Chapter Six.
Christie’s new home.
So Annie and Christie went away; and the days that followed their departure were long and lonely at the cottage. They had never been long separated, and the absence of two of their number made a great blank in their circle. All missed them, but none so much as Effie; for mingled with regret for their absence was a feeling very like self-reproach that she had permitted Christie to go. It was in vain that she reasoned with herself about this matter, saying it was the child’s own wish, and that against her aunt’s expressed approbation she could have said nothing to detain her.
She knew that Christie was by no means strong, that she was sensitive (not to say irritable), and she dreaded for her the trials she must endure and the unkindness she might experience among strangers. She was haunted by a vision of her sister’s pale face, home-sick and miserable, with no one to comfort or sympathise with her; and she waited with inexpressible longing for the first tidings from the wanderers. The thought of her was always present. It came with a pang sometimes when she was busiest. She returned from school night by night with a deeper depression on her spirits, till Aunt Elsie, who had all along resented in secret her evident anxiety, could no longer restrain the expression of her vexation.
“What ails you, Effie?” said she, as the weary girl seated herself, without entering the house. “You sit down there as if you had the cares and vexations of a generation weighing you down. Have matters gone contrary at the school?”
“No. Oh, no,” said Effie, making an effort to seem cheerful. “Everything has gone on as usual. I had two new scholars to-day. They’ll be coming in, now that the autumn work is mostly over. Have not the bairns come in?”
“I hear their voices in the field beyond,” said her aunt. “But you havena told me what ails you. Indeed, there’s no need. I know very well. It would have been more wise-like to have kept your sisters at home than to fret so unreasonably for them now they are away.”
Effie made no answer.
“What’s to happen to them more than to twenty others that have gone from these parts? It’s a sad thing, indeed, that your father’s daughters should need to go to service, considering all that is past. But it can’t be mended now. And one thing is certain: it’s no disgrace.”
“No, indeed,” said Effie. “I don’t look on it in that light; but—”
“Yes; I ken what you would say. It’s ay Christie you’re thinking about. But she’ll be none the worse for a little discipline. She would soon have been an utter vexation, if she had been kept at home. You spoiled your sister with your petting and coaxing, till there was no doing with her. I’m sure I dinna see why she’s to be pitied more than Annie.”
Effie had no reply to make. If she was foolish and unreasonable in her fears for Christie, her aunt’s manner of pointing out her fault was not likely to prove it to her. She did not wish to hear more. Perhaps she was foolish, she thought. Good Mrs Nesbitt, who was not likely to be unjust to Christie, and who was ready to sympathise with the elder sister in what seemed almost like the breaking-up of the family, said something of the same kind to her once, as they were walking together from the Sabbath-school.
“My dear,” she said, “you are wrong to vex yourself with such thoughts. Your aunt is partly right. Christie will be none the worse for the discipline she may have to undergo. There are some traits in her character that haven a fairly shown themselves yet. She will grow firm and patient and self-reliant, I do not doubt. I only hope she will grow stronger in body too.”
Effie sighed.
“She was never very strong.”
“If she shouldna be well, she must come home; and, Effie, though I would never say to an elder sister that she could be too patient and tender to one of the little ones—and that one sometimes wilful and peevish, and no’ very strong—yet Christie may be none the worse, for a wee while, no’ to have you between her and all trouble. My dear, I know what you would say. I know you have something like a mother’s feeling for the child. But even a mother canna bear every burden or drink every bitter drop for her child. And it is as well she canna do it. If Christie’s battle with life and what it brings begins a year or two earlier than you thought necessary, she may be all the better able to conquer. Dinna fear for her. God will have her in His keeping.”
Effie strove to find a voice to reply; but she could only say:
“Perhaps I am foolish. I will try.”
“My dear,” continued her friend, kindly, “I dinna wonder that you are careful and troubled, and a wee faithless, sometimes. You have passed through much sorrow of late, and your daily labour is of a kind that is trying to both health and spirits. And I doubt not you have troubles that are of a nature not to be spoken of. But take courage. There’s nothing can happen to you but what is among the ‘all things’ that are to work together for your good. For I do believe you are among those to whom has been given a right to claim that promise. You are down among the mist now; I am farther up the brae, and get a glimpse, through the cloud, of the sunshine beyond. Dinna fret about Christie, or about other things. I believe you are God-guided; and what more can you desire? As the day wears on, the clouds may disperse; and even if they shouldna, my bairn, the sun still shines in the lift above them.”
They had reached the cross-road down which Effie was to take her solitary way; for the bairns had gone on before. She stood for a moment trying to make sure of her voice, and while she lingered Mrs Nesbitt dropped a kiss, as tender as a mother’s, on her brow, and said, “Good-night!” A rush of ready tears was the only answer Effie had for her then. But she was comforted. The tears that spring at kind words or a gentle touch bring healing with them; and when Effie wiped them away at last, it was with a thankful sense of a lightened burden, and she went on her way with the pain that had ached at her heart so many days a little softened.
Yes; Effie had trials that would not bear speaking about, and least of all with John Nesbitt’s mother. But they were trials that need not be discussed in my little tale. Indeed, I must not linger longer at the cottage by the wayside. I may not tell of the daily life of its occupants, except that it grew more cheerful as the winter passed away. The monthly letter brought them good tidings from the absent ones; and with duties, some pleasant, some quite otherwise, their days were filled, so that no time was left for repining or for distrustful thoughts.
I must now follow the path taken by Christie’s weary little feet. Sometimes the way was dusty and uneven enough, but there were green spots and wayside flowers now and then. There were mists and clouds about her, too, but she got glimpses of sunshine. And by and by she grew content to abide in the shadow, knowing, as it was given her to know, that clouds are sent to cool and shelter and refresh us. Before content, however, there came many less welcome visitors to the heart of the poor child.
Can anything be more bewildering to unaccustomed eyes than the motley crowd which business or pleasure daily collects at some of our much-frequented railway stations? To the two girls, whose ideas of a crowd were for the most part associated with the quiet, orderly gatherings in the kirk-yard on the Sabbath-day, the scene that presented itself to them on reaching Point Saint Charles was more than bewildering; it was, for a minute or two, actually alarming. There was something so strange in the quick, indifferent manner of the people who jostled one another on the crowded platform, in the cries of the cabmen and porters, and in the general hurrying to and fro, that even Annie was in some danger of losing her presence of mind; and it was with something like a feeling of danger escaped that they found themselves, at last, safe on their way to the house of Mrs McIntyre, a connection of some friends of that name at home.
The sun had set long before, and it was quite dark as they passed rapidly through the narrow streets in the lower part of the town. Here and there lights were twinkling, and out from the gathering darkness came a strange, dull sound, the mingling of many voices, the noise of carriage-wheels and the cries of their drivers, and through all the heavy boom of church-bells. How unlike it all was to anything the girls had seen or heard before! And a feeling of wonder, not unmingled with dread, came upon them.
There was no time for their thoughts to grow painful, however, before they found themselves at their journey’s end. They were expected by Mrs McIntyre, and were very kindly received by her. She was a widow, and the keeper of a small shop in a street which looked at the first glimpse dismal enough. It was only a glimpse they had of it, however; for they soon found themselves in a small and neat parlour with their hostess, who kindly strove to make them feel at home. She would not hear of their trying to find out their places that night, but promised to go with them the next day, or as soon as they were rested. Indeed, she wished them to remain a few days with her. But to this Annie would by no means agree. The delay caused by Christie’s coming had made her a week later than her appointed time, and she feared greatly lest she should lose her place; so she could not be induced to linger longer. Her place was still secure for her; but a great disappointment awaited Christie. The lady who had desired the service of a young girl to amuse her children had either changed her mind or was not satisfied with Christie’s appearance; for after asking her many questions about her long delay, as she called the three days beyond the specified week, she told her she was afraid she could not engage her. She added to the pain of Christie’s disappointment by telling her that she did not look either strong enough or cheerful enough to have the care of children; she had better apply for some other situation.
“She’s weary with her journey—poor thing!” suggested Mrs McIntyre, kindly. “And she’s a stranger here, besides—poor child!”
“A stranger!” Yes, Christie had just parted from Annie at the door of a large house in the next street, bravely enough; but it was all the poor girl could do now to restrain an outburst of tears.
“How old are you?” asked the lady, again.
Christie had just courage enough to tell her; but it was Mrs McIntyre who answered the next question.
“Are your parents living?”
“No—poor thing! She is an orphan. There is a large family of them. She came down with her sister, hoping to get a place. The elder sister is trying to keep the little ones together.”
Christie made a movement as if to silence the speaker. The lady looked at a gentleman who sat at a distant window seeming to read.
“What do you think?” she asked.
He rose, and walked in a leisurely manner down the room, nodding to Mrs McIntyre as he passed. As he returned, he paused, and said something in an undertone to the lady. Christie caught the words.
“If anything was to happen to her, she would be on your hands. She seems quite without friends.”
Christie was on her feet in a moment. Her chair was pushed back with a motion so sudden that the gentleman turned to look at her. She was anything but pale now. Her cheeks were crimson, and there was a light in her eyes that bade fair to be very soon quenched in tears.
“I am very sorry that I—” She could utter no more. Laying her hand on Mrs McIntyre’s arm, she said, huskily, “Come.” Her friend rose.
“Perhaps if you were to try her for a month—” she suggested.
But Christie shook her head.
“But where can you go? What can you do?” said Mrs McIntyre, in a low voice.
Where, indeed? Not to the house she had just seen Annie enter; she had no claim there. Not home again, that was not to be thought of. She turned a helpless glance to the persons who seemed to hold her destiny in their hands. The lady looked annoyed; the gentleman, who had observed the girl’s excitement, asked:
“Were you ever at service before?”
“Oh, no!” said Mrs McIntyre, intending to serve Christie’s cause. “The family looked forward to something very different; but misfortunes and the death—”
She stopped, intending that her pause should be more impressive than words.
Other questions followed—Could she read and write? Could she sew? Had she ever been in the city before?—till Christie’s courage quite rose again. It ended in nothing, however, but a promise to let her know in a day or two what was decided.
In the silence that followed the closing of the streetdoor after them, Christie felt that Mrs McIntyre was not well pleased with the termination of the interview: and her first words proved it.
“You needna have been so sensitive,” she said. “It will be a long time before you get a place where everything will be to your mind. You needna expect every lady to speak to you as your own sisters would. I doubt you’ll hear no more from these people.”
But she was a good-natured and kind-hearted woman; and a glance at Christie’s miserable face stopped her.
“Never mind,” she added; “there are plenty of folk in the town will be glad to get a well-brought-up girl like you to attend to their children. But you must look cheerful, and no’ take umbrage at trifles.”
Christie could not answer her. So she walked along by her side, struggling, with a power which she felt was giving way rapidly, with the sobs that were scarcely suppressed. She struggled no longer than till she reached the little chamber where she and Annie had passed the night. The hours that she was suffered to remain there alone were passed in such an agony of grief and home-sickness as the poor child never suffered from before. She quite exhausted herself at last; and when Mrs McIntyre came to call her to dinner, she found her in a troubled sleep.
“Poor child!” she said, as she stood looking at her, “I fear we must send her home again. She is not like to do or to get much good here.”
But she darkened the room, and closed the door softly, and left her. When Christie awoke the afternoon was nearly gone. Her first feeling was one of utter wretchedness; but her sleep had rested and refreshed her, and her courage revived after she had risen and washed her face and put her dress in order. When she was ready to go down, she paused for a moment, her hand resting on the knob of the door.
“I might try it,” she murmured; and she fell on her knees by the bedside. It was only a word or two she uttered:
“O God, give me courage and patience, and help me to do right.”
Her tears fell fast for a moment; but her heart was lightened, and it was with a comparatively cheerful face that she presented herself in the little back parlour, where she found Mrs McIntyre taking tea with a friend.
“Oh, you are up, are you?” she said, kindly. “You looked so weary, I couldna bear to call you at dinnertime; but I kept your dinner for you. Here, Barbara; bring in the covered dish.” And she placed a seat for the girl between her and her friend.
Christie thanked her, and sat down, with an uncomfortable feeling that the friends had been discussing her before she had come in. And so it soon appeared. The conversation, which her entrance had interrupted, was soon resumed.
“You see, I don’t well know what his business is,” said the visitor. “But, at any rate, he doesn’t seem to have much to spend—at least in his family. His wife—poor lady!—has her own troubles. He’s seldom at home; and she has been the most of the time, till this illness, without more than one servant. When she’s better, I dare say she’ll do the same again. In the meantime, I have promised to look for one that might suit. The one she has leaves to-morrow. My month’s out too, then, and she’s to let me go; though how she’s to battle through, with that infant and all the other children, is more than I can tell.”
Mrs McIntyre shook her head.
“She would never do for the place. She doesna look strong; and the house is large, you say?”
“Far larger than they need. I said that to her, one day. But she said something about keeping up a certain appearance. She’s not one that a person can speak freely to, unless she likes. How old are you, my girl?” she suddenly asked, turning round to Christie.
“I was fourteen in June,” she replied; and turning to Mrs McIntyre, she asked, “Is it a place for me?”
Mrs McIntyre looked doubtful.
“It’s a place for some one; but I doubt it’s too hard a place for you.”
Christie sent a questioning look to the visitor, who said:
“Well, in some respects it’s a hard place. There is plenty to do; but Mrs Lee is a real gentlewoman, mindful of others, and kind and pleasant-spoken. I should know; for I have sick-nursed her twice, besides being there, now and again, when the children have been ill.”
“But think upon it. The only nurse, where there’s an infant and four other children as near each other as they can well be. She’s not fit for the like of that,” said Mrs McIntyre.
“The eldest is but seven,” said Mrs Greenly. “But, for that matter, Mrs Lee is nurse herself; and Nelly, the housemaid, is a kind-hearted girl. She might make a trial of it, anyway.”
“We’ll see what your sister says,” said Mrs McIntyre to Christie. “She’ll be round on the Sabbath. Or maybe you might go there and see her before that time.”
Mrs Greenly shook her head.
“But I doubt if I can wait for that. I must see the other girl this afternoon; and if she should suit the place there would be no more to be said. What do you think yourself, my girl?”
Christie had been too little accustomed to decide any matter for herself, to wish to decide this without first seeing her sister. So she only asked if Mrs Greenly passed near the street where Annie lived. Not very near, Mrs McIntyre said; but that need not interfere. Barbara should go with her there, if Mrs Greenly would consent to put off seeing the other girl till the next morning. Mrs McIntyre could not take the responsibility of advising Christie to accept the situation. It was better that her sister should decide. But Christie had decided in her own mind already. Any place would be better than none. But she needed Annie’s sanction that Effie might be satisfied—and, indeed, that she might be satisfied herself; for she had little self-reliance.
She saw Annie, who shrank from the thought of Christie’s having to trespass long on Mrs McIntyre’s hospitality; and Christie dwelt more on Mrs Greenly’s high praise of Mrs Lee than on the difficulties she might expect among so many children with insufficient help. So the next afternoon Christie and her little trunk were set down before the door of a high stone house in Saint — Street. She had to wait a while; for Mrs Greenly, the nurse, for whom she asked, was engaged for the time; but by and by she was taken up-stairs, and into a room where a lady was sitting in the dress of an invalid, with an infant on her lap. She greeted Christie very kindly; but there was a look of disappointment on her face, the girl was sure.
“She seems very young, nurse, and not very strong,” she said.
“She is not far from fifteen, and she says she has good health. She has been very well brought up,” said Mrs Greenly, quickly, giving Christie a look she did not understand.
“How old are you?” asked Mrs Lee, seeming not to have heard the nurse.
“I was fourteen in June. I am very well now, and much stronger than I look. I will try and do my best.”
There was something in the lady’s face and voice that made Christie very anxious to stay.
“Have you ever been in a place before?” the lady asked again.
Christie shook her head; but Mrs Greenly took upon herself in reply.
“Dear, no! It’s only lately that her father died. There is a large family of them. The oldest sister is trying to keep the little ones together, Mrs McIntyre tells me; and two of the sisters have come to the city to take places. The elder one is at Mrs Vinton’s, in Beaver Hall.”
Remembering the consequences of such a communication on a former occasion, Christie trembled; but she was soon relieved.
“Poor child!” said the lady. “So you have never been from home before?”
“No, ma’am,” said Christie, eagerly. “But I was very glad to come. I was sorry to leave them all; but I wished to do my part. I will do my best for you and the children.”
“You needn’t fear that the children will learn anything wrong from her, ma’am,” she heard Mrs Greenly say. “She has been well brought up.”
But she heard no more; for the pattering of little feet on the stairs told of the approach of children. The door opened, and a little girl, six or seven years old, entered, followed by two little boys, who were younger. The girl went directly to her mother, and began stroking the baby’s face. The boys, looking defiantly at Mrs Greenly, as though to assure her that they would not submit to be sent away, took their stand behind their mother’s chair. The mother’s hand was gently laid on the little girl’s head.
“Where is Harry?” she asked.
“He’s asleep in Nelly’s clothes-basket. She said we were not to make a noise to wake him, so we came up here. Bridget has gone away.”
“Yes, I know. And has Letty been trying to amuse her brothers, to help mother?”
The child shook her head.
“Harry played with the clothes-pins, and then he fell asleep. And Tom and Neddie are both bad boys. They wouldn’t obey me. Won’t you let me take the baby now?”
“Baby’s asleep, and you mustn’t make a noise to wake her,” said the nurse, in an ominous whisper. “And your mother’s very tired, and must lie down and sleep too. And you are going, like a nice young lady, into the nursery, to see how quiet you can keep them.”
She laid her hand on the child’s arm as she spoke; but it was shaken off abruptly, and the pretty face gathered itself into a frown. Her mother’s hand was laid on her lips.
“Mother,” entreated the child, “I will be so good if you will let me stay. There’s nothing to do in the nursery, and I’m so tired of staying there!”
“But your brothers,” said Mrs Greenly. “They won’t stay without you, and your mother will be worse if she don’t get rest. Indeed, ma’am, you are quite flushed already,” said she, looking at Mrs Lee; “quite feverish. You are no more fit to be left than you were a fortnight ago. You must have rest. The children must go.”
“Let us go to the yard, then,” pleaded one of them.
“It has been raining. Neddie must not go out,” said the weary mother. “Is not my little daughter going to be good?” she pleaded.
“Oh, do let me stay. I will be so good. Send the boys away to Nelly in the kitchen, and let me stay with you.”
On a table near the bed stood a tray, with several vials and glasses on it. At this moment the whole was put in jeopardy by the enterprising spirit of little Tom, who was determined to make himself acquainted with their various contents. Neddie was endeavouring to raise himself to the window-seat, using the curtains as a ladder to assist his ascent. There was a fair prospect of confusion enough.
“This will never do,” said the nurse, hastily, as she removed the tray and its contents, and reached the window just in time to save the wilful Neddie from a fall. “Do you know,” she added, suddenly changing her tone, “what Nelly brought from market to-day? Apples! They are in the side-board down-stairs. And here are the keys. Who would like one?”
The boys suspended their mischievous operations, and listened. Letty did not move.
“Let me stay,” she whispered.
“Come, Miss Letty, like a good child. Your mother must sleep, or she will be ill, and the baby too. Come! I know what your quietness is—fidgeting about like a mouse. Your mother would have a better chance to sleep with all the boys about her. Come away.”
“Go, Letty; go with nurse. Be a good child,” pleaded her mother, on whose cheek a bright colour was flickering. “My darling would not make mamma ill, and baby sister too?”
“Nurse, try me this once. I will be so quiet.”
But nurse was not to be entreated; and the reluctant child was half led, half dragged from the room, screaming and resisting. Her mother looked after her, weary and helpless, and the baby on her lap sent up a whimpering cry. Mrs Lee leaned back on her chair, and pressed her hands over her eyes.
Christie rose.
“Will you trust me with the baby? I will be very careful.”
The lady started; she had quite forgotten her. Christie stooped over the baby with eager interest.
“Are you fond of children?” asked Mrs Lee.
“I love my brother and my little sisters. I have never been with other children.” There were tears in Christie’s eyes as she raised them to look in Mrs Lee’s face, called forth quite as much by the gentle tones of her voice as by the thought of ‘the bairns’ at home.
“I am afraid you could do nothing for baby,” said Mrs Lee. “Nurse will be here presently. Perhaps you could amuse the children; but they miss me, and are fretful without me.”
“I will try,” said Christie, eagerly. “Are they fond of stories? I am very good at telling stories. Or I can read to them. I will do my best.”
She went down-stairs, and guided by the sound of children’s voices, entered the dining-room. The little girl had thrown herself on the sofa, where she was sobbing with mingled grief and rage. The boys, on the contrary, were enjoying the prospect of eating the apples which Mrs Greenly was paring for them.
“The baby is crying. The lady wants you. She says I am to try and amuse the children,” said Christie.
“Well, I wish you joy of your work,” said Mrs Greenly, whose temper was a little ruffled by her encounter with Miss Letty. “For my part, I have no patience with children who don’t care whether their mother gets better or not. Children should love their parents and obey them.”
“I do love my mamma!” cried Letty, passionately, between her sobs. “Go away, naughty nurse!”
“I’m just going, my dear,” said the nurse. “And mind, my girl,” she added, to Christie, “these children are to be kept here, and they are to be kept quiet too. Mrs Lee’s wearied out of her very life with their noise. That useless Bridget was just as good as nobody with them.”
So she went up-stairs, and Christie was left to manage with the children as best she might. While the apples lasted there was little to be said. Letty did not heed hers, though it lay on the sofa, within reach of her hand, till Tom made some advances in that direction. Then it was seized and hidden quickly, and Tom’s advances sharply repelled. Tom turned away with a better grace than might have been expected, and addressed himself to Christie.
“Are you Bridget?” he asked.
“No,” she said, gravely; “I’m Christie.”
“Are you going to stay here?”
“Would you like me to stay?”
“No,” said the boy; “I wouldn’t. I like my mamma to dress me. Biddy brushes too hard.”
“But I am Christie. I’ll brush very gently till your mother gets better again. Wouldn’t you like me to stay? My home is very far-away.”
“How far?” asked Neddie, coming forward and standing beside his brother.
“Oh, ever so far—over the river, and over the hills, and past the woods; away—away—away down in a little hollow by the brook.”
The children looked at her with astonished eyes. She went on:
“There are birds’-nests there, and little birds that sing. Oh, you should hear how they sing! And there are little lambs that play all day long among the clover. And there are dandelions and buttercups, and oh! I can’t tell you how many pretty flowers besides. Whose dog is that?” she asked, suddenly, pointing to a picture on the wall.
“It’s my mamma’s,” said Neddie.
“Is it? He’s a very pretty dog. What’s his name?”
“He hasn’t got any name. He’s a picture,” said Tom.
“Oh, yes; he has a name. His name is—Rover. Is not that a pretty name? Come and sit down by the window, and I will tell you a story about a dog named Rover. You like stories, don’t you?”
They came slowly forward and stood beside her.
“Well, Neddie,” she said to Tom. “Are you Neddie?”
“No; I’m Tom. That’s Neddie.”
“Oh! that’s Neddie, is it? Well, Tom and Neddie, I’m going to tell you a story about Rover. Only we must speak low, and not disturb your mamma and baby sister. What’s the baby’s name, I wonder?”
“It’s baby,” said Neddie.
“Yes; but she must have another name besides baby.”
“No, she hasn’t,” said Tom.
“Her name’s going to be Catharine Ellinor,” said Letty, forgetting her trouble for a moment. “That’s grandmamma’s name.”
“Oh, that’s a very pretty name!” said Christie. “She’s a dear baby, I am sure.” But Letty had no more to say.
“Tell us about Rover,” said Tom.
“Oh, yes! I must tell you about Rover. ‘Once upon a time—’” And then came the story. Never did dog meet with such wonderful adventures before, and never was a story listened to with greater delight. Even Letty forgot her vexation, and listened eagerly. In the midst of it Nelly entered, carrying little Harry in her arms. At the sight of him every trace of ill-humour vanished from Letty’s face. Running to meet them she clasped her arms round her little brother.
“Where are his shoes, Nelly?” she said, stooping to kiss his rosy little feet.
“What a sweet child!” exclaimed Christie. “I hope he won’t be afraid of me.”
He was very lovely, with his flushed cheeks and tangled curls, and not in the least afraid of anything in the world. He looked out of his bright blue eyes as frankly and fearlessly at Christie as if she had been his nurse all his life. She placed him on her knee while Letty tied his shoes.
“Are you to be nurse?” asked her fellow-servant Nelly.
“I don’t know. I would like the place,” said Christie.
“You’ll have your hands full,” said Nelly, emphatically. Christie had nothing to say to this; and the boys became clamorous for the rest of the story.
In the meantime, the October sunshine, though it was neither very warm nor very bright, had dried up the rain-drops on the paved court behind the house, and Mrs Greenly, showing her face for a moment at the dining-room door, told Christie she might wrap the children up and take them out for a little time. With Nelly’s help, the wrapping up was soon accomplished. The yard was not a very pleasant place. It was surrounded by a high wall, and at the foot of the enclosure was a little strip which had been cultivated. There were a few pale pansies and blackened dahlia-stalks lingering yet. In two corners stood a ragged and dusty fir-tree; and all the rest of the yard was laid over with boards.
“The children are not to sit down, for they would take cold,” called out Mrs Greenly from an upper window. In a little while Christie had them all engaged in a merry game, and greatly were they delighted with it. Some tokens of disorder and riot were given by Tom and Letty; but on the whole the peace was kept. Their enjoyment was complete, and it was a merry and hungry group that obeyed Nelly’s summons to the tea-table.
Christie’s first afternoon was a decided success. There was nothing more said about her staying. She fell very naturally into her place in the nursery, and she and the little people there soon became very fond of each other. It was a busy life, and so far a pleasant one. When her position and duties were no longer new to her, she accommodated herself to them with an ease which would have surprised Aunt Elsie, and even Effie, who had a higher opinion of Christie’s powers than her aunt had. She was very earnest and conscientious in all she did, and Mrs Lee soon trusted her entirely. She must have left the children much to her care, even though she had less confidence in her; for she did not gain strength very fast. The baby was a fragile little creature, and rarely, night or day, during the first three months of her life, was her mother’s care withdrawn from her. So the other children were quite dependent on their young nurse for oversight as well as for amusement; and considering all things, she did very well, for she tried to do everything as in the sight and fear of God.