Effie said nothing, but gently stroked her hair with her hand. The gentle touch was more than Christie could bear, at the moment.
“Effie, don’t!” she cried, vainly struggling to repress another gush of tears. In a little while she grew quiet, and said, “I know I’m very foolish, Effie; but I canna help it.”
“Never mind,” said Effie, cheerfully; for she knew by the sound of her voice that her tears were over for this time. “A little shower sometimes clears the sky; and now the sun will shine again.”
She stooped down, and dipping her own handkerchief in the brook, gave it to her sister to bathe her hot cheeks; and soon she asked, gravely:
“What is it, Christie?”
“It’s nothing,” said Christie, eagerly. “Nothing more than usual. I’m tired, that’s all,—and you are going away,—and it will be just the same thing every day till you come back,—going to bed tired, and getting up tired, and doing the same thing over and over again to very little purpose. I’m sure I canna see the good of it all.”
Effie could not but smile at her words and manner.
“Well, I suppose that will be the way with every one, mostly. I’m sure it will be the way with me. Except the getting up tired,” she added, laughing. “I’m glad to say I don’t very often do that. I’m afraid my life is not to much purpose either, though I do wish it to be useful,” she continued, more gravely.
“Oh, well, it’s very different with you!” said Christie, in a tone that her sister never liked to hear.
She did not reply for a moment. Then she said: