Christie could not answer her. So she walked along by her side, struggling, with a power which she felt was giving way rapidly, with the sobs that were scarcely suppressed. She struggled no longer than till she reached the little chamber where she and Annie had passed the night. The hours that she was suffered to remain there alone were passed in such an agony of grief and home-sickness as the poor child never suffered from before. She quite exhausted herself at last; and when Mrs McIntyre came to call her to dinner, she found her in a troubled sleep.
“Poor child!” she said, as she stood looking at her, “I fear we must send her home again. She is not like to do or to get much good here.”
But she darkened the room, and closed the door softly, and left her. When Christie awoke the afternoon was nearly gone. Her first feeling was one of utter wretchedness; but her sleep had rested and refreshed her, and her courage revived after she had risen and washed her face and put her dress in order. When she was ready to go down, she paused for a moment, her hand resting on the knob of the door.
“I might try it,” she murmured; and she fell on her knees by the bedside. It was only a word or two she uttered:
“O God, give me courage and patience, and help me to do right.”
Her tears fell fast for a moment; but her heart was lightened, and it was with a comparatively cheerful face that she presented herself in the little back parlour, where she found Mrs McIntyre taking tea with a friend.
“Oh, you are up, are you?” she said, kindly. “You looked so weary, I couldna bear to call you at dinnertime; but I kept your dinner for you. Here, Barbara; bring in the covered dish.” And she placed a seat for the girl between her and her friend.
Christie thanked her, and sat down, with an uncomfortable feeling that the friends had been discussing her before she had come in. And so it soon appeared. The conversation, which her entrance had interrupted, was soon resumed.
“You see, I don’t well know what his business is,” said the visitor. “But, at any rate, he doesn’t seem to have much to spend—at least in his family. His wife—poor lady!—has her own troubles. He’s seldom at home; and she has been the most of the time, till this illness, without more than one servant. When she’s better, I dare say she’ll do the same again. In the meantime, I have promised to look for one that might suit. The one she has leaves to-morrow. My month’s out too, then, and she’s to let me go; though how she’s to battle through, with that infant and all the other children, is more than I can tell.”
Mrs McIntyre shook her head.