"Father," said Christie, "please tell me what is a cross? and say it little, so as I can conceive the same." "What manner of cross, sweet heart?" "You know what our Lord saith, Father--`He that taketh not his cross, and followeth Me, is not worthy of Me.' I've been thinking a deal on it of late. I wouldn't like not to be worthy of Him. But I can't take my cross till I know what it is. I asked Cousin Friswith, and she said it meant doing all manner of hard disagreeable things, like the monks and nuns do--eating dry bread and sleeping of a board, and such like. But when I talked with Pen Pardue, she said she reckoned it signified not that at all. That was making crosses, and our Lord did not mention that. So please, Father, what is it?" "Methinks, my child, Pen hath the right. `Take' is not `make.' We be to take the cross God layeth on our backs. He makes the crosses; we have but to take them and bear them. Folks make terrible messes by times when they essay to make their own crosses. But thou wouldest know what is a cross? Well, for thee, methinks, anything that cometh across thee and makes thee cross. None wist so well as thyself what so doth." "But, Father!" said Christie in a tone of alarm. "Well, sweet heart?" "There must be such a lot of them!" "For some folks, Christie, methinks the Lord carveth out one great heavy cross; but for others He hath, as it were, an handful of little light ones, that do but weigh a little, and prick a little, each one. And he knoweth which to give." "I think," said Christie, with an air of profound meditation, "I must have the little handful. But then, must I carry them all at once?" "One at once, little Christie--the one which thy Father giveth thee; let Him choose which, and how, and when. By times he may give thee more than one, but methinks mostly 'tis one at once, though they may change oft and swiftly. Take _thy_ cross, and follow the Lord Jesus." "There's banging doors," pursued Christie with the same thoughtful air; "that's one. And when my back aches, that's another, and when my head is so, _so_ tired; and when I feel all strings that somebody's pulling, as if I couldn't keep still a minute. That last's one of the biggest, I reckon. And when--" The little voice stopped suddenly for a moment. "Father, can folks be crosses?" "I fear they can, dear heart," replied her father, smiling; "and very sharp ones too." Christie kept her next thoughts to herself. Aunt Tabitha and Cousin Friswith certainly must be crosses, she mentally decided, and Uncle Edward must have been dear Aunt Alice's cross, and a dreadful one. Then she came back to the point in hand. "How must I `take up' my cross, Father? Doth it mean I must not grumble at it, and feel as if I wanted to get rid of it as fast as ever I could?"