the feeling that all the fault 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 dinner-dishes 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 woe-begone 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 wits'
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. "Maybe I haven't all the 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