“You know yourself, Christie, when you get a book that interests you, you are apt to neglect other things for the pleasure of reading it. Almost always Aunt Elsie has to find fault with you for it.”
“Aunt Elsie always finds fault with me!” sighed Christie.
“But you give her reason to find fault with you when you neglect your duties for such reading, as you must confess you do; even to-day, you know.”
“I believe it grieves Aunt Elsie’s heart to see me taking pleasure in anything,” said Christie, turning round passionately. “She never heeds when Annie or Sarah takes a book; but if I look the way of one, she’s at me. I believe she would be glad if there was no such thing as a book in the house.”
“Hush, Christie! You are wrong to speak in that way. It is not true what you are saying. Aunt Elsie is fond of reading; and if she doesna object to Annie and Sarah taking a book, it is because they don’t very often do so. They never neglect their work for reading, as you too often do.”
All this was true, as Christie’s conscience told her; but she was by no means willing to confess as much; so she turned away her face, and said, pettishly:
“Oh, well, I hear all that often enough. There’s no use in saying anything more about it.”
Effie rose, and went to the other side of the room. When she returned, she carried something wrapped in paper in her hand.
“Look, Christie; I brought you a book—a better book than ‘The Scottish Chiefs.’ Turn round and look at it.”
Slowly Christie raised herself up and turned round. She was ashamed of her petulance by this time. Something shone in the light of the candle which Effie held.