“It was Jesus who said that—Jesus, who opened the eyes of the blind man. And He loved us and died for us. I love Him dearly, Tudie.”
The girls looked at each other for a moment. Then Christie kissed his little white hands, and Gertrude kissed his lips and his shining hair, but neither of them spoke a word.
“Now, Tudie, come and sing to Christie and me,” said the child, slipping from her lap, and taking her hand.
“Yes; I will sing till you are weary.” And as she led him down-stairs and through the hall, her voice rose clear as a bird’s, and her painful thoughts were banished for that time.
But they came back again more frequently and pressed more heavily as the winter passed away. She put a restraint on herself, as far as Christie and her little brothers were concerned. When she felt unhappy or irritable, she stayed away from the upper nursery. She would not trouble Christie any more with her naughtiness, she said to herself; so at such times she would shut herself in her room, or go out with her mother or Miss Atherton to drive or pay visits, so as to chase her vexing thoughts away. But they always came back again. She grew silent and grave, caring little for her studies or her music, or for any of the thousand employments that usually fill up the time of young people.
Even Clement was permitted to escape from the discipline of lessons to which he had been for some time condemned during at least one of Miss Gertrude’s morning hours. She no longer manifested the pride in his progress and in his discipline and obedience which had for some time been a source of amusement and interest to the elder members of the family. Master Clement was left to lord it over Martha in the lower nursery as he had not been permitted to do since his mother’s visit to the sea-side.
“What ails you, Gertrude?” said Mrs Seaton, one Sabbath afternoon. “Are you not well? What are you thinking about? I declare, you look as if you had not a friend in the world!”
Gertrude was sitting with her chin leaning on her hand and her eyes fixed on the grey clouds that seemed to press close down on the tops of the snow-laden trees above the lawn. It was already growing dark, and the dreariness of the scene without was reflected on the girl’s face. She started at the sound of her mother’s voice.
“I am quite well,” she said, coming towards the fire, slightly shivering, “but somehow I feel stupid; I suppose just because it is Sunday.”
“That is not a very good reason, I should think,” said Mrs Seaton, gravely. “What were you thinking about?”