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