Effie shook her head.
“I didna bring it, Christie.”
Poor little Christie! She laid herself back on her pillow without a word. The disappointment was a very bitter one; and she turned her face away, that her sister might not see the tears that were gushing from her eyes. She had all the week been looking forward to the pleasure of having a book—“The Scottish Chiefs”—a stolen glance or two of which had excited her interest to the highest degree; and the disappointment was great. But that it should have failed to come on this particular night was harder still to bear.
“If God only hears half our prayers, and that the half we care least about, what is the use of praying at all? Oh, dear! I thought I had found something at last!”
“Christie,” said her sister, laying her hand on her shoulder, “why are you crying in that way? Surely you have had tears enough for once? What ails you, child? Speak to me, Christie.”
“Oh, you might have brought it!” she exclaimed, through her sobs. “You almost promised.”
“No, Christie, I didna promise. I didna forget it. But I am afraid—indeed, I am sure—that the reading of the book would do you no good, but harm; and so I didna bring it to you. You are wrong to be so vexed about it.”
“Is it a bad book?” asked Christie.
“I am not sure that it is a bad book. But I think it might do you harm to read it. I am afraid your imagination is too full of such things already.”
This had been said to her in far sharper words many a time before; and Christie made no answer.