In the little forest cottage, the evening preceding that night of storm, Christie stood in the humble doorway, watching the sun go down.
Those weary months have sadly changed our little favorite. The thin, wan face, has grown thinner and wanner than ever; the angel brow paler and more transparent; the dark, loving blue eyes darker, larger, and wearing ever a look of deep, gentle, unchanging melancholy; the fair, golden hair falls like threads of raveled silk around her pearly cheek; the light step is slow and languid; and the hectic crimson spot that each afternoon burns on those usually colorless cheeks, bespeaks the ravages of that fell destroyer—consumption. Slowly but surely she is passing away, bending her meek head to the stroke of the destroyer, and only sighing for the time when her weary head may find rest at last in some little woodland grave. Little Christie will never live to see the midsummer rose blow.
With a quiet, fervent joy, she thinks of this as she stands in the door-way, the last fiery ray of the red sunlight falling, like a shadow of the glory that awaits her, on her bent head. With those dark, radiant, starry eyes fixed on the fast-coming clouds, her mind strays back to that night of deepest woe—that last night spent in her island home. The coming of every storm recalls it, but never so vividly as it does to-night. All the old tide of her deep, unchanging love for Willard, for her destroyer—so strong and fervent, that time, absence, and the belief in his guilt has no power to change it—swells back to her heart, crowned with blissful memories of the time when she first knew and loved him, until an almost passionate longing to be with him once more, to throw her arms around his neck, to seal her forgiveness on his lips, to feel his heart swelling and throbbing against her own once more, to gaze into those dark eyes again, and heave her last expiring sigh on that loved breast, took possession of her. Then came the bitter recollection that long ere this another must be his bride, and she could never feel the strong, fervent clasp of those dear arms again; and with a grief that death alone could ever still, she hid her face in her hands to keep back her fast falling tears, while her white bosom rose and fell with convulsive sobs. A slow, heavy step, crashed over dried branches around her, and she looked up, to behold the kind, honest face of Uncle Reuben.
"Ah, thee is grieving again. This will never do, little Christie," he said, sorrowfully.
"Oh, I cannot help it! It all comes back so strangely to-night!" said Christie, in a voice full of unshed tears.
"What does, little one?"
"Oh, the past, the past! the sad, beautiful past."
"Thee must forget the past, daughter, and live in the present, and for the future," said Uncle Reuben, laying his hand on her head. "Thee knows what the good book says: 'Blessed are they that mourn for they shall be comforted.'"
"Yes, yes, I know; that promise has often sustained me in my darkest hours. Dear Uncle Reuben, I know I am wicked to murmur, but bear with me a little while until I go where the promise will be fulfilled."
"Oh, thee is sad, to-night, Christie," said Uncle Reuben, forcing a smile, "thee must be cheerful, thee knows. Where is Bertha?"