“Buttercups are not great favourites with us at home,” she said. “They generally grow best on poor, worn-out land.”
“They are the very first I have seen this summer,” said Christie, with moist eyes.
They were all silent a little while.
“We were just speaking about you when you came in,” said she to Miss Gertrude.
“Were you? Well, I hope you dealt gently with my faults?” she said, blushing a little as she noticed the glance which passed between the sisters.
“We had not got to your faults,” said Christie.
“Well, you must be merciful when you do. See, Christie, I have got something else for you,” she added, as she drew out a little book bound in blue and gold. “I thought of you when I read this. There is a good deal in the book you would not care about, but you will like this.” And she read:
“Of all the thoughts of God that are Borne inward unto souls afar Along the Psalmist’s music deep, Now, tell me if that any is, For gift or grace, surpassing this—? He giveth His beloved sleep.”
And so on to the end. “Do you like it?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Christie. But her eyes said much more than that.