“Christie!” said a voice—not Aunt Elsie’s—from the door.
Turning, Christie saw her sister Effie. Surprise kept her riveted to the spot till her sister came down the path.
“Dinna lift them, Christie: you are no more able to do it than a chicken. I’ll carry them.”
But she stooped first to place her hands on her little sister’s shoulders and to kiss her softly. Christie did not speak; but the touch of her sister’s lips unsealed the fountain of her tears, and clinging to her and hiding her face, she cried and sobbed in a way that, at last, really frightened her sister.
“Why, Christie! Why, you foolish lassie! What ails you, child? Has anything happened?—or is it only that you are so glad to see me home again? Don’t cry in that wild way, child. What is it, Christie?”
“It’s nothing—I dinna ken—I canna help it!” cried Christie, after an ineffectual effort to control herself.
Her sister held the trembling little form for a moment without speaking, and then she said, cheerfully:
“See, Christie! It’s growing dark! We must be quick with the milking.”
“Why didna you come last week, Effie?” said Christie, rousing herself at last.
“Oh, partly because of the rain, and partly because I thought I would put my two holidays together. This is Thursday night, and I can stay till Monday morning—three whole days.”