"Do you mean that you are so satisfied with your lot that you would not
have it different if your wish could change it?" asked Miss Gertrude, in
some surprise.
Christie hesitated a moment.
"I mean that I don't know what is best for me or for those I love, and
He who has appointed our lot does; and so all things are best as they
are."
"Do you mean that you would rather be as you are, living away from home,
among strangers, poor and not very strong, than to have all that we
sometimes talk about, and to be able to be benevolent and live at home
with your sisters?"
"Ah, that would be very pleasant; at least, it seems so now. But still
it might not be best for us. If it would be best, we should have it so,
I am quite sure."
Gertrude opened her eyes in amazement.
"But I don't know what you mean by _best_!" she said, presently.
"Don't you?" said Christie, smiling a little. "Well, I am not good at
explaining things. I don't mean what is pleasantest just now, but what
is really best for us all, now, and--and afterwards."
"Do you mean to say that you are better off here as Claude's nurse than
you would be if you were to live at home, or go to school, as you were
wishing you could the other day? If you had your choice, is that what
you would choose?"
"Oh, I don't speak about a choice. I am content not to choose; at
least, almost always I am content. I know it is best for me to be here,
or I shouldn't be here."
"But, do you know, that seems to me quite absurd. Why, according to
that, everybody is just in the right place. No one ought to have any
wish to change, even to be better. All the world is just as it ought to
be."
"I can't tell what is best for all the world and everybody," said
Christie, gravely. "I was only speaking of myself and Effie, and the
rest at home."
"But I suppose what is true for you is true for other people also--for
me, for instance! Don't you think I have anything left to wish for? Do
you think I am in the very best place I could be in for my happiness now
and always?"
"I don't know," said Christie, looking wistfully into her face. "I hope
so. I cannot tell."
"But what makes you so sure in your own case, then, if you can't tell in
mine? I think few people would hesitate as to which of us is most
happily placed. What makes you so sure of yourself?"
Christie did not reply for a moment. She was slowly turning over the
leaves of her Bible. When at last she stopped, it was to read softly:
"`For a man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which
he possesseth.'"
And, farther on:
"`Consider the ravens: for they neither sow nor reap; which neither have
storehouse nor barn; and God feedeth them: how much are ye better than
the fowls?'
"`Consider the lilies how they grow: they toil not, they spin not; and
yet I say unto you, that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like
one of these.'
"`If then God so clothe the grass, which to-day is, and to-morrow is
cast into the oven, how much more will He clothe you, O ye of little
faith!'"
Gertrude had half expected some such answers. She did not speak, but
watched her as she continued to turn the leaves. She read again:
"`And we know that all things work together for good to them that love
God.'"
"That is all very well," she said; "but that is for one as well as
another, for me as well as you. And besides, people don't take all
things just as they stand. I am sure all the people I know live as
though their life _did_ consist in the abundance of the things they
possess."
"Well, I suppose the promise is not good to them," said Christie; "but
that does not hinder its being good to others."
"Then one need not trouble one's self about what is to happen, according
to that? One may just rest content and let things take their course?"
said Gertrude, incredulously.
"Yes, that is just what one may do, when one is sure of a right to claim
the promise."
"But what do you mean by having a right? And why should one have a
right more than another?" asked Gertrude, impatiently. But all the time
she was saying to herself that the quiet little maid before her was one
of those who might be content.
"I don't mean that any one has a right to claim the fulfilment of any
promise, except the right that God gives. You know the verse says it is
to them that love God for whose good all things work together. God's
people, it means--those who love Him, and those whom He loves."
Looking into her earnest face, it was not easy for Gertrude to answer
lightly, but in a little while she said:
"Well, Christians ought to be very happy people according to that."
"Surely," said Christie, earnestly, "and so they are."
"Well, I know some of them who don't seem very happy. And they strive
for riches and greatness, and all that, just as though their happiness
depended upon it."
"But no real child of God does that," said Christie, eagerly.
"Oh! as to that I can't say. They call themselves Christians."
"Well, we can't always judge people by just seeing them," said Christie.
"There's many a one who seems to be living just as other folk live, and
going the round that other folk go, and all the time he may be really
very different. I am not good at speaking about these things, but I
know that to a child of God His simple promise is worth more than houses
or lands, or anything that this world can give. No; we have nothing to
fear. Only we forget and grow desponding."
The last words were spoken rather to herself than to Miss Gertrude. She
sighed; but her face was quite untroubled as she rose, and laying down
her Bible, began to arrange the things in the room.
"You always say, `child of God,'" said Gertrude, wishing still to
prolong the conversation. "Does that mean just a Christian, or does it
mean something more?"
"Yes. `As many as received Him, to them gave He power to become the
sons of God, even to them that believe on His name.' Yes, it means just
the same. You see, it seems to bring us very near to Him, speaking of
Him as a Father, and of Christ as an Elder Brother. You know a child
will never want for anything that a loving father has to give, if it is
for his good; and so surely the children of God may well rest content
with what He appoints for them. The only wonder is that they are ever
otherwise than content."
Gertrude made no reply, and there was a long silence.
"`A child of God.' `Content with what He sends them.' There is
something wonderful in it. She is one of them, I dare say; and that is
what makes her so different from almost any one I know. I wish I could
understand it. It must be worth a great deal to know that one is a
child of God. I wish she could tell me more about it."
But Christie did not seem inclined to say more on any subject that
night. She moved here and there in silence, putting things to rights in
the room. Gertrude rose at last.
"That is a hint that it is time for me to go," she said.
Christie laughed.
"Well, yes. You know Mrs Seaton was displeased to find us sitting up
the other night when she came home. It is nearly ten."
"Oh, she won't be home to-night till the small hours have struck. Miss
Atherton will take care of that. There is no fear of her finding us up
to-night."
There was an expression of surprise on Christie's countenance.
"Oh, I know very well what you mean. That makes no difference, you
would say. Well, I suppose we must do what she would wish, the same as
if she were here, though I don't feel the least sleepy. Good-night."