"It aint when you come up to it," said nurse. "I'm sixty-five, and I don't count myself such an old woman. It's wonderful what a different view you take of sixty when you are, so to speak, nigh to it."
Christian did not find this an interesting subject. She said after a moment:
"Was granny like me—in appearance, I mean?"
"Well, now, darling, sometimes it has come over me that you have got her build; but you being young and she old, it's difficult to say. Still, I own that you have got her build."
"Father thinks that perhaps I have got her spirit."
"God be thanked if that is so, Miss Christian. It was her wish that you should be called Christian. It was her own name; she inherited it from the Quakers. Her grandfather was a Quaker, and a very strict one; and her mother was called Christian, and then you were, darling. She thought a sight of the name. She said the one thing that fretted her in not having a daughter of her own was not being able to call her Christian."
"Was she fond of me when I came?" asked Christian.
"Yes; she'd often take you in her arms and kiss you, and say that she hoped the spirit of her grandfather, Quaker Joseph Bunn, would descend upon you. But there! you aint to be stopping up any more, so up to bed you go."
Christian went to bed. She felt very thoughtful. Her conscience did not prick her at the thought of running away. She was still firmly convinced that even her father, who had seemed much nicer than usual to-night, would not mind when once she was out of sight.
"'Out of sight, out of mind' with father and mother," thought the little girl. "And I could never, never live in a strict-discipline school."