“Well, I think you have had enough just for to-day, what with the boys and with me. But if you were not always patient and good, what changed you? What did you do to yourself? Tell me about it, as Claude would say.”
“Oh, I don’t know what I could tell,” said Christie, in some embarrassment. “I only mind what a peevish, good-for-nothing little creature I was. The others could have had little pleasure with me, only they were strong and good-tempered and didn’t mind. Even to Effie I must have been a vexation; but mother gave me to her care when she died, and so she had patience with me. I was never well, and my mother spoiled me, they said. I’m sure it was a sad enough world to me when she died. And then my aunt came to live with us, and she was so different. And by and by we came to Canada, and then everything was changed. I mind, sometimes, if a body only looked at me I was in a pet. I was not well, for one thing, and I used to fancy that my aunt liked me less and had less patience with me than with the rest; and no wonder, when I think of it. Effie was good and kind to me always, though I must have tried her many a time.”
“Well,” said Miss Gertrude, “but you don’t tell me what changed you.”
“Well, I can’t tell. I believe I was never quite so bad after the time Effie gave me my Bible.” And she gave Miss Gertrude the history of the miserable day with which our story commenced—of her trying to pray under the birch-tree by the brook, of Effie’s coming home with the book-man, and of their walk to the kirk and the long talk they had together.
“And it was soon after that that my father was hurt and my aunt grew ill again. We had a very sorrowful winter. But there is one good thing in having real trouble to bear; one doesn’t fret so much about little things, or about nothing at all, as I used to do. I think that winter was really happier to me than any time I had had since my mother’s death. I was with my father a great deal towards the end; and though he was so ill and suffered so much, he was very kind and patient with me.”
There was a long pause before Christie could go on again, and she rather hurried over the rest of her tale.
“After he died we left the farm. I came here with Annie. I was very home-sick at first. Nothing but that I couldn’t bear to go home and depend on Aunt Elsie kept me here. I thought sometimes I must die of that heart-sickness, and besides, I made myself unhappy with wrong thoughts. In the spring Annie went away. I couldn’t go, because Mrs Lee and the children were ill; you mind I told you about that. I was unhappy at first; but afterwards I was not, and I never was again—in the same way, I mean.”
The work she had been busy upon dropped from her hands, and over her face stole the look of peace and sweet content that Gertrude had so often wondered at. For a little while she sat quite still, forgetting, it seemed, that she was not alone; and then Gertrude said, softly.
“Well, and what then?”
Christie drew a long breath as she took up her work.