was not theirs-that she was herself to be blamed. And by-and-by the anger passed away; but the misery remained, and oftener, and with more power, came the consciousness that she was a very cross, unamiable child, that she was not like her older sisters or the little ones, that she was a comfort to no one, but a vexation to all. If she only could die! she thought. No! she would be afraid to die! But, oh, if she had never been born! Oh, if her mother had not died!

And yet she might have been a trial to her mother, too, as she was to all the rest. But no! she thought; her mother would have loved her and had patience with her; and Aunt Elsie never had. Amid a rush of angry tears, there fell a few very bitter drops to the memory of her mother.

With a weary pain at her head and heart, she went about the household work of the afternoon. The dinnerdishes were put away, and the room was swept and dusted, in silence. The pans were prepared for the evening milk, and the table was laid for supper; and then she sat down, with a face so wobegone and miserable, and an air so weary that, even in spite of her anger, her aunt could not but pity her. She pitied herself more, however. She said to herself that she was at her wit's end with the wilful child. She began to fear that she would never be other than a cross and a trial to her; and it did seem to Aunt Elsie that, with her bad health and her hard work among her brother's children, she had enough to vex her without Christie's untowardness. It did seem so perverse in her, when she needed her help so much, to be so heedless and sullen.

“And yet what a poor, pale, unhappy little creature she seems to be!" thought she. May-be I haven't all the

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patience with her that I ought to have. God knows, I need not a little to bear all my own aches and pains."

But her relenting thoughts did not take the form of words; and Christie never fancied, when she was bidden go for the cows at once, and not wait for the coming of the children from school, that her aunt sent her because she thought the walk to the pasture would do her good. She believed it was a part of her punishment, still, that she should be required to do what had all the summer been the acknowledged work of Will and her little sisters. So, though she was too weary and miserable to resist, or even to murmur, she went with a lagging step and a momentary rising of her old angry and resentful thoughts.

It was not very far to the pasture through the wheatfield; and she was soon there. But when the cows had passed through the gate she let them go or not, just as they pleased, and turned aside, to think over again, by the side of the brook, the miserable thoughts of the afternoon; and the end of these was the murmured prayer with which my story began.

Her thoughts were not very cheerful as she plodded along. She had no wish to hurry. If she did, she would very likely have to milk Brownie and Blackie and the rest, besides Fleckie, her own peculiar care. She said to herself, there was no reason why she should do her sisters' work, though it was harvest-time and they would come home tired. She was tired too-though nobody seemed to think she ever did anything to tire her. She could milk all the cows well enough. She had done it many a time. But it was one thing to do it of her own free will, and quite another to do so because her aunt was cross and wanted to punish her for her morning fault. So she loitered on the road, though the sun had set and she knew

there was danger of the cows passing the gate and getting in among the wheat, where the fence was insufficient, in the field below.

"I don't care," she said to herself. "It winna be my fault. The bairns should have been at home. It's their work, not mine, to mind the cows. Oh, I wish Effie was at home! There's nothing quite so bad when she is here. But I'll see to-night if my prayer is heard; that will be something; and then I'll begin again, and try to be good, in spite of Aunt Elsie."

HE cows had not passed the gate. Somebody had opened it for them, and they were now standing

or lying in the yard, in the very perfection of animal enjoyment. The girls were not at home to milk them, however. Christie had heard her father's voice calling to them in the lower field, and she knew it would be full half an hour, and quite dark, before they could be at home. So, with a sigh, she took the stool and the milk-pails from a bench near the door, and went to the yard to her task.

If her short-sighted eyes had seen the long, low wagon* that stood at the end of the house, curiosity would have tempted her to go back to see who might be there. If she had known that in that wagon her sister Effie had ridden home a day sooner than she was expected, she would not have seated herself so quietly to her milking.

Christie was not lazy, though her aunt sometimes accused her of being so. When her heart was in her work, she could do it quickly and well; and her strength failed her always before her patience was exhausted.

* In America, any light four-wheeled vehicle is called a wagon.

She knew she must finish the milking alone now, and she set to it with a will. In a surprisingly short time she was standing between two foaming milk-pails at the gate. To carry them both at once was almost, though not quite, beyond her strength; and as she stood for a moment hesitating whether she would try it, or go with one and return for the other, the matter was decided for her.

"Christie!" said a voice-not Aunt Elsie's-from the

door.

Turning, Christie saw her sister Effie. Surprise kept her riveted to the spot till her sister came down the path. "Dinna lift them, Christie: you are no more able to do it than a chicken. I'll carry them."

But she stooped first to place her hands on her little sister's shoulders and to kiss her softly. Christie did not speak; but the touch of her sister's lips unsealed the fountain of her tears, and clinging to her and hiding her face, she cried and sobbed in a way that, at last, really frightened her sister.

"Why, Christie! Why, you foolish lassie! What ails you, child? Has anything happened ?—or is it only that you are so glad to see me home again? Don't cry in that wild way, child. What is it, Christie ?"

"It's nothing-I dinna ken—I canna help it!" cried Christie, after an ineffectual effort to control herself.

Her sister held the trembling little form a moment without speaking, and then she said, cheerfully :

'See, Christie! It's growing dark! We must be quick with the milking."

"Why didna you come last week, Effie?" said Christie, rousing herself at last.

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Oh, partly because of the rain, and partly because I thought I would put my two holidays together. This is

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