“Do you think Aunt Elsie would take the money if the farm was sold?” asked Christie, again.
“As to that, it has been partly hers all along. When the farm was bought, my father gave Aunt Elsie a mortgage, or something—I don’t understand exactly what—but it was as a security that her money was to be safe to her. If we had been able to carry on the farm, there would have been little difference; though there are some other debts too.”
“And if we leave the farm, where can we go?” asked Christie.
“I don’t know; I lose myself thinking about it. But God will provide. I am not really afraid, when I have time to consider. The bairns must be kept together in some way. We must trust till the way is opened before us.”
But there was something very unlike Effie’s usual cheerfulness in her way of speaking. Christie could plainly see that. But she mistook the cause.
“Effie,” she said, after a little pause, “it winna be very pleasant to think that we are depending on Aunt Elsie. I dinna wonder that you sigh.”
“Whisht, Christie! It’s not that, child. I don’t think you are quite just to Aunt Elsie. She has done much, and given up much, for us since mother died. Her way is not ay pleasant; but I think she would be easier to deal with as the giver than as the receiver. I mean, I shall be very glad if it can be arranged that she shall have her income again. But we won’t speak more of these things to-night, dear. We only vex ourselves; and that can do no good.”
But Effie did not cease to vex herself when she ceased to speak, if Christie might judge from the sighs that frequently escaped her. Just as she was dropping to sleep, her sister’s voice aroused her.
“Christie,” she said, “you are not to say anything to any one about—about John Nesbitt’s wanting me to come here. Of course it’s impossible; and it mustna be spoken about.”
“I couldna help hearing, Effie.”