ne home without her.

CHAPTER NINE.

LIGHT IN DARKNESS.

The week passed. Sunday morning came; and out of a broken, uneasy
slumber, Christie was awakened by the fall of rain-drops on the window.
In the midst of the trouble and turmoil of the week she had striven to
be patient; but through it all she had looked forward to the two hours'
respite of the Sabbath, and now it seemed to her that she could not be
denied. Turning her aching eyes from the light, she did not, for a
moment or two, try to restrain her tears. But she could not indulge
herself long, if she had been ever so much inclined. For soon arose the
clamour of childish voices, that must be stilled. So Christie rose, and
bathed her hot eyes, and strove to think that, after all, the clouds
were not so very thick, and they might break away in time for her to go.

"At any rate, there is no good in being vexed about it," she said to
herself. "I must try and be content at home, if I canna go."

It was an easier matter to content herself than to her first waking
thought seemed possible. She was soon busy with the little ones,
quieting their noise as she washed and dressed them, partly for little
Harry's sake, and partly because it was the Sabbath-day. So earnest was
she in all this that she had no time to think of her disappointment till
the boys were down-stairs at breakfast with their mother. Then little
Harry seemed feverish and fretful and "ill to do with," as Mrs Greenly,
who visited the attic-nursery with the baby in her arms, declared.
Christie strove to soothe her fretful pet, and took him in her arms to
carry him down-stairs. A gleam of sunshine met her on the way.

"It is going to be fine weather, after all," she said to Nurse Greenly,
turning round on the first landing.

But nurse seemed inclined this morning to look on the dark side of
things, and shook her head.

"I'm not so sure of that," said she. "That's but a single gleam; and I
dare say the sky is black enough, if we could see it. And hearken,
child, to the wind! The streets will be in a puddle; and with those
pains in your ankles you'll never, surely, think of going out to-day?"

Christie's face clouded again; and so did the sky, for the gleam of
sunshine vanished.

"I should like to go, indeed," said she; "and it's only when I am very
tired that my ankles pain me."

"Tired!" repeated nurse. "Yes, and no wonder; and yet you will persist
in carrying that great boy, who