k, "The beginning of what?" She knew well that she
meant the beginning of the new life which God, by His Word and Spirit,
had wrought in her heart. Soon Christie added:

"I wouldn't have anything changed now. It has all happened just in the
best way; and this quiet time will do you good too, dear."

"I pray God it may!" said Effie, letting both tears and kisses fall upon
her sister's face.

"And you must tell Annie and Sarah and the bairns that they must be sure
to come to us--our father and mother and me, and to Jesus--the
Mediator--of the new covenant," she slowly said; and overcome with
weariness, she sank into a quiet sleep.

Christie grew weaker every day. She did not suffer much, and slept most
of the time. Sometimes she was feverish and restless, and then Effie
used to fancy that her mind wandered. At such times she would tell of
things that happened long ago, and speak to Effie as she might have
spoken to her mother during her childish illnesses, begging to be taken
into her arms and rocked to sleep.

But almost always she knew her sister, even when she had forgotten where
she was. Once she said there was just one place in the world where she
could rest, and begged to be laid on the sofa in Mrs Nesbitt's parlour
at home. Often she begged her to let her dip her hands in the burn to
cool them, or to take her where it was pleasant and cool, under the
shadow of the birch-tree in the pasture at home. But a single word from
Effie was always enough to soothe her, and to call up the loving smile.

Christmas came and went, and the last day of the old year found her
still waiting, but with many a token that the close was drawing near.
Gertrude came that day, and lingered long beside her, awed by the
strange mysterious change that was beginning to show itself on her face.
Christie did not notice her as she came in, and even Effie only
silently held out her hand to her as she drew near.

"She will never speak again," said the nurse, who had been watching her
for several minutes.

All pain, all restlessness, seemed past. Effie, bending over her, could
only now and then moisten her parched lips and wipe the damp from her
forehead. Poor Effie! she saw the hour was at hand, but she was very
calm. "She has not spoken since daybreak," she said, softly. "I am
afraid she will never speak again." But she did.

After a brief but quiet sleep she opened her eyes. Gertrude knew that
she was recognised. Stooping