“Oh, if you only could!” cried Christie, eagerly.
Effie shook her head. “I can do more good to all by being away. And my wages have been raised. I couldna leave just now. Oh, I dare say we shall do very well. But, Christie, you must not fret and be discontented, and think what you do is not worth while. It is the motive that makes the work of any one’s life great or small. It is little matter, in one sense, whether it be teaching children, or washing dishes, or ruling a kingdom, if it is done in the right way and from right principles. I have read, somewhere, that the daily life of a poor unknown child, who, striving against sin, does meekly and cheerfully what is given him to do, may be more acceptable in the sight of God than the suffering of some whom their fellow-men crown as martyrs. If we could only forget ourselves and live for others!” She sighed as she rose to go. “But come, child: we must hurry home now.”
Christie had no words with which to answer her. She rose and followed in silence. “If we could forget ourselves and live for others!” she murmured. That was not her way, surely. Every day, and every hour of the day, it was herself she thought of. Either she was murmuring over her grievances, or pitying herself for them, or she was dreaming vain dreams of a future that should have nothing to vex or annoy. Her life’s work was worth little, indeed, judging it by Effie’s standard. She did all that she did, merely because she could not help it. As to forgetting herself and thinking of others—
But who did so? No one that she knew, unless, perhaps, Effie herself. And Effie had a great many things to make her life pleasant, she thought. Perhaps her father? But then, her father did what he did for his children. All fathers did the same, she supposed. No; she doubted whether any one came near Effie’s idea of what life should be. It would be a very different world indeed if all did so.
They were quite close to the house before Christie got thus far; and a glimpse of her father’s careworn face filled her with something like self-reproach.
“I wish I could do him some good! But what can I do? He has never been the same since mother died. Nobody has been the same since that—except Effie; and she is better and kinder every day. Oh, I wish I could be like her! but it’s of no use wishing;—I can never be like her. Oh, how tired I am!”
She started at the sound of Aunt Elsie’s voice asking, rather sharply, what had kept them so long. She turned away, impatient of the question, and impatient of the cheerful answer with which Effie sought to turn aside her aunt’s displeasure. She was impatient of Annie’s regrets that their long delay had spoiled their supper, and of Sarah’s questions as to who had been at the kirk, and answered them both shortly. She was impatient of the suppressed noise of the little ones, and vexed at her own impatience more than all.
“I dinna think your going to the kirk has done you much good. What ails you, Christie? One would think you had the sins of a nation to answer for, by your face.”
“Whisht, Annie,” interposed Effie. “Christie’s tired, and her head aches, I’m sure. Dinna vex her—poor thing!”
“Well, if she would only say that, and no’ look so glum!” said Annie, laughing, as she set aside the bowl of milk intended for Christie’s supper. In a moment she returned with a cup of tea, and placed it where the bowl had stood. “There!” she said; “that will do your head good, and your temper too, I hope. I’m sure you look as though you needed it.”