “you have trouble enough to bear without needlessly adding to it by blaming yourself when you ought not. Even if you had known all, you could not have gone to your sister, except in the sorest need. Has there been a single day when you could have been easily spared? And you could have done little for her, I dare say, poor lassie. And you may be sure the Lord has been caring for her all this time. He has not forgotten her.”

“She says that in her letter many times,” said Effie.

“My dear, there is a bright side to this dark cloud, you may be sure. Whichever way this trouble ends, it will end well for this precious lamb of Christ’s fold. And you are not to go to her in a repining spirit, as though, if you had but known, you could have done other and better for her than the Lord has been doing. We cannot see the end from the beginning, and we must trust the Lord both in the light and in the darkness.”

Effie made no answer for a moment. She then said, in a low voice:

“But I never felt sure that it was right for her to go from home. She never was strong.”

“But you were not sorry, when you saw her in the winter, that she had gone. You mind you told me how much she had improved?”

“Yes; if I had only brought her home with me then. She must have been worse than I thought. And it must seem to her so neglectful in us to leave her so all the summer.”

“My dear lassie,” said Mrs Nesbitt, gravely, “it is in vain to go back to that now. It has been all ordered, and it has been ordered for good, too. The Lord has many ways of doing things; and if He has taken this way of quickly ripening your little sister for heaven, why should it grieve us?”

“But,” said Effie, eagerly, “you did not gather from the letter that she was so very ill? Miss Gertrude said not dangerously, and oh, I cannot but think she will be better when we get her home again.”

“That will be just as God wills. But what I want to say is this. You must go cheerfully to her. If, by all this, God has been preparing her for His presence, you must not let a shadow fall on her last days. It is a wonderful thing to be permitted to walk to the rivers brink with one whom God has called to go over—an honour and blessing greatly to be coveted; and you must not lose the blessing it may be to you, by giving way to a murmuring spirit. Not that I am afraid for you,” she added, laying her hand on Effie’s arm. “All will be well; for I do believe you, and your sister too, are among those whom God will keep from all that can really harm. Don’t vex yourself with trying to make plain things which He has hidden. Trust all to Him, and nothing can go far wrong with you then.”

But it was with an inexpressible sinking of the heart that Effie, when her hurried journey was over, found herself standing at the door of the hospital. It was the usual hour when the patients are visited by their friends; and the servant, thinking she was some one sent by the Seatons, sent her up to the ward at once, without reference to the doctor or the matron of the institution. Thus it was that with no preparation she came upon the changed face of her sister.

If Effie should live to be a hundred years old, she would never forget the first glimpse she had of that long room, with its rows of white beds against the wall. Every one of the suffering faces that she passed stamped itself upon her memory in characters that can never fade; and then she saw her sister.

But was it her sister? Could that face, white as the pillow on which it lay, be Christie’s? One thin, transparent hand supported her cheek; the other—the very shadow of a hand—lay on the coverlet. Was she sleeping? Did she breathe? Effie stooped low to listen, and raising herself up again, saw what almost made her heart cease to beat.

That which Christie had dreaded all these weary weeks, that which she could find no words to tell her sister, had come upon her. “I shall be a cripple all my life,” she had written; that was all. Now the thin coverlet betrayed with terrible distinctness her mutilated form. Effie saw it, and the sight of it made the row of white beds and the suffering faces on them turn round. She took one step forward, putting forth her hands like one who is blind, and then fell to the floor.

The shock to Effie was a terrible one. For a while she struggled in vain with the deadly faintness that returned with every remembrance of that first terrible discovery. She was weary with her journey, and exhausted for want of nourishment, having eaten nothing all day. Her very heart seemed to die within her, and the earth seemed to be gliding from beneath her feet. She was brought back to full consciousness with a start, as she heard some one say:

“She ought not to have seen her. She must not see her again to-night. She must go away and come again in the morning.”

With a great effort she rose.

“No,” she said, quietly and solemnly; “I cannot go away. I shall never leave her again, so help me God!”

She rose up, and with trembling fingers began to arrange her hair, which had fallen over her face. Some one gently forced her into a chair.

“You are not able to stand. It is in vain for you to make the effort,” said the doctor. Effie turned and saw him.

“I am tired with my journey,” she said, “and I have eaten nothing all day; but I am perfectly well and strong. I cannot go away. I must see my sister to-night. It was the surprise that overcame me, but I shall not be so again.”

There is not more than one woman in a thousand whose words the doctor would have heeded at such a time. Effie was that one. Instead of answering her, he spoke to the nurse, who left the room and soon returned with a biscuit and a cup of warm tea. Effie forced herself to take the food, and was refreshed. In a little while she was able to follow the nurse to the ward, and to seat herself calmly by her sister’s bed.

Christie was still asleep, but happily for Effie she soon awoke. She could not have endured many minutes of that silent waiting. There was pleasure, but scarcely surprise, in the eyes that opened to fix themselves on her face.

“Have you come, Effie? I was dreaming about you. I am very glad.”

Effie kneeled down and kissed her over and over again, but she could not speak a word. Soon she laid her head down on the pillow, and Christie put her arms round her neck. There was a long silence, so long that Effie moved gently at last, and removing her sister’s arms from her neck, found her fast asleep. The daylight faded, and the night-lamps were lighted in the room. There was moving to and fro among the beds, as the preparations for the night were made. But Effie did not stir till the nurse spoke to her.

“Your sister is still under the influence of the draught the doctor gave her. But we must waken her to give her some nourishment before she settles down for the night.”

The eyes, which Effie thought had grown strangely large, opened with a smile.

“Will they let you stay, Effie?” said she.

“Nothing shall ever make me leave you again.”

That was all that passed between them. Christie slept nearly all night, but to Effie the hours passed slowly and sorrowfully away. There was never entire quiet in the ward. There was moaning now and then, and feverish tossing to and fro on one or another of those white beds. The night-nurse moved about among them, smoothing the pillow of one, holding a cup to the lips of another, soothing or chiding, as the case of each required. To Effie the scene was as painful as it was strange. She had many unhappy and some rebellious thoughts that night. But God did not forsake her. The same place of refuge that had sheltered her in former times of trouble was open to her still, and when Christie awoke in the morning it was to meet a smile as calm and bright as that she had often seen in her dreams. For a little while it seemed to her she was dreaming now.

“If I shut my eyes, will you be here when I open them again?” she asked. “Oh, Effie, I have so longed for you! You will never leave me again?”

“Never again,” was all that she had the power to answer.

That day they removed her from the public ward to the room she had at first occupied, and Effie became her nurse. They were very quiet that day. Christie was still under the influence of the strong opiate that had been given her, and worn-out with anxiety and watching, Effie slumbered beside her.

On the second day they had a visit from Gertrude, and Christie quite roused herself to rejoice with her over Effie’s coming. When the young lady declared, with delighted energy, that all Christie wanted to make her quite well again was the face of her sister smiling upon her, all three for a moment believed it. She was to have a week, or perhaps two, in which to grow a little stronger, and then she was to go home with Gertrude till she should be strong enough to go to Glengarry with Effie. No wonder she had been ill and discouraged, so long alone, or worse than alone, surrounded by so much suffering. Now she would soon be well again, Gertrude was quite sure.

And she did seem better. Relieved from the terrible pain which her diseased limb had so long caused, for a time she seemed to revive. She thought herself better. She said many times a day that she felt like a different person, and Effie began to take courage.

But she did not grow stronger. If she could only be taken out of town, where she could have better air, Effie thought she might soon be well. But to remove her in her present state of weakness was impossible. And every day that followed, the doubt forced itself with more and more strength on Effie that she would never be removed alive. The daily paroxysms of fever returned. At such times she grew restless, and sometimes, when she would wake with a start from troubled and uneasy slumbers, her mind seemed to wander. A word was enough to recall her to herself, and when she recognised her sister’s voice and opened her eyes to see her bending over her, her look of glad surprise, changing slowly into one of sweet content, was beautiful to see.

She could not talk much, or even listen for a long time to reading, but she was always quite content and at rest with Effie sitting beside her. A visit from Gertrude or Mr Sherwood was all that happened to break the monotony of those days to them. Once little Claude and his brother were brought to see her. They had not forgotten her. Claude lay down beside her, and put his little hand on her cheek, as he used to do, and told her about the sea and the broad sands where they used to play, and prattled away happily enough of the time when Christie should come home quite well again. Clement was shy, and a little afraid of her altered face, and gave all his attention to Effie. But the visit exhausted Christie, and it never was repeated. Indeed, a very little thing exhausted her now.

One day Christie awoke to find her sister watching the clouds and the autumn rain with a dark shadow resting on her face. Her first movement sent it away, but the remembrance of it lingered with Christie. After a little time, when she had been made comfortable, and Effie had seated herself with her work beside her, she said:

“Are you longing to get home, Effie?”

“No, indeed,” said Effie, cheerfully, “except for your sake.”

“But I am sure they will miss you sadly.”

“Yes, I dare say they will; but they don’t really need me. Sarah is at home, and Katie and Nellie are quite to be trusted even should she be called away. I am not in the least troubled about them. Still, I hope we shall soon get home, for your sake.”

“But without your wages, how can they manage? I am afraid—”

“I am not afraid,” said Effie. “I left all that in safe hands before I came here. Our garden did wonderfully well last year; and besides, we managed to lay by something—and God is good. I am not afraid.”

“And they have all grown very much, you say. And little Will! Oh, how I should like to have seen them all! They will soon forget me, Effie.”

Effie started. It was the first time she had ever said anything that seemed to imply a doubt of her recovery. Even now she was not quite sure that she meant that, and she hastened to say:

“Oh, there is no fear of their forgetting you. You cannot think how delighted they all were when your letters came.”

“They could not give you half the pleasure that yours gave me.”

“Oh, yes, they did. We always liked to hear all about what you were doing, and about the children and Miss Gertrude. Why, I felt quite as though I had known Miss Gertrude for a long time when I first met her here the other day. I almost think I should have known her if I had met her anywhere. She looks older and more mature than I should have supposed from your letters, and then I used to fancy that she might be at times a little overbearing and exacting.”

“Effie, I never could have said that about Miss Gertrude.”

“No, you never said it, but I gathered it—less from what you said than from what you didn’t say, however. Has Miss Gertrude changed, do you think?”

“No, oh no! she is just the very same. And yet I am not sure. I remember thinking when I first saw her that she was changed. She looks older, I think. I wonder if she will come to-day? She promised.”

“But it rains so heavily,” said Effie. “No, I don’t think she will come to-day. It would not be wise.”

But Effie was mistaken. She had hardly spoken when the door opened, and Gertrude entered.

“Through all the rain!” exclaimed Effie and Christie, in a breath.

“Yes, I thought you would be glad to see me this dull day,” said Miss Gertrude, laughing. “I am none the worse for the rain, but I can’t say as much for the horses, however. But Mr Sherwood was obliged to leave in the train this afternoon, and I begged to come in the carriage with him. Peter is to come for me again when he has taken him to the station. See what I have brought you,” she added, opening the basket she carried in her hand. There were several things for Christie in the basket, but thesomethingwhich Miss Gertrude meant was a bunch of buttercups placed against a spray of fragrant cedar and a few brown birch leaves.

“We gathered them in the orchard yesterday. They are the very last of the season. We gathered them because Claude said you once told him that they reminded you of home; and then you told him of a shady place where they used to grow, and of the birch-tree by the burn. I had heard about the burn myself, but not about the buttercups.”

Coming as they did, the little tuft of wild flowers pleased Christie better than the fairest bouquet of hothouse exotics could have done.

Effie laughed.

“Buttercups are not great favourites with us at home,” she said. “They generally grow best on poor, worn-out land.”

“They are the very first I have seen this summer,” said Christie, with moist eyes.

They were all silent a little while.

“We were just speaking about you when you came in,” said she to Miss Gertrude.

“Were you? Well, I hope you dealt gently with my faults?” she said, blushing a little as she noticed the glance which passed between the sisters.

“We had not got to your faults,” said Christie.

“Well, you must be merciful when you do. See, Christie, I have got something else for you,” she added, as she drew out a little book bound in blue and gold. “I thought of you when I read this. There is a good deal in the book you would not care about, but you will like this.” And she read:

“Of all the thoughts of God that are Borne inward unto souls afar Along the Psalmist’s music deep, Now, tell me if that any is, For gift or grace, surpassing this—? He giveth His beloved sleep.”

And so on to the end. “Do you like it?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Christie. But her eyes said much more than that.

“It reminded me of the time I found you sleeping among all the noises that were going on in the ward. There was talking and groaning and moving about, and you were quite unconscious of it all.

“‘God makes a silence through them all,’”

“‘God makes a silence through them all,’”

she repeated:

“‘And never doleful dream againShall break his blessed slumbers, whenHe giveth His beloved sleep.’”

“‘And never doleful dream againShall break his blessed slumbers, whenHe giveth His beloved sleep.’”

There was a silence of several minutes, and then Christie said:

“Miss Gertrude, when you came in I was telling Effie that I thought you had changed since I first knew you.”

“And were you telling her that there was much need of a change?” said Miss Gertrude, with a playfulness assumed to hide the quick rush of feeling which the words called forth.

“Do you mind how we used to speak of the great change that all must meet before we can be happy or safe? You don’t think about these things as you used to do. Miss Gertrude, has this change come to you?”

“I don’t know, Christie. Sometimes I almost hope it has,” said she. But she could not restrain the tears. Effie saw them; Christie did not. Her eyes were closed, and her hands were clasped as if in prayer.

“I was sure it would come,” she said, softly. “I am very glad.”

She did not speak again during Miss Gertrude’s stay, and I need not repeat all that passed between the young lady and Effie. There were some words spoken that neither will forget till their dying day.

Before she went away, Gertrude came and kissed Christie; and when she was gone Effie came and kissed her too, saying:

“You ought to be very happy, Christie, with all your trouble. God has been very good to you, in giving you a message to Miss Gertrude.”

“I am very happy, Effie,” answered she, softly. “I almost think I am beyond being troubled any more. It is coming very near now.”

She lay still, with a smile on her face, till she fell into a quiet slumber; and as she sat watching her, Effie, amid all her sorrow, could not but rejoice at the thought of the blessed rest and peace that seemed coming so near now to her little sister.

Chapter Twenty Three.Home at last.Yes, the time was drawing very near. Effie could no longer hide from herself that Christie was no stronger, but rather weaker every day. She did not suffer much pain, but now and then was feverish, and at such times she could get no rest. Then Effie moved and soothed and sang to her with patience inexhaustible. She would have given half her youthful strength to have revived that wasted form; and one day, as she was bathing her hands, she told her so.Christie smiled, and shook her head.“You will have better use for your strength than that, Effie. I am sure the water in the burn at home would cool my hands, if I could dip them in it. Oh, if I could just get out to the fields for one long summer day, I think I should be content to lie down here again for another six months! In the summer-time, when I used to think of the Nesbitts and the McIntyres in the sweet-smelling hay-fields, and of the bairns gathering berries in the woods, my heart was like to die within me. It is not so bad now since you came. No, Effie, I am quite content now.”Later in the day, she said, after a long silence:“Effie, little Will will hardly mind that he had a sister Christie, when he grows up to be a man. I should like to have been at home once more, because of that. They will all forget me, I am afraid.”“Christie,” said her sister, “why do you say they will forget you? Do you not think you will live to see them again?”“Do you think so, Effie?” asked Christie, gravely.Instead of answering her, Effie burst into tears, and laid her head down on her sister’s pillow. Christie laid her arm over her neck, and said, softly:“There is nothing to grieve so for, Effie. I am not afraid.”Effie’s tears had been kept back so long, they must have free course now. It was in vain to try to stay them. But soon she raised herself up, and said:“I didna mean to trouble you, Christie. I know I have no need to grieve for you. But, oh! I cannot help thinking you might have been spared longer if I had been more watchful—more faithful to my trust!”“Effie,” said Christie, “move me a little, and lie down beside me. I have something to say to you, and there can be no better time than now. You are weary with your long watching. Rest beside me.”Her sister arranged the pillow and lay down beside her. Clasping her wasted arms about her neck, Christie said:“Effie, you don’t often say wrong or foolish things, but what you said just now was both wrong and foolish. You must never say it or think it any more. Have I not been in safe keeping, think you? Nay! do not grieve me by saying that again,” she added, laying her hand upon her sister’s lips, as she would have spoken. “It all seems so right and safe to me, I would not have anything changed now, except that I should like to see them all at home. And I dare say that will pass away as the end draws near. It will not be long now, Effie.” She paused from exhaustion, only adding: “I am not afraid.”The much she had to say was not said that night. The sisters lay silently in each other’s arms, and while Christie slumbered, Effie prayed as she had never prayed before, that she might be made submissive to the will of God in this great sorrow that was drawing nearer day by day.After this they spoke much of the anticipated parting, but never sadly any more. Effie’s prayers were answered. God’s grace did for her what, unaided, she never could have done for herself. It gave her power to watch the shadow of death drawing nearer and nearer, without shrinking from the sight. I do not mean that she felt no pain at the thought of going back to her home alone, or that she had quite ceased to blame herself for what she called her neglect of her suffering sister. Many a long struggle did she pass through during the hours when Christie slumbered. But she never again suffered a regretful word to pass her lips; she never for a moment let a cloud rest on her face when Christie’s eyes were matching her. She had soothing words for the poor child’s restless moments. If a doubt or fear came to disturb her quiet trust, she had words of cheer to whisper; and when—as oftenest happened—her peace was like a river, full and calm and deep, no murmurs, no repining, fell from the loving sister’s lips to disturb its gentle flow.And little by little, as the uneventful days glided by peace, and more than peace—gratitude and loving praise—filled the heart of Christie’s sister. What could she wish more for the child so loved than such quiet and happy waiting for the end of all trouble? A little while sooner or later, what did it matter? What could she wish more or better for any one she loved? It would ill become her to repine at her loss, so infinitely her sister’s gain.The discipline of these weeks in her sister’s sick-room did very much for Effie. Ever since their mother’s death, and more especially since their coming to Canada, a great deal had depended on her. Wise to plan and strong to execute, she had done what few young girls in her sphere could have done. Her energy had never flagged. She delighted to encounter and overcome difficulties; she was strong, prudent, and far-seeing, and she was fast acquiring the reputation, among her friends and neighbours, of a rare business woman.It is just possible that, as the years passed, she might have acquired some of the unpleasing qualities so apt to become the characteristic of the woman who has no one to come between her and the cares of business or the shifts and difficulties incident to the providing for a family whose means are limited. Coming in contact, as she had to do, with a world not always mindful of the claims of others, she found it necessary to stand her ground and hold her own with a firmness that might seem hardly compatible with gentleness. Her position, too, as the teacher of a school—the queen of a little realm where her word was law—tended to cultivate in her strength and firmness of character rather than the more womanly qualities. It is doubtful whether, without the sweet and solemn break in the routine of her life which these months in her sister’s sick-room made, she would ever have grown into the woman she afterwards became. This long and patient waiting for God’s messenger gave her the time for thought which her busy life denied her.Now and then, during the quiet talks in which, during her more comfortable hours, they could still indulge, there was revealed to Effie all the way by which God had led her sister; at the same time there was revealed all that He had permitted her to do for His glory, and at this she was greatly moved. She had only been a little servant-maid, plain and humble and obscure. There was nothing to distinguish her in the eyes of those who saw her from day to day. Yet God had greatly honoured her. He had made her a messenger of grace to one, to two—perhaps to more. When that little, worn-out frame was laid aside, it might be, thought Effie, that the immortal spirit, crowned and radiant, should stand nearer to the throne than some who were held in honour by the wise and the good of this world.Sitting there, listening and musing, Effie saw, more clearly than she ever could have seen in the bustle of her busy life, how infinitely desirable it is to be permitted to do God’s work in the world. Those were days never to be forgotten by her. She grew thin and wan with confinement and watching, but as the time drew near when her present care should cease and she should go home again, her face wore a look of peace beautiful to see.“Effie,” said Christie one day, after she had been silently watching her a little while, “you are more willing that I should go now, I think?”Effie started.“I shall be willing when the time comes, my dear sister, I do not doubt,” she said, with lips that smiled, though they quivered too. “I cannot help being willing, and glad, for your sake.”“And you ought to be glad for your sake too,” said Christie. “You will have one less to care for, to be anxious about, Effie, and I shall be safe with our dear father and mother in the better world. I never could have helped you much, dear, though I would have liked to do so. I never should have been very strong, I dare say, and—I might have been a burden.”“But if you had been running about in the fields with the bairns all this time, who knows but you would have been as strong as any of them?” said Effie, sadly.But Christie shook her head.“No; I have had nothing to harm me. And sometimes I used to think if I had stayed at home I might have fallen back into my old fretful ways, and so have been a vexation to myself and to Aunt Elsie; and to you even, Effie, though you never used to be vexed with me.”“No, Christie, that could never have happened. God is faithful, and with His grace, all would have been well with you. There would have been no more such sad days for you.”“No such day as that when you came home with the book-man and gave me my Bible,” said Christie, smiling, “I wonder why I always mind that day so well? I suppose because it was the beginning of it all.”Effie did not ask, “The beginning of what?” She knew well that she meant the beginning of the new life which God, by His Word and Spirit, had wrought in her heart. Soon Christie added:“I wouldn’t have anything changed now. It has all happened just in the best way; and this quiet time will do you good too, dear.”“I pray God it may!” said Effie, letting both tears and kisses fall upon her sister’s face.“And you must tell Annie and Sarah and the bairns that they must be sure to come to us—our father and mother and me, and to Jesus—the Mediator—of the new covenant,” she slowly said; and overcome with weariness, she sank into a quiet sleep.Christie grew weaker every day. She did not suffer much, and slept most of the time. Sometimes she was feverish and restless, and then Effie used to fancy that her mind wandered. At such times she would tell of things that happened long ago, and speak to Effie as she might have spoken to her mother during her childish illnesses, begging to be taken into her arms and rocked to sleep.But almost always she knew her sister, even when she had forgotten where she was. Once she said there was just one place in the world where she could rest, and begged to be laid on the sofa in Mrs Nesbitt’s parlour at home. Often she begged her to let her dip her hands in the burn to cool them, or to take her where it was pleasant and cool, under the shadow of the birch-tree in the pasture at home. But a single word from Effie was always enough to soothe her, and to call up the loving smile.Christmas came and went, and the last day of the old year found her still waiting, but with many a token that the close was drawing near. Gertrude came that day, and lingered long beside her, awed by the strange mysterious change that was beginning to show itself on her face. Christie did not notice her as she came in, and even Effie only silently held out her hand to her as she drew near.“She will never speak again,” said the nurse, who had been watching her for several minutes.All pain, all restlessness, seemed past. Effie, bending over her, could only now and then moisten her parched lips and wipe the damp from her forehead. Poor Effie! she saw the hour was at hand, but she was very calm. “She has not spoken since daybreak,” she said, softly. “I am afraid she will never speak again.” But she did.After a brief but quiet sleep she opened her eyes. Gertrude knew that she was recognised. Stooping down to catch the broken words that came from her parched lips, she distinctly heard:“I was sure always—from the very first—that God would bless you. And now—though I am going to die—you will do all for Christ—that I would like to have done.”Effie was refreshed and strengthened by two or three hours of quiet sleep. The day passed, the evening came and went, and Christie gave no sign of pain or restlessness.“It will be about the turn of the night,” said the nurse, raising the night-lamp to look on her face. But it was not. At the turn of the night she awoke, and called her sister by name. Effie’s face was on the pillow beside her, and she kissed her softly, without speaking. Christie fondly returned her caress. She seemed strangely revived.“Effie,” she said, “do you remember something that our mother used to sing to us—?“‘No dimming clouds o’ershadow thee,No dull and darksome night,But every soul shines as the sun,And God Himself is light.’”Yes, Effie remembered it well, and she went on, with no break in her voice, as Christie ceased:“‘No pain, no pang, no bitter grief,No woeful night is there;No sob, no sigh, no cry is heard;No will-awa’, no care!’”And many a verse more of that quaint, touching old canticle did she sing, all the time watching the smile of wonderful content that was beautifying the dying face.“You are quite willing now, Effie?” she said, softly.“Quite willing,” said Effie, softly.“And it is coming very near now!”“Very near, love. Very near now!”“Very near!” She never spoke again. She lingered till the dawn of the new year’s morning, all the time lying like a child slumbering in the nurse’s arms, and then she died.They did not lay her to rest among the many nameless graves which had seemed so sad and dreary to her in the beautiful burial-place one summer day. The spotless snow near her father’s grave was disturbed on a winter’s morning, and Christie was laid to rest beside him.There she has lain through many a summer and winter, but her remembrance has not perished from the earth. There are loving hearts on both sides of the sea who still cherish her memory. Gertrude—no longer Miss Gertrude, however—in the new home she has found, tells the little children at her knee of her little brother Claude and his nurse, who loved each other so dearly on earth, and who now are doubtless loving each other in heaven; and in a fair Canadian manse a grave and beautiful woman often tells, with softened voice, the sad yet happy tale of the sister who went away and who never came home again, but who found a better home in her Father’s house above.The End.

Yes, the time was drawing very near. Effie could no longer hide from herself that Christie was no stronger, but rather weaker every day. She did not suffer much pain, but now and then was feverish, and at such times she could get no rest. Then Effie moved and soothed and sang to her with patience inexhaustible. She would have given half her youthful strength to have revived that wasted form; and one day, as she was bathing her hands, she told her so.

Christie smiled, and shook her head.

“You will have better use for your strength than that, Effie. I am sure the water in the burn at home would cool my hands, if I could dip them in it. Oh, if I could just get out to the fields for one long summer day, I think I should be content to lie down here again for another six months! In the summer-time, when I used to think of the Nesbitts and the McIntyres in the sweet-smelling hay-fields, and of the bairns gathering berries in the woods, my heart was like to die within me. It is not so bad now since you came. No, Effie, I am quite content now.”

Later in the day, she said, after a long silence:

“Effie, little Will will hardly mind that he had a sister Christie, when he grows up to be a man. I should like to have been at home once more, because of that. They will all forget me, I am afraid.”

“Christie,” said her sister, “why do you say they will forget you? Do you not think you will live to see them again?”

“Do you think so, Effie?” asked Christie, gravely.

Instead of answering her, Effie burst into tears, and laid her head down on her sister’s pillow. Christie laid her arm over her neck, and said, softly:

“There is nothing to grieve so for, Effie. I am not afraid.”

Effie’s tears had been kept back so long, they must have free course now. It was in vain to try to stay them. But soon she raised herself up, and said:

“I didna mean to trouble you, Christie. I know I have no need to grieve for you. But, oh! I cannot help thinking you might have been spared longer if I had been more watchful—more faithful to my trust!”

“Effie,” said Christie, “move me a little, and lie down beside me. I have something to say to you, and there can be no better time than now. You are weary with your long watching. Rest beside me.”

Her sister arranged the pillow and lay down beside her. Clasping her wasted arms about her neck, Christie said:

“Effie, you don’t often say wrong or foolish things, but what you said just now was both wrong and foolish. You must never say it or think it any more. Have I not been in safe keeping, think you? Nay! do not grieve me by saying that again,” she added, laying her hand upon her sister’s lips, as she would have spoken. “It all seems so right and safe to me, I would not have anything changed now, except that I should like to see them all at home. And I dare say that will pass away as the end draws near. It will not be long now, Effie.” She paused from exhaustion, only adding: “I am not afraid.”

The much she had to say was not said that night. The sisters lay silently in each other’s arms, and while Christie slumbered, Effie prayed as she had never prayed before, that she might be made submissive to the will of God in this great sorrow that was drawing nearer day by day.

After this they spoke much of the anticipated parting, but never sadly any more. Effie’s prayers were answered. God’s grace did for her what, unaided, she never could have done for herself. It gave her power to watch the shadow of death drawing nearer and nearer, without shrinking from the sight. I do not mean that she felt no pain at the thought of going back to her home alone, or that she had quite ceased to blame herself for what she called her neglect of her suffering sister. Many a long struggle did she pass through during the hours when Christie slumbered. But she never again suffered a regretful word to pass her lips; she never for a moment let a cloud rest on her face when Christie’s eyes were matching her. She had soothing words for the poor child’s restless moments. If a doubt or fear came to disturb her quiet trust, she had words of cheer to whisper; and when—as oftenest happened—her peace was like a river, full and calm and deep, no murmurs, no repining, fell from the loving sister’s lips to disturb its gentle flow.

And little by little, as the uneventful days glided by peace, and more than peace—gratitude and loving praise—filled the heart of Christie’s sister. What could she wish more for the child so loved than such quiet and happy waiting for the end of all trouble? A little while sooner or later, what did it matter? What could she wish more or better for any one she loved? It would ill become her to repine at her loss, so infinitely her sister’s gain.

The discipline of these weeks in her sister’s sick-room did very much for Effie. Ever since their mother’s death, and more especially since their coming to Canada, a great deal had depended on her. Wise to plan and strong to execute, she had done what few young girls in her sphere could have done. Her energy had never flagged. She delighted to encounter and overcome difficulties; she was strong, prudent, and far-seeing, and she was fast acquiring the reputation, among her friends and neighbours, of a rare business woman.

It is just possible that, as the years passed, she might have acquired some of the unpleasing qualities so apt to become the characteristic of the woman who has no one to come between her and the cares of business or the shifts and difficulties incident to the providing for a family whose means are limited. Coming in contact, as she had to do, with a world not always mindful of the claims of others, she found it necessary to stand her ground and hold her own with a firmness that might seem hardly compatible with gentleness. Her position, too, as the teacher of a school—the queen of a little realm where her word was law—tended to cultivate in her strength and firmness of character rather than the more womanly qualities. It is doubtful whether, without the sweet and solemn break in the routine of her life which these months in her sister’s sick-room made, she would ever have grown into the woman she afterwards became. This long and patient waiting for God’s messenger gave her the time for thought which her busy life denied her.

Now and then, during the quiet talks in which, during her more comfortable hours, they could still indulge, there was revealed to Effie all the way by which God had led her sister; at the same time there was revealed all that He had permitted her to do for His glory, and at this she was greatly moved. She had only been a little servant-maid, plain and humble and obscure. There was nothing to distinguish her in the eyes of those who saw her from day to day. Yet God had greatly honoured her. He had made her a messenger of grace to one, to two—perhaps to more. When that little, worn-out frame was laid aside, it might be, thought Effie, that the immortal spirit, crowned and radiant, should stand nearer to the throne than some who were held in honour by the wise and the good of this world.

Sitting there, listening and musing, Effie saw, more clearly than she ever could have seen in the bustle of her busy life, how infinitely desirable it is to be permitted to do God’s work in the world. Those were days never to be forgotten by her. She grew thin and wan with confinement and watching, but as the time drew near when her present care should cease and she should go home again, her face wore a look of peace beautiful to see.

“Effie,” said Christie one day, after she had been silently watching her a little while, “you are more willing that I should go now, I think?”

Effie started.

“I shall be willing when the time comes, my dear sister, I do not doubt,” she said, with lips that smiled, though they quivered too. “I cannot help being willing, and glad, for your sake.”

“And you ought to be glad for your sake too,” said Christie. “You will have one less to care for, to be anxious about, Effie, and I shall be safe with our dear father and mother in the better world. I never could have helped you much, dear, though I would have liked to do so. I never should have been very strong, I dare say, and—I might have been a burden.”

“But if you had been running about in the fields with the bairns all this time, who knows but you would have been as strong as any of them?” said Effie, sadly.

But Christie shook her head.

“No; I have had nothing to harm me. And sometimes I used to think if I had stayed at home I might have fallen back into my old fretful ways, and so have been a vexation to myself and to Aunt Elsie; and to you even, Effie, though you never used to be vexed with me.”

“No, Christie, that could never have happened. God is faithful, and with His grace, all would have been well with you. There would have been no more such sad days for you.”

“No such day as that when you came home with the book-man and gave me my Bible,” said Christie, smiling, “I wonder why I always mind that day so well? I suppose because it was the beginning of it all.”

Effie did not ask, “The beginning of what?” She knew well that she meant the beginning of the new life which God, by His Word and Spirit, had wrought in her heart. Soon Christie added:

“I wouldn’t have anything changed now. It has all happened just in the best way; and this quiet time will do you good too, dear.”

“I pray God it may!” said Effie, letting both tears and kisses fall upon her sister’s face.

“And you must tell Annie and Sarah and the bairns that they must be sure to come to us—our father and mother and me, and to Jesus—the Mediator—of the new covenant,” she slowly said; and overcome with weariness, she sank into a quiet sleep.

Christie grew weaker every day. She did not suffer much, and slept most of the time. Sometimes she was feverish and restless, and then Effie used to fancy that her mind wandered. At such times she would tell of things that happened long ago, and speak to Effie as she might have spoken to her mother during her childish illnesses, begging to be taken into her arms and rocked to sleep.

But almost always she knew her sister, even when she had forgotten where she was. Once she said there was just one place in the world where she could rest, and begged to be laid on the sofa in Mrs Nesbitt’s parlour at home. Often she begged her to let her dip her hands in the burn to cool them, or to take her where it was pleasant and cool, under the shadow of the birch-tree in the pasture at home. But a single word from Effie was always enough to soothe her, and to call up the loving smile.

Christmas came and went, and the last day of the old year found her still waiting, but with many a token that the close was drawing near. Gertrude came that day, and lingered long beside her, awed by the strange mysterious change that was beginning to show itself on her face. Christie did not notice her as she came in, and even Effie only silently held out her hand to her as she drew near.

“She will never speak again,” said the nurse, who had been watching her for several minutes.

All pain, all restlessness, seemed past. Effie, bending over her, could only now and then moisten her parched lips and wipe the damp from her forehead. Poor Effie! she saw the hour was at hand, but she was very calm. “She has not spoken since daybreak,” she said, softly. “I am afraid she will never speak again.” But she did.

After a brief but quiet sleep she opened her eyes. Gertrude knew that she was recognised. Stooping down to catch the broken words that came from her parched lips, she distinctly heard:

“I was sure always—from the very first—that God would bless you. And now—though I am going to die—you will do all for Christ—that I would like to have done.”

Effie was refreshed and strengthened by two or three hours of quiet sleep. The day passed, the evening came and went, and Christie gave no sign of pain or restlessness.

“It will be about the turn of the night,” said the nurse, raising the night-lamp to look on her face. But it was not. At the turn of the night she awoke, and called her sister by name. Effie’s face was on the pillow beside her, and she kissed her softly, without speaking. Christie fondly returned her caress. She seemed strangely revived.

“Effie,” she said, “do you remember something that our mother used to sing to us—?

“‘No dimming clouds o’ershadow thee,No dull and darksome night,But every soul shines as the sun,And God Himself is light.’”

“‘No dimming clouds o’ershadow thee,No dull and darksome night,But every soul shines as the sun,And God Himself is light.’”

Yes, Effie remembered it well, and she went on, with no break in her voice, as Christie ceased:

“‘No pain, no pang, no bitter grief,No woeful night is there;No sob, no sigh, no cry is heard;No will-awa’, no care!’”

“‘No pain, no pang, no bitter grief,No woeful night is there;No sob, no sigh, no cry is heard;No will-awa’, no care!’”

And many a verse more of that quaint, touching old canticle did she sing, all the time watching the smile of wonderful content that was beautifying the dying face.

“You are quite willing now, Effie?” she said, softly.

“Quite willing,” said Effie, softly.

“And it is coming very near now!”

“Very near, love. Very near now!”

“Very near!” She never spoke again. She lingered till the dawn of the new year’s morning, all the time lying like a child slumbering in the nurse’s arms, and then she died.

They did not lay her to rest among the many nameless graves which had seemed so sad and dreary to her in the beautiful burial-place one summer day. The spotless snow near her father’s grave was disturbed on a winter’s morning, and Christie was laid to rest beside him.

There she has lain through many a summer and winter, but her remembrance has not perished from the earth. There are loving hearts on both sides of the sea who still cherish her memory. Gertrude—no longer Miss Gertrude, however—in the new home she has found, tells the little children at her knee of her little brother Claude and his nurse, who loved each other so dearly on earth, and who now are doubtless loving each other in heaven; and in a fair Canadian manse a grave and beautiful woman often tells, with softened voice, the sad yet happy tale of the sister who went away and who never came home again, but who found a better home in her Father’s house above.

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