soon on their way to meet Mrs Seaton, who had made an
appointment with them, but Miss Gertrude was quite overcome by what she
had seen and heard.

"Poor Christie! To think that all these weary months of waiting must
end thus! I cannot help thinking we have been to blame."

"My child, why should you say so?"

"To think of it coming to this with her, and her friends not knowing it!
Her sister never would have left her here all this time, if she had
thought her in danger. She ought to know at once."

"Yes; they must be told at once," said Mr Sherwood. "But I fancy, from
what the doctor said, they can't do much for her; and from the poor
little thing herself I have gathered that the only one who could come to
her is her elder sister, on whom the rest seem to be quite dependent."

"But she must come, too," said Gertrude, eagerly. "That is Effie.
There is no one in all the world like Effie, Christie thinks. Oh,
Cousin Charles, they have not always been poor. And they have suffered
so much--and they love each other so dearly!"

"Gertrude, my child, there is a bright side even to this sad picture.
Do you think that the suffering little creature, lying there all these
months, has been altogether unhappy?"

Gertrude struggled with her tears, and said:

"She has the true secret of happiness."

"Yes, I am sure of it. Seeing her, as I have, lying on that bed of
pain, I have felt inclined rather to envy than to pity her. She has
that for her own that a kingdom could not purchase--a peace that cannot
be taken from her. I do not believe that even the sad necessity that
awaits her will move her much now."

His first words had stilled Miss Gertrude quite, and soon she found
voice to say:

"Not for herself, but for her sisters. I am afraid they will think we
have been very cruel. But it will be well with Christie, whatever
happens."

"Yes; it will be well with her, I do believe," said Mr Sherwood,
gravely; and neither spoke again till they reached home.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

A CLOUD WITH A SILVER LINING.

The shadows were lengthening one September afternoon, when Effie Redfern
closed behind her the door of her school-room, and took her way along
the shady road that led to the cottage which for more than two years had
been her home. The air was mild and pleasant. The leaves on some of
the trees were changing. Here a yellow birch and beech, and there a
crimson maple betrayed the silent approach of wint