As for Christie, she was very patient and forbearing with her, waiting till her unkind moods were over, not answering her at all, or waiting and watching for an opportunity to win her from an indulgence of her spleen. Sometimes she succeeded, sometimes her gentleness served to irritate the wayward girl to sharper words or greater coldness. But save by silence, or a look of grieved surprise, her unkindness was never resented.
A half perception of how it was with the young lady helped her greatly to endure her petulance. She longed to help her, but she did not know how to do so by words. So she prayed for her and had patience with her, saying to herself, if Miss Gertrude was in earnest to do right, God would guide her to Himself in time.
“Do you know you speak to me just as you speak to Claude when he is fretful and naughty,” said Gertrude one day, when she had been more than usually irritable and unhappy.
“Do I?” said Christie, looking up, gravely; but she smiled brightly enough when she saw by Gertrude’s face that the cloud was passing away for this time.
“Yes. If you would pat me gently, and smooth my hair, and offer to tell me a story, the illusion would be complete. Why don’t you tell me to take myself and my books down-stairs? I am sure you must be sick of the sight of me.”
Christie laughed, and shook her head.
“Come, now, confess that you were just saying to yourself, How cross and unreasonable she has been all day!”
“No; I was wondering what could be vexing you, and wishing I could help you in some way.”
“There is nothing vexing me that you can help. It is just my nature to be cross and disagreeable. I don’t suppose there’s any help for that.”
Christie laughed quite merrily now.