Reuben's journeys to N—— to buy necessaries for the little family, were the only incidents that broke the unvarying monotony of their life. At first, Christie had been somewhat afraid of remaining alone with Bertha; but, finding she was, as Reuben had said, perfectly harmless—sitting for hours together playing with her kitten—she had soon recovered from this fear. Love was a necessity of Christie's life, and as time passed, she learned to love Bertha with a deep, earnest love that sometimes surprised even herself. The maniac, too, in her fitful, uncertain way, seemed to return this love, and would sit for half a day at a time, with her head lying in Christie's lap, and the vacant, childish smile on her face.
As for Reuben, no one could know him, with his simple goodness and benevolence, without loving him; and Christie already loved and revered him as a father, while he felt an affection for his little stray waif, second only to that which he felt for Bertha.
As yet, he had not told her the history of the maniac; and Christie, for the most part, absorbed in her own sad thoughts, had almost forgotten it; but one cold and blustering night, as she drew her low rocking-chair up to the fire, while her nimble fingers busily flew in making some warm clothing for the winter, she reminded him of his promise, and urged him to relate it.
Bertha had already retired, and lay asleep in her bed in the corner of the kitchen; and Reuben, his day's work done, sat opposite Christie, making wicker-baskets, which he was in the habit of taking to N—— at intervals, to sell, and which constituted the principal income of the family.
"It seems a sad thing to recall days so long past," said Reuben, with a sigh; "but thee deserves to know, Christie, for waiting so long, patiently. And, my daughter, when thee hears, thee may think it strange that there should be so much wickedness in this world; but the Lord will redeem His servants in His own good time."
"Let me see; it requires time to look so far back. My father was a farmer living in Connecticut, and belonged to the Society of Friends. He had a brother, it seems—a wild youth, who ran away at the age of sixteen, and went to sea. Eight years passed before they received any news whether he was living or dead, and then a letter came to my father from him, saying he was in Spain, in a place called Grenada, and was married to a Spanish girl of that place.
"After that, for fourteen years more, we heard nothing else from him, until one cold winter's night, as we were all sitting round the fire, there came a knock at the door, and when one of my sisters opened it, a man, dressed like a sailor, entered, leading a little girl of twelve years by the hand. That man was my father's long-absent brother, whose wife was dead, and who wished to place the child with his friends before he went to sea again. That child is now the maniac Bertha thee sees on that bed."
Uncle Reuben's lips quivered a little as his eyes fell on the still beautiful face of the sleeper, and Christie listened with a look of the deepest interest.
"Bertha, though only a child then," said Uncle Reuben, resuming his work, "was taller and more womanly looking than many girls of sixteen, with the most beautiful face thee ever saw in thy life. My three sisters were then accounted very handsome girls by everybody, but they were no more to be compared to her than candles are to stars. They had fine, healthy features, and red cheeks, and round, merry faces, but she had a dark, oval face, with long, beautiful black curls, and large, melancholy, dark eyes. Ah, my daughter, thee looks as if thee thought her beautiful still, but she is nothing now to what she was then.
"Bertha could speak very little English then—hardly a word—and I remember how the villagers used to laugh at her attempts to talk with them; but when they looked at her mourning-dress, and sad, beautiful face, their laughter quickly ceased.