, when I am so far-away."

Gertrude promised, but not very eagerly. An impulse seized her to ask
him to forgive all her petulant speeches and waywardness, but when she
tried to do it she could not find her voice. Perhaps he read her
thought in her tearful eyes and changeful face, and grew a little
remorseful as he remembered how often he had vexed her during the first
months of their acquaintance. At any rate, he smiled very kindly as he
stooped to kiss her, and said, earnestly:

"We shall always be good friends now, whatever happens. God bless you,
my child! and good-bye."

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

MORE CHANGES.

But I must not linger with Miss Gertrude and her troubles. It is the
story of Christie that I have to tell. They went the same way for a
little while, but their paths were now to separate.

For that came to pass which Gertrude had dreaded when Mr Sherwood went
away. It was decided that she should go to school. She was too young
to go into society. Her step-mother, encouraged by Miss Atherton, might
have consented to her sharing all the gaieties of a rather gay season,
and even her father might have yielded against his better judgment, had
she herself been desirous of it. But she was not. She was more quiet
and grave than ever, and spent more time over her books than was at all
reasonable, as Miss Atherton thought, now that no lessons were expected
from her.

She grew thin and pale, too, and was often moody, and sometimes
irritable. She moped about the house, and grew stupid for want of
something to do, as her father thought; and so, though it pained him to
part with her, and especially to send her away against her will, he
suffered himself to be persuaded that nothing better could happen to her
in her present state of mind than to have earnest occupation under the
direction of a friend of the family, who took charge of the education of
a few young ladies in a pleasant village not far from their home.

It grieved her much to go. She had come to love her little brothers
better than she knew till the time for parting drew near. This, and the
dread of going among strangers, made her unhappy enough during the last
few days of her stay.

"I can't think how the house will seem without you," said Christie to
her, one night, as they were sitting together beside the nursery fire.

Gertrude turned so as to see her as she sat at work, but did not answer
her for a minute or two.

"Do you know, I w