If there had been ten Aunt Barbaras in the room, Christie could not have restrained the expression of surprise and pleasure that rose to her lips at the sight of Effie’s familiar handwriting, and her hands quite trembled as she took it from the little boy.
“Now, Claudie,” said the young lady, coming forward, “it is time for you to go with Christie. Say ‘good-night’ to father and Aunt Barbara.”
For a single moment the look of peevish resistance that used to come so often to the child’s face passed over it, but it changed as Christie stooped down, saying softly:
“Will you walk? or shall I carry you, as they carried the little boy home from the field?”
“And will you tell me more?” he asked, holding out his hand.
“Oh, yes; and how glad his mother was when he grew better again. Now walk a little bit, and I will carry you up-stairs. The doctor says he ought to be encouraged to walk,” she said to his father, as she set him down.
The child bade them “good-night” quite willingly, and went.
“Clement, stay with me,” said his sister. “Christie will not get much good of her letter for the next two hours, if you are with her.”
Clement was very willing to stay. But for all that Christie did not get much good of her letter for an hour and more, except the good it did her to hold it in her hand, and feeling the delight that was in store for her. Miss Gertrude came to the green room some time after, to find her still rocking and singing to the wakeful Claude.
“You don’t mean you haven’t read your letter yet?” she said, in astonishment.