"But _I_ never could do what Sarah does at home," said Christie; "taking
care of Aunt Elsie and all. It would be far harder than what I have to
do now."

"But you would be at home, and you would have some one to look after
you. I could never think of such a thing as leaving you here alone."

"But, Annie, Sarah would be alone," remonstrated Christie.

"Yes, I know; but it's quite different with Sarah. She's strong and
healthy, and will hold her own with anybody; and besides, I'm sure Effie
will never hear of your staying here alone. But there's time enough to
think about it. If I go, I shall spend a week at home first. No; I
can't go in," said Annie, as they came to Mrs Lee's door. "I must go
home. I shall write to Effie. Now, don't fret about this, or I shall
wish I hadna told you;" for Christie looked very grave indeed.

"We'll wait and see what Effie thinks," said she, sadly.

"Well, you have her letter; and I'll come down to-night, if I can, and
we'll talk it over. But, for any sake, dinna look so glum, as Aunt
Elsie would say."

Christie laughed a little at her sister's excitement, but it was a very
grave face that bent over the baby's cot that afternoon. The south wind
had brought rain, and when night came, the drops dashed drearily against
the window-panes. Listening to it, as she sat with the baby in her arms
and the others sleeping quietly about her, Christie said to herself,
many times, that Annie could never venture out in such a night. Yet she
started at every sound, and listened eagerly till it had died away
again. Effie's letter had told her nothing new. They were all well and
happy, and the old question was asked, "When is Christie coming home
again?" But the letter, and even the little note, more precious still,
could not banish from her mind the thought of what Annie had said to
her; and it seemed to her that she could not possibly wait for another
week to hear more. The baby was restless, its mother was detained
down-stairs, and Christie walked about and murmured softly to still the
little creature's cries. But it was all done mechanically, and wearily
enough. Through the baby's cries and her own half-forced song, and
through the dreary sounds of the wind and rain, she listened for her
sister's foot upon the stairs. She could not have told why she was so
impatient to see her. Annie could tell her no more than she had already
told her during their walk from church. But since t