several trembling voices joined. When they came to

the verse:

"Yea, though I walk through Death's dark vale,

Yet will I fear no ill;

For Thou art with me, and Thy rod

And staff me comfort still,”

they rose full, clear, and triumphant. They were the last sounds he heard on earth. When they ended, Mrs. Nesbitt's hand was gently laid on their father's eyelids, and at the sight of that the children knew they were orphans.

CHAPTER V.

CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE.

HEN a great sorrow has just fallen upon us, we find it impossible to feel that all things about

us are not changed. We cannot imagine ourselves falling into the old daily routine again. The death of one dear to us gives us a shock which seems to unsettle the very foundation of things. A sense of insecurity and unreality pervades all that concerns us. We shrink from the thought that the old pleasures will charm us again, that daily cares will occupy our minds to the exclusion of to-day's sadness, that time will heal the wounds that smart so bitterly now.

But it does; and as it passes, we find ourselves going the old rounds, enjoying the old pleasures, doing the duties which the day brings; and the great healer does his kindly office, to the soothing of our pain. It is not that our bereavement is no longer felt, or that we have forgotten the friend we loved. But the human heart is a harp with many strings. Though one be broken, there are others which answer to the touch of the wandering breezes; and though the music may be marred in some of its measures, it is still sweet.

The young cannot long sit under the shadow of a great sorrow, if there be any chance rays of sunshine gleaming. Besides, the poor have no time to sit down and nurse their grief. When little more than a week had passed after Mr. Redfern's death, Effie was obliged to return to the ruling and guiding of her noisy little kingdom. She went sadly enough; and many an anxious thought went back to the household at home. But she could not choose but go. They had agreed among themselves that there should be no change till after the harvest should be gathered in, and in the meantime, all the help that she could give was needed. Her monthly wages were growing doubly precious in her estimation. They were the chief dependence at home.

The sowing and planting had been on a limited scale this spring, and all outdoor matters, except what pertained to the dairy, could very well be attended to by James Cairns, their hired man, who was strong and willing. So Annie and Sarah were in the house, and the little ones went to school as soon as the summer weather came.

As for Christie, little was expected from her besides attending to Aunt Elsie, and reading to her now and then. These were easy enough duties, one would think, considering how little attention Aunt Elsie was willing to accept from any one. But light as they were, Christie could not hide, and did not always try to hide, the truth that they were irksome to her.

Poor little Christie! How miserable she was, often! How mortified and ashamed of herself! This was all so different from what she had meant to be when Effie went away-a help and a comfort to all. There were times when she strove bravely with herself: she strove to be less peevish, and to join the rest in their efforts to be

useful and cheerful; but she almost always failed, and every new failure left her less able and less willing to try again.

tired her, and left

But Christie was not so much to blame for these shortcomings as she had sometimes been. The great reaction from the efforts and anxieties before her father's death, as well as the shock of that event, left her neither strength nor power to exert herself or to interest herself in what was passing. Her sisters meant kindly in claiming no help about the household work from her, but they made a mistake in so doing. Active work, that would have really her no time for melancholy musings, would have been far better for her. As it was, she could apply herself to no employment, not even her favourite reading. Her time, when not immediately under her aunt's eye, was passed in listless wanderings to and fro, or in sitting with folded hands, thinking thoughts that were unprofitable always, and sometimes wrong. Fits of silence alternated with sudden and violent bursts of weeping, which her sisters could neither soothe nor understand. Indeed, she did not understand them herself. She struggled with them, ashamed of her folly and weakness; but she grew no better, but rather worse.

She might well rejoice when, at the end of a fortnight, Effie came home. The wise and loving elder sister was not long in discovering that the peevishness and listlessness of her young sister sprang from a cause beyond her control. She was ill from over-exertion, and nervous from over-excitement and grief. Nothing could be worse for her than this confinement to Aunt Elsie's sick-room, added to the querulousness of Aunt Elsie herself.

"You should let Christie help with the milking, as she used to do," she said to Sarah. "It would be far better

for her than sitting so much in Aunt Elsie's room. She seems ill and out of sorts."

"Yes, she's out of sorts," said Sarah, with less of sympathy in her tone than Effie had shown. "There's no telling what to do with her sometimes. She can scarcely bear a word, but bursts out crying if the least thing is said to her. I dare say she is not very well. poor child !"

"She seems far from well, indeed," said Effie, gravely. "And I'm sure you, or I either, would find our spirits sink if we were to spend day after day in Aunt Elsie's room. You don't know what it is till you try it."

Sarah shrugged her shoulders.

"I dare say we should. But Christie doesna seem to mind much what Aunt Elsie says. I'm sure I thought she liked better to be there than to be working hard in the kitchen or dairy."

"She may like it better, but it's no' so good for her, for all that. You should send her out, and try and cheer her up, poor lassie! She's no' so strong as the rest of us; and she suffers much from the shock."

That night, when the time for bringing home the cows came, Effie took her sun-bonnet from the nail, saying carelessly:

"I'm going to the pasture. Are you coming, Christie ?" "For the cows?" said Christie, tartly. "The bairns go for them."

66

'Oh, but I'm going for the pleasure of the walk. We'll go through the wheat, and down by the brook. Come."

Christie would far rather have stayed quietly at home, but she did not like to refuse Effie; and so she went, and was better for it. At first, Effie spoke of various things which interested them as a family; and Christie found