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 wishing 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 amo