Christie Redfern's Troubles

by Margaret M. Robertson

They had reached the cross-road down which Effie was to take her solitary way; for the bairns had gone on before. She stood for a moment trying to make sure of her voice, and while she lingered Mrs Nesbitt dropped a kiss, as tender as a mother’s, on her brow, and said, “Good-night!” A rush of ready tears was the only answer Effie had for her then. But she was comforted. The tears that spring at kind words or a gentle touch bring healing with them; and when Effie wiped them away at last, it was with a thankful sense of a lightened burden, and she went on her way with the pain that had ached at her heart so many days a little softened.

Yes; Effie had trials that would not bear speaking about, and least of all with John Nesbitt’s mother. But they were trials that need not be discussed in my little tale. Indeed, I must not linger longer at the cottage by the wayside. I may not tell of the daily life of its occupants, except that it grew more cheerful as the winter passed away. The monthly letter brought them good tidings from the absent ones; and with duties, some pleasant, some quite otherwise, their days were filled, so that no time was left for repining or for distrustful thoughts.

I must now follow the path taken by Christie’s weary little feet. Sometimes the way was dusty and uneven enough, but there were green spots and wayside flowers now and then. There were mists and clouds about her, too, but she got glimpses of sunshine. And by and by she grew content to abide in the shadow, knowing, as it was given her to know, that clouds are sent to cool and shelter and refresh us. Before content, however, there came many less welcome visitors to the heart of the poor child.

Can anything be more bewildering to unaccustomed eyes than the motley crowd which business or pleasure daily collects at some of our much-frequented railway stations? To the two girls, whose ideas of a crowd were for the most part associated with the quiet, orderly gatherings in the kirk-yard on the Sabbath-day, the scene that presented itself to them on reaching Point Saint Charles was more than bewildering; it was, for a minute or two, actually alarming. There was something so strange in the quick, indifferent manner of the people who jostled one another on the crowded platform, in the cries of the cabmen and porters, and in the general hurrying to and fro, that even Annie was in some danger of losing her presence of mind; and it was with something like a feeling of danger escaped that they found themselves, at last, safe on their way to the house of Mrs McIntyre, a connection of some friends of that name at home.

The sun had set long before, and it was quite dark as they passed rapidly through the narrow streets in the lower part of the town. Here and there lights were twinkling, and out from the gathering darkness came a strange, dull sound, the mingling of many voices, the noise of carriage-wheels and the cries of their drivers, and through all the heavy boom of church-bells. How unlike it all was to anything the girls had seen or heard before! And a feeling of wonder, not unmingled with dread, came upon them.

There was no time for their thoughts to grow painful, however, before they found themselves at their journey’s end. They were expected by Mrs McIntyre, and were very kindly received by her. She was a widow, and the keeper of a small shop in a street which looked at the first glimpse dismal enough. It was only a glimpse they had of it, however; for they soon found themselves in a small and neat parlour with their hostess, who kindly strove to make them feel at home. She would not hear of their trying to find out their places that night, but promised to go with them the next day, or as soon as they were rested. Indeed, she wished them to remain a few days with her. But to this Annie would by no means agree. The delay caused by Christie’s coming had made her a week later than her appointed time, and she feared greatly lest she should lose her place; so she could not be induced to linger longer. Her place was still secure for her; but a great disappointment awaited Christie. The lady who had desired the service of a young girl to amuse her children had either changed her mind or was not satisfied with Christie’s appearance; for after asking her many questions about her long delay, as she called the three days beyond the specified week, she told her she was afraid she could not engage her. She added to the pain of Christie’s disappointment by telling her that she did not look either strong enough or cheerful enough to have the care of children; she had better apply for some other situation.

“She’s weary with her journey—poor thing!” suggested Mrs McIntyre, kindly. “And she’s a stranger here, besides—poor child!”

“A stranger!” Yes, Christie had just parted from Annie at the door of a large house in the next street, bravely enough; but it was all the poor girl could do now to restrain an outburst of tears.

“How old are you?” asked the lady, again.

Christie had just courage enough to tell her; but it was Mrs McIntyre who answered the next question.