Christie Redfern's Troubles

by Margaret M. Robertson

“How tall you have grown, Christie!” was Effie’s first exclamation, when she had let her sister go. “But you are not very strong yet, I am afraid; you are very slender, and you have no colour, child.”

“I am very well, Effie. You know I was always a ‘white-faced thing,’ as Aunt Elsie used to say. But you— John was right. You are bonnier than ever.”

Effie laughed a little, but she looked grave enough in a minute.

“Are you lame still, Christie? I thought you were better of that.”

“Oh, it is nothing, Effie. It is not the old lameness that used to trouble me. I fell on the stairs the other day, and hurt my knee a little, that is all. It is almost well now.”

I could never tell of all the happy talk that passed between the sisters during those two days, and if I could it would not interest my readers as it interested them. Indeed, I dare say some of it would seem foolish enough to them. But it was all very pleasant to Christie. Every incident in their home life, everything that had taken place in their neighbourhood since her departure, was fraught with interest to her. She listened with delight to the detailed account of circumstances at which Effie in her letters had only been able to hint; she asked questions innumerable, and praised or blamed with an eagerness that could not have been more intense had all these things been taking place under her eyes.

The sunny side of their home life was presented to Christie, you may be sure. The straits to which they had sometimes been reduced were passed lightly over, while the signs of brighter days, which seemed to be dawning upon them, were made the most of by Effie’s hopeful spirit. The kindness of one friend, and the considerateness of another in the time of trouble, were dwelt on more earnestly than the straits that had proved them. “God had been very good to them,” Effie said many times; and Christie echoed it with thankfulness. Nor is it to be supposed that Effie listened with less interest to all that Christie had to tell, or that she found less cause for gratitude.

At first she had much to say about Miss Gertrude and the little boys, and of her pleasant life since she had been with them. But by little and little Effie led her to speak of her first months in the city, and of her trials and pleasures with the little Lees. She did not need much questioning when she was fairly started. She told of her home-sickness at first, her longings for them all, her struggles with herself, and her vexing thoughts about being dependent upon Aunt Elsie. Of the last she spoke humbly, penitently, as though she expected her sister to chide her for her waywardness.

But Effie had no thought of chiding her. As she went on to tell of Mrs Lee’s illness and of her many cares with the children, she quite unconsciously revealed to her interested listener the history of her own energy and patience—of all that she had done and borne during these long months.

Of Mrs Lee’s kindness she could not speak without tears. Even the story of little Harry’s death did not take Christie’s voice away as did the remembrance of her parting with his mother.