The last night, when all the others had gone to bed, and Effie was doing some household work below, Christie slipped down-stairs again.
“Effie,” she said, eagerly, “do not take my going away so much to heart. I am sure it is for the best, and I shall grieve if you grieve. Do think that it’s right.”
“You foolish lassie! Did you come down-stairs with bare feet to tell me that? How cold your hands are! Come and sit down by the fire. I want to speak to you.”
Christie sat down, as she was bidden, but it was a long time before Effie spoke—so long that Christie said at last:
“What is it, Effie?”
Her sister started. “I have nothing to say but what I have said before, Christie. You are not to stay if you don’t like. You are not to let any thought of any one or anything at home keep you, unless you are quite content and quite strong and well. And, at any rate, you are to come home in the spring.”
Effie had said all this before; and Christie could only repeat her promise.
“I am afraid you think I am wrong to go away, Effie?”
“No, dear; I don’t think you are wrong. I am sure your motives are good. I wish you were not going; but there is no use in saying so now. I hope it will turn out for the best to you and to us all. I will try and not be anxious about you. God will keep you safe, I do not doubt.”
“Effie,” said Christie, “do you remember what you said to me once about God’s hearing prayer, and how He always hears the prayers of His people in the best way, though not always in the way they wish and expect?”