“Your sister is a very pretty writer, is she not?” she asked.
“Yes, she writes very plain and even. Her writing is easily read.” But Christie did not offer to show her the letter, as Miss Gertrude half hoped she would. It was not altogether for the gratification of her curiosity, nor chiefly for that, she wanted to see it. Though her companion was sitting there, with her cheek leaning on her hand, so gravely and so quietly, she knew that her heart was by no means so quiet as her outward appearance seemed to indicate. She saw that it was ready to overflow with emotion of some kind—happiness, Miss Gertrude thought, but was not sure.
But it could not be all happiness. Christie must be longing for the sight of the sister whose written words could call forth such tears as she had seen falling even now. And she wished to be able to sympathise with her, to say some word that would establish confidence between them. Besides, she had a feeling that she ought to atone for her petulance in the morning. At any rate, she wanted to be sure that Christie did not resent it.
But Christie said nothing. She sat quite still, and her thoughts were far-away. When she roused herself, it was not to speak, but to take up her little Bible, that lay within reach of her hand.
“How fond you seem to be of that book!” said Miss Gertrude, as she watched her turning over the leaves.
“Yes,” said Christie, quietly. “Effie gave it to me.”
“Are you going to read now?”
“I was looking for something that Effie wrote about. I can’t mind the exact words, and I am not sure where to find them.” And she still turned over the leaves.
“Have you found it?” said Miss Gertrude, when she paused.
“Yes; I have found it. Here it is. ‘And whosoever shall give to drink unto one of these little ones a cup of cold water only, in the name of a disciple, shall in no wise lose his reward.’”