“I am very glad I came,” was all that Christie replied, but in a little while she added, “John, I think, on the whole, you may as well take all the things home with you, if you can. The sooner they get them the better; and something may happen to hinder me.”
“Christie,” said John, gravely, “Effie has set her heart on your coming home this summer. It would grieve her sorely to be disappointed. You are not going to disappoint her?”
“I don’t know,” said Christie, slowly. “I’m sure Effie would rather I should do what is right than what is pleasant.”
“But you are not well, Christie. You are not strong enough to live as you have been living—at least, without a rest. It would grieve Effie to see how pale and thin you are.”
“I am not very strong, I know, but I shall have an easier time now; and if Mrs Lee should take the children to the country or the sea-side, I should be better. I am sure I wish to do what is right. It is not that I don’t wish to go home.”
Christie’s voice suddenly failed her.
“It seems like a punishment to me,” she added, “a judgment, almost. You don’t know—Effie dinna ken even—how many wrong feelings I had about coming away. I thought nothing could be so bad as to have to depend on Aunt Elsie, and now—” Something very like a sob stopped her utterance.
“Whisht, Christie!” said John. “God does not send trouble on His people merely to punish; it is to do them good. You must take a more comforting view of this trouble. I am afraid the pleasure of the day is spoiled.”
“No! oh, no!” said Christie eagerly. “Nobody could do that. There are some pleasures that canna be spoiled. And besides, I am not going to vex myself. It will all come right in the end, I am quite sure. Only just at first—”
“Thou shalt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee, because he trusteth in Thee,” whispered John.