"You ought to be very happy, Christie, with all your trouble. God has been very good to you, in giving you a message to Miss Gertrude."

"I am very happy, Effie," answered she, softly. "I almost think I am beyond being troubled any more. It is coming very near now."

She lay still, with a smile on her face, till she fell into a quiet slumber; and as she sat watching her, Effie, amid all her sorrow, could not but rejoice at the thought of the blessed rest and peace that seemed coming so near now to her little sister.

CHAPTER XXIII.

HOME AT LAST.

ES, the time was drawing very near. Effie could no longer hide from herself that Christie was no

stronger, but rather weaker every day. She did not suffer much pain, but now and then was feverish, and at such times she could get no rest. Then Effie moved, and soothed and sang to her with patience inexhaustible. She would have given half her youthful strength to have revived that wasted form; and one day, as she was bathing her hands, she told her so.

Christie smiled, and shook her head.

"You will have better use for your strength than that, Effie. I am sure the water in the burn at home would cool my hands, if I could dip them in it. Oh, if I could just get out to the fields for one long summer day, I think I should be content to lie down here again for another six months! In the summer-time, when I used to think of the Nesbitts and the McIntyres in the sweet-smelling hay-fields, and of the bairns gathering berries in the woods, my heart was like to die within me. It is not so bad now No, Effie, I am quite content now."

since

you came.

Later in the day, she said, after a long silence:

"Effie, little Will will hardly mind that he had a sister Christie, when he grows up to be a man. I should like to have been at home once more, because of that. They will all forget me, I am afraid."

"Christie," said her sister, "why do you say they will forget you? Do you not think you will live to see them again ?"

"Do you think so, Effie?" asked Christie, gravely.

Instead of answering her, Effie burst into tears, and laid her head down on her sister's pillow. Christie laid her arm over her neck, and said, softly:

"There is nothing to grieve so for, Effie. I am not afraid."

Effie's tears had been kept back so long, they must have free course now. It was in vain to try to stay them. But soon she raised herself up, and said:

"I didna mean to trouble you, Christie. I know I have no need to grieve for you. But, oh! I cannot help thinking you might have been spared longer if I had been more watchful-more faithful to my trust!"

"Effie," said Christie, "move me a little, and lie down beside me. I have something to say to you, and there can be no better time than now. You are weary with your long watching. Rest beside me."

Her sister arranged the pillow and lay down beside her. Clasping her wasted arms about her neck, Christie said: "Effie, you don't often say wrong or foolish things, but what you said just now was both wrong and foolish. You must never say it or think it any more. Have I not been in safe keeping, think you? Nay! do not grieve me by saying that again," she added, laying her hand upon her sister's lips, as she would have spoken. "It all seems so

right and safe to me, I would not have anything changed now, except that I should like to see them all at home. And I dare say that will pass away as the end draws near. It will not be long now, Effie."

She paused from exhaustion, only adding:

“I am not afraid.”

The much she had to say was not said that night. The sisters lay silently in each other's arms, and while Christie slumbered, Effie prayed as she had never prayed before, that she might be made submissive to the will of God in this great sorrow that was drawing nearer day by day.

After this they spoke much of the anticipated parting, but never sadly any more. Effie's prayers were answered. God's grace did for her what, unaided, she never could have done for herself. It gave her power to watch the shadow of death drawing nearer and nearer, without shrinking from the sight. I do not mean that she felt no pain at the thought of going back to her home alone, or that she had quite ceased to blame herself for what she called her neglect of her suffering sister. Many a long struggle did she pass through during the hours when Christie slumbered. But she never again suffered a regretful word to pass her lips; she never for a moment let a cloud rest on her face when Christie's eyes were watching her. She had soothing words for the poor child's restless moments. If a doubt or fear came to disturb her quiet trust, she had words of cheer to whisper; and when-as oftenest happened her peace was like a river, full and calm and deep, no murmurs, no repining, fell from the loving sister's lips to disturb its gentle flow.

And little by little, as the uneventful days glided by, peace, and more than peace-gratitude and loving praise

filled the heart of Christie's sister. What could she wish more for the child so loved than such quiet and happy waiting for the end of all trouble? A little while sooner or later, what did it matter? What could she wish more or better for any one she loved? It would ill become her to repine at her loss, so infinitely her sister's gain.

The discipline of these weeks in her sister's sick-room did very much for Effie. Ever since their mother's death, and more especially since their coming to Canada, a great deal had depended on her. Wise to plan and strong to execute, she had done what few young girls in her sphere could have done. Her energy had never flagged. She delighted to encounter and overcome difficulties; she was strong, prudent, and far seeing, and she was fast acquiring the reputation, among her friends and neighbours, of a rare business woman.

It is just possible that, as the years passed, she might have acquired some of the unpleasing qualities so apt to become the characteristic of the woman who has no one to come between her and the cares of business or the shifts and difficulties incident to the providing for a family whose means are limited. Coming in contact, as she had to do, with a world not always mindful of the claims of others, she found it necessary to stand her ground and hold her own with a firmness that might seem hardly compatible with gentleness. Her position, too, as the teacher of a school-the queen of a little realm where her word was law-tended to cultivate in her strength and firmness of character rather than the more womanly qualities. It is doubtful whether, without the sweet and solemn break in the routine of her life which these months in her sister's sick-room made, she would ever have grown into the woman she afterwards became. This long and patient