“I wouldn’t have anything changed now. It has all happened just in the best way; and this quiet time will do you good too, dear.”
“I pray God it may!” said Effie, letting both tears and kisses fall upon her sister’s face.
“And you must tell Annie and Sarah and the bairns that they must be sure to come to us—our father and mother and me, and to Jesus—the Mediator—of the new covenant,” she slowly said; and overcome with weariness, she sank into a quiet sleep.
Christie grew weaker every day. She did not suffer much, and slept most of the time. Sometimes she was feverish and restless, and then Effie used to fancy that her mind wandered. At such times she would tell of things that happened long ago, and speak to Effie as she might have spoken to her mother during her childish illnesses, begging to be taken into her arms and rocked to sleep.
But almost always she knew her sister, even when she had forgotten where she was. Once she said there was just one place in the world where she could rest, and begged to be laid on the sofa in Mrs Nesbitt’s parlour at home. Often she begged her to let her dip her hands in the burn to cool them, or to take her where it was pleasant and cool, under the shadow of the birch-tree in the pasture at home. But a single word from Effie was always enough to soothe her, and to call up the loving smile.
Christmas came and went, and the last day of the old year found her still waiting, but with many a token that the close was drawing near. Gertrude came that day, and lingered long beside her, awed by the strange mysterious change that was beginning to show itself on her face. Christie did not notice her as she came in, and even Effie only silently held out her hand to her as she drew near.
“She will never speak again,” said the nurse, who had been watching her for several minutes.
All pain, all restlessness, seemed past. Effie, bending over her, could only now and then moisten her parched lips and wipe the damp from her forehead. Poor Effie! she saw the hour was at hand, but she was very calm. “She has not spoken since daybreak,” she said, softly. “I am afraid she will never speak again.” But she did.
After a brief but quiet sleep she opened her eyes. Gertrude knew that she was recognised. Stooping down to catch the broken words that came from her parched lips, she distinctly heard:
“I was sure always—from the very first—that God would bless you. And now—though I am going to die—you will do all for Christ—that I would like to have done.”