Effie's eyes grew moist and wistful as they followed the quivering
shadows of the leaves overhead; and Christie watched her silently for a
while.

"But, Effie," she said, at last, "there are parts of the Bible that
everybody likes to read. And, besides, all the people that go to the
kirk and listen as though they took pleasure in it are not God's
people--nor all those who read dull books, either."

Effie shook her head.

"I suppose they take delight in listening to what the preacher says,
just as they would take pleasure in hearing a good address on any
subject. But the Word is not food and medicine and comfort to the like
of them, as old Mrs Grey says it is to her. And we don't see them
taking God's Word as their guide and their law in all things, as God's
people do. It is not because they love it that they read and listen to
it. There is a great difference."

"Yes," said Christie; "I suppose there is."

But her thoughts had flown far-away before Effie had done speaking. A
vague impression, that had come to her mind many times before, was fast
taking form: she was asking herself whether Effie was not among those
whose eyes had been opened. She was different from what she used to be.
Not that she was kinder, or more mindful of the comfort of others, than
she remembered her always to have been. But she was different, for all
that. Could it be that Effie had become a child of God? Were her sins
pardoned? Was she accepted? Had old things passed away, and all things
become new to her? Christie could not ask her. She could hardly look
at her, in the midst of the new, shy wonder that was rising within her.
Yes, there were wonder and pleasure, but there was pain too--more of the
latter than of the former. Had a barrier suddenly sprung up between her
and the sister she loved best? A sense of being forsaken, left alone,
came over her--something like the feeling that had nearly broken her
heart when, long ago, they told her that her mother had gone to heaven.
A great wave of bitterness passed over her sinking heart. She turned
away, that her sister might not see her face.

"Christie," said Effie, in a minute or two, "I think we ought to go
home. There will be some things to do; and if Annie and Sarah went to
the Sabbath-class, we should be needed to help."

It was in Christie's heart to say that she did not care to go home--she
did not care to help--she did not care for anything. But she had no
voic