e not mocking me
in saying that."

"No; you know very well I am not mocking you now, though I was a little
while ago. I don't think I have seen you angry since you came here--
really angry, I mean."

"Well, no, perhaps not angry. Do you really think I am gentle and
even-tempered?" she asked, suddenly, turning her face towards her. "I
am sure I used not to be. But then I have so little to try me now."

"Well, I think you have had enough just for to-day, what with the boys
and with me. But if you were not always patient and good, what changed
you? What did you do to yourself? Tell me about it, as Claude would
say."

"Oh, I don't know what I could tell," said Christie, in some
embarrassment. "I only mind what a peevish, good-for-nothing little
creature I was. The others could have had little pleasure with me, only
they were strong and good-tempered and didn't mind. Even to Effie I
must have been a vexation; but mother gave me to her care when she died,
and so she had patience with me. I was never well, and my mother
spoiled me, they said. I'm sure it was a sad enough world to me when
she died. And then my aunt came to live with us, and she was so
different. And by and by we came to Canada, and then everything was
changed. I mind, sometimes, if a body only looked at me I was in a pet.
I was not well, for one thing, and I used to fancy that my aunt liked
me less and had less patience with me than with the rest; and no wonder,
when I think of it. Effie was good and kind to me always, though I must
have tried her many a time."

"Well," said Miss Gertrude, "but you don't tell me what changed you."

"Well, I can't tell. I believe I was never quite so bad after the time
Effie gave me my Bible." And she gave Miss Gertrude the history of the
miserable day with which our story commenced--of her trying to pray
under the birch-tree by the brook, of Effie's coming home with the
book-man, and of their walk to the kirk and the long talk they had
together.

"And it was soon after that that my father was hurt and my aunt grew ill
again. We had a very sorrowful winter. But there is one good thing in
having real trouble to bear; one doesn't fret so much about little
things, or about nothing at all, as I used to do. I think that winter
was really happier to me than any time I had had since my mother's
death. I was with my father a great deal towards the end; and though he
was so ill and suffered so much, he was