“But how?” asked Christie, wondering.
“I hardly know. But you know, Christie, Aunt Elsie is not like other people—mean; it would make her more unhappy to feel that she was dependent than it would make most people. And we must, in some way, manage to do as father wished. If he had lived, it would have been different. She doesna think that I know about it. She didna see father’s letter.”
“Then the farm will be Aunt Elsie’s?” said Christie.
“Yes; and if we could manage it well, we might live on as we have been living; but I am afraid we canna.”
Christie had her own thoughts about all living on Aunt Elsie’s farm; but she said nothing.
“I suppose we shall have to let the farm, or sell it, and get the money invested, in some way, for Aunt Elsie.”
“And what then?” asked Christie, in a suppressed tone.
“I am sure I canna tell,” said Effie; and the tone of her voice betrayed more anxiety than her words did. “Not that there is any great cause for anxiety,” she added. “There is always work to do for those who are willing; and we’ll try and keep together till the bairns are grown up.”
“Will Aunt Elsie go home to Scotland, do you think, Effie?” asked Christie.
“Oh, no! I don’t think she will. She doesna like this country altogether, I know; but now that she has grown so helpless, she will not care to go back. She has no very near friends there now.”