Christie Redfern's Troubles Part 7

Effie hesitated. There was something in Christie's manner indicating that it was not alone the mere petulance of the moment that dictated the question.

"I am not wise about these things, Christie," she said. "I only know this: G.o.d has graciously permitted us to bring our troubles to Him. He has said, 'Ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye shall find.' He has said, 'He that asketh receiveth, and he that seeketh findeth.' And in the Psalms, 'Call upon Me in the day of trouble, and I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify Me.' We need not vex ourselves, surely, about _how_ it is all to happen. G.o.d's word is enough."

"But then, Effie, there are prayers that G.o.d doesna hear."

"There are many things that G.o.d does not give us when we ask Him; but, Christie, G.o.d does hear the prayers of His people. Yes, and He answers them too--though not always in the way that they wish or expect, yet _always_ in the _best_ way for them. Of this they may be sure. If He does not give them just what they ask for, He will give them something better, and make them willing to be without the desired good. There is nothing in the whole Bible more clearly told than that G.o.d hears the prayers of His people. We need never, _never_ doubt that."

But Christie did not look satisfied.

"'His people,'" she murmured, "but no others."

Effie looked perplexed.

"I am not wise in these matters, as I have just told you," she said, gravely. "Until lately I havena thought much about them. But I think that people sometimes vex themselves in vain. It is to the thirsty who are seeking water that G.o.d promises to open fountains. It is to the weary and heavy-laden that Christ has promised rest. I am sure that those who feel their need of G.o.d's help need not fear that they will be refused anything--I mean, anything that is good for them."

"There is a difference, I suppose," she added, after a pause. "We may ask for many a temporal blessing that might be our ruin if G.o.d were to grant it to us; and in love He withholds such, often. But when we ask for spiritual blessing, for the grace of strength to do or of patience to bear His will, if we ask for guidance, for wisdom to direct us, we need not fear that we shall be denied. And, having these, other things don't matter so much, to G.o.d's people."

"'To G.o.d's people,'" repeated Christie to herself again. "Well, I am not one of them. It's nothing that can do me any good."

She did not answer her sister, but rose up slowly, saying it was time to go. So she climbed over the low stone wall, and walked on in silence.

Effie followed quietly. Not a word was spoken till they reached the bend of the brook over which hung the birch-tree. Past this, her favourite resting-place, Christie rarely went without lingering. She would not have paused to-night, however, had not Effie, who had fallen a little behind by this time, called her.

"Oh, Christie! look at the clouds! Did you ever see anything so beautiful? How beautiful!" she repeated, as she came and stood beside her. "It was a long time before I could become used to the sun's sinking down in that low, far-away place. I missed the hills that used to hide him from us at home. How well I remember the sunsets then, and the long, quiet gloamings!"

"Home" was over the sea, and "then" was the time when a mother's voice and smile mingled with all other pleasant things; and no wonder that Effie sighed, as she stood watching the changing hues near the low horizon. The "home" and "then" were the last drops added to Christie's cup of sad memories; and the overflow could no longer be stayed. She kept her face turned away from her sister, but could not hide the struggle within, and at Effie's very first word her sobs broke forth.

"What is the matter, Christie? There must be something you have not told me about. You are weary: that is it. Sit down here again, and rest. We need not hurry home, after all."

Christie sank down, struggling with her tears.

"It's nothing, Effie," she said, at last. "I'm sure I didna mean to vex you with my crying; but I canna help it. There is nothing the matter with me more than usual. Never mind me, Effie."

"Well, sit still a little," said Effie, soothingly. "You are tired, I do believe."

"Yes," said Christie, recovering herself with a great effort. "It's partly that, I dare say; and--" She stopped, not being further sure of her voice.

Effie said nothing, but gently stroked her hair with her hand. The gentle touch was more than Christie could bear, at the moment.

"Effie, don't!" she cried, vainly struggling to repress another gush of tears. In a little while she grew quiet, and said, "I know I'm very foolish, Effie; but I canna help it."

"Never mind," said Effie, cheerfully; for she knew by the sound of her voice that her tears were over for this time. "A little shower sometimes clears the sky; and now the sun will s.h.i.+ne again."

She stooped down, and dipping her own handkerchief in the brook, gave it to her sister to bathe her hot cheeks; and soon she asked, gravely:

"What is it, Christie?"

"It's nothing," said Christie, eagerly. "Nothing more than usual. I'm tired, that's all,--and you are going away,--and it will be just the same thing every day till you come back,--going to bed tired, and getting up tired, and doing the same thing over and over again to very little purpose. I'm sure I canna see the good of it all."

Effie could not but smile at her words and manner.

"Well, I suppose that will be the way with every one, mostly. I'm sure it will be the way with me. Except the getting up tired," she added, laughing. "I'm glad to say I don't very often do that. I'm afraid my life is not to much purpose either, though I do wish it to be useful,"

she continued, more gravely.

"Oh, well, it's very different with you!" said Christie, in a tone that her sister never liked to hear.

She did not reply for a moment. Then she said:

"It will be easier for you now that the harvest is over. Annie and Sarah will be in the house, and you will have less to do. And, besides, they will make it more cheerful."

Christie made a movement of impatience.

"You are like Aunt Elsie. You think that I like to be idle and don't wish to do my share. At any rate, the girls being in the house will make little difference to me. I shall have to be doing something all the time--little things that don't come to anything. Well, I suppose there is no help for it. It will be all the same in the end."

Poor Christie! She had a feeling all the time that she was very cross and unreasonable, and she was as vexed as possible with herself for spoiling this last precious half-hour with Effie by her murmurs and complaints. She had not meant it. She was sorry they had waited by the brook. She knew it was for her sake that Effie had proposed to sit down in her favourite resting-place; but before she had well uttered the last words she was wis.h.i.+ng with all her heart that they had hurried on.

Effie looked troubled. Christie felt rather than saw it; for her face was turned quite away, and she was gathering up and casting from her broken bits of branches and withered leaves, and watching them as they were borne away by the waters of the brook. Christie would have given much to know whether she was thinking of her foolish words, or of something else.

"I suppose she thinks it's of no use to heed what I say. And now I have spoiled all the pleasure of thinking about to-day."

Soon she asked, in a voice which had quite lost the tone of peevishness:

"When will you come home again, Effie?"

Effie turned towards her immediately.

"I don't know. I'm not quite sure, yet. But, Christie, I canna bear to hear you speak in that way--as though you saw no good in anything. Did you ever think how much worse it might be with you and with us all?"

In her heart, Christie was saying she did not think things _could_ be much worse, as far as _she_ was concerned; but she only looked at her sister, without speaking.

"For, after all," continued Effie, "we are very well off with food and shelter, and are all at home together. You are not very strong, it is true, and you have much to do and Aunt Elsie is not always considerate; or, rather, she has not always a pleasant way of showing her considerateness. She's a little sharp sometimes, I know. But she suffers more than she acknowledges, and we all ought to bear with her.

You have the most to bear, perhaps; but--"

"It's no' that, Effie," interrupted Christie. "I don't mind having much to do. And I'm sure it never enters into Aunt Elsie's head that I have anything to bear from her. She thinks she has plenty to bear, from me and from us all. I wouldna care if it came to anything. I could bear great trials, I know, and do great things; but this continual worry and vexation about nothing--it never ends. Every day it is just to begin over again. And what does it all amount to when the year's over?"

"Hush, Christie," said her sister. "The time may come when the remembrance of these words will be painful to you. The only way we can prove that we would bear great trials well is by bearing little trials well. We don't know how soon great trials may come upon us. Every night that I come home, I am thankful to find things just as I left them. We need be in no hurry to have any change."

Christie was startled.

"What _do_ you mean, Effie? Are you afraid of anything happening?"

"Oh, no," she said, cheerfully, "I hope not. I dare say we shall do very well. But we must be thankful for the blessings we have, Christie, and hopeful for the future."

"Folk say father is not a very good farmer. Is that it, Effie?"

Christie spoke with hesitation, as though she was not quite sure how her sister would receive her remark. "But we are getting on better now."

Effie only answered the last part of what she said.

"Yes, we are getting on better. Father says we have raised enough to take us through the year, with something to spare. It's all we have to depend on--so much has been laid out on the farm; and it must come in slowly. But things _will_ wear out; and the bairns--I wish I could bide at home this winter."