“Thou art somewhat like me, little Christie, for though I have one sister, I also have no mother.”
“Do you miss her, Mistress?” asked Christie, struck by the pathos of Pandora’s tone.
“Oh, so much!” The girl’s eyes filled with tears.
“I can’t remember my mother,” said Christie simply. “She was good, everybody says; but I can’t recollect her a whit. I was only a baby when she went to Heaven, to live with the Lord Jesus.”
“Ah, but I do remember mine,” was Pandora’s answer. “My sister was thirteen, and I was eleven, when our mother died; and I fretted so much for her, they were feared I might go into a waste, and I was sent away for five years, to dwell with my grandmother, well-nigh all the length of England off. I have but now come home. So thou seest I can feel sorry for lonesome folks, little Christie.”
Christie’s face flushed slightly, and an eager, wistful look came into her eyes. She was nerving herself to make a confession that she had never made before, even to her father or her Aunt Alice. She did not pause to ask herself why she should choose Pandora as its recipient; she only felt it possible to say it to the one, and too hard to utter it to the others.
“It isn’t only lonesomeness, and that isn’t the worst, either. But everybody says that folks that love God ought to work for Him, and I can’t do any work. It doth Him no good that I should work in coloured silks and wools, and the like; and I can’t do nothing else: so I can’t work for God. I would I could do something. I wouldn’t care how hard it was. Justine—that’s one of my cousins—grumbles because she says her work is so hard; but if I could work, I wouldn’t grumble, however hard it was—if only it were work for God.”
“Little Christie,” said Pandora softly, stroking the fair hair, “shall I tell thee a secret?”
“If it please you, Mistress.” The answer did not come with any eagerness; Christie thought the confession, which had cost her something, was to be shelved as a matter of no interest, and her disappointment showed itself in her face.
Pandora smiled. “When I was about thy years, Christie, one day as I came downstairs, I made a false step, and slid down to the bottom of the flight. It was not very far—maybe an half-dozen steps or more: but I fell with my ankle doubled under me, and for nigh a fortnight I could not walk for the pain. I had to lie all day on a day-bed; and though divers young folks were in the house, and many sports going, I could not share in any, but lay there and fretted me o’er my misfortune. I was not patient; I was very impatient. But there was in the house a good man, a friend of my grandmother, that came one even into the parlour where I lay, and found me in tears. He asked me no questions. He did but lay his hand upon my brow as I lay there with my kerchief to mine eyes, and quoth he, ‘My child, to do the work of God is to do His will.’ Hast thou yet learned my lesson, Christie?”