WORK: A STORY OF EXPERIENCE. BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT, AUTHOR OF "LITTLE WOMEN," "LITTLE MEN," "AN OLD-FASHIONED GIRL," "HOSPITAL SKETCHES," ETC. "An endless significance lies in work; in idleless alone is there perpetual despair." - CARLYLE. BOSTON: ROBERTS BROTHERS. 1873. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by LOUISA M. ALCOTT, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. CAMBRIDGE! PRESS OF JOHN WILSON AND SON. TO MY MOTHER, WHOSE LIFE HAS BEEN A LONG LABOR OF LOVE, THIS BOOK IS GRATEFULLY INSCRIBED BY HER DAUGHTER. CONTENTS: CHAPTER PAGE I. CHRISTIE ... 1 II. SERVANT ... 14 III. ACTRESS ... 34 IV. GOVERNESS ... 56 V. COMPANION ... 92 VI. SEAMSTRESS ... 127 VII. THROUGH THE MIST ... 146 VIII. A CURE FOR DESPAIR ... 170 IX. MRS. WILKINS'S MINISTER ... 197 X. BEGINNING AGAIN ... 219 XI. IN THE STRAWBERRY FIELD ... 244 XII. CHRISTIE'S GALA ... 257 XIII. WAKING UP ··· 284 XIV. WHICH? ... 309 XV. MIDSUMMER ... 335 XVI. MUSTERED IN ··· 355 XVII. THE COLONEL ... 384 XVIII. SUNRISE ... 398 XIX. LITTLE HEART'S-EASE ... 408 XX. AT FORTY ... 424 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS, FROM DRAWINGS BY SOL EYTINGE. PAGE "How doth the little busy bee" ... Vignette. Christie ... 1 Aunt Betsey's Interlarded Speech ... 4 Mrs. Stuart ... 18 Hepsey ... 28 Christie Queen of the Amazons ... 42 Mr. Philip Fletcher ... 56 Mrs. Saltonstall and Family ... 63 "No, I thank you" ... 86 Helen Carrol ... 96 Mrs. King and Miss Cotton ... 134 The Rescue ... 169 "C. Wilkins, Clear Starcher" ... 165 Lisha Wilkins ... 170 Mrs. Wilkins' "Six Lively Infants" ... 179 Mr. Power ... 197 Mrs. Sterling ... 219 David and Christie in the Greenhouse ... 232 Mr. Power and Christie in the Strawberry Bed ... 250 A Friendly Chat ... 264 Kitty ... 284 "One Happy Moment" ... 305 David ... 309 "Then they were married" ... 379 "Don't mourn, dear heart, but WORK" ... 406 "She's a good little gal; looks consid'able like you" ... 419 "Each ready to do her part to hasten the coming of the happy end" ... 443 WORK: A STORY OF EXPERIENCE. CHAPTER I. CHRISTIE. CHRISTIE. "AUNT BETSEY, there's going to be a new Dec- laration of Independence." "Bless and save us, what do you mean, child?" And the startled old lady precipitated a pie into the oven with destructive haste. "I mean that, being of age, I'm' going to take care 4 WORK. AUNT BETSEY'S INTERLARDED SPEECH. whites together). But ef you can't, and feel that you need (two cups of sugar), only speak to Uncle, and ef he says (a squeeze of fresh lemon), go, my dear, and take my blessin' with you (not forgettin' to cover with a piece of paper)." Christie's laugh echoed through the kitchen; and the old lady smiled benignly, quite unconscious of the cause of the girl's merriment. "I shall ask Uncle to-night, and I know he won't object. Then I shall write to see if Mrs. Flint has a room for me, where I can stay till I get something to CHRISTIE. 5 do. There is plenty of work in the world, and I'm not afraid of it; so you'll soon hear good news of me. Don't look sad, for you know I never could forget you, even if I should become the greatest lady in the land." And Christie left the prints of two floury but affection- ate hands on the old lady's shoulders, as she kissed the wrinkled face that had never worn a frown to her. Full of hopeful fancies, Christie salted the pans and buttered the dough in pleasant forgetfulness of all mun- dane affairs, and the ludicrous dismay of Aunt Betsey, who followed her about rectifying her mistakes, and watching over her as if this sudden absence of mind had roused suspicions of her sanity. "Uncle, I want to go away, and get my own living, if you please," was Christie's abrupt beginning, as they sat round the evening fire. "Hey! what's that?" said Uncle Enos, rousing from the doze he was enjoying, with a candle in perilous proximity to his newspaper and his nose. Christie repeated her request, and was much relieved, when, after a meditative stare, the old man briefly answered: "Wal, go ahead." "I was afraid you might think it rash or silly, sir." "I think it's the best thing you could do; and I like your good sense in pupposin' on't." "Then I may really go?" "Soon's ever you like. Don't pester me about it till you're ready; then I'll give you a little suthing to start off with." And Uncle Enos returned to "The Farmer's Friend," as if cattle were more interesting than kindred. Christie was accustomed to his curt speech and care- 6 WORK. less manner; had expected nothing more cordial; and, turning to her aunt, said, rather bitterly: "Didn't I tell you he'd be glad to have me go? No matter! When I've done something to be proud of, he will be as glad to see me back again." Then her voice changed, her eyes kindled, and the firm lips softened with a smile. "Yes, I'll try my experiment; then I 'll get rich; found a home for girls like myself; or, better still, be a Mrs. Fry, a Florence Nightingale, or" -- "How are you on't for stockin's, dear?" Christie's castles in the air vanished at the pro- saic question; but, after a blank look, she answered pleas- antly: "Thank you for bringing me down to my feet again, when I was soaring away too far and too fast. I'm poorly off, ma'am; but if you are knitting these for me, I shall certainly start on a firm foundation." And, lean- ing on Aunt Betsey's knee, she patiently discussed the wardrobe question from hose to head-gear. "Don't you think you could be contented any way, Christie, ef I make the work lighter, and leave you more time for your books and things?" asked the old lady, loth to lose the one youthful element in her quiet life. "No, ma'am, for I can't find what I want here," was the decided answer. "What do you want, child?" "Look in the fire, and I'll try to show you." The old lady obediently turned her spectacles that way; and Christie said in a tone half serious, half play- full: "Do you see those two logs? Well that one smoul- CHRISTIE. 7 dering dismally away in the corner is what my life is now; the other blazing and singing is what I want my life to be." "Bless me, what an idee! They are both a-burnin' where they are put, and both will be ashes to-morrow; so what difference doos it make? Christie smiled at the literal old lady; but, following the fancy that pleased her, she added earnestly: "I know the end is the' same; but it does make a difference how they turn to ashes, and how I spend my life. That log, with its one dull spot of fire, gives neither light nor warmth, but lies sizzling despondently among the cinders. But the other glows from end to end with cheerful little flames that go singing up the chimney with a pleasant sound. Its light fills the room and shines out into the dark; its warmth draws us nearer, making the hearth the cosiest place in the house, and we shall all miss the friendly blaze when it dies. Yes," she added, as if to herself, "I hope my life may be like that, so that, whether it be long or short, it will be useful and cheerful while it lasts, will be missed when it ends, and leave something behind besides ashes." Though she only half understood them, the girl's words touched the kind old lady, and made her look anxiously at the eager young face gazing so wistfully into the fire. "A good smart blowin' up with the belluses would make the green stick burn most as well as the dry one after a spell. I guess contentedness is the best bellus for young folks, ef they would only think so." "I dare say you are right, Aunty; but I want to try for myself; and if I fail, I'll come back and follow your 8 WORK. advice. Young folks always have discontented fits, you know. Didn't you when you were a girl?" "Shouldn't wonder ef I did; but Enos came along, and I forgot 'em." "My Enos has not come along yet, and never may; so I'm not going to sit and wait for any man to give me independence, if I can earn it for myself." And a quick glance at the gruff, gray old man in the corner plainly betrayed that, in Christie's opinion, Aunt Betsey made a bad bargain when she exchanged her girlish aspirations for a man whose soul was in his pocket. "Jest like her mother, full of hifalutin notions, dis- contented, and sot in her own idees. Poor capital to start a fortin' on." Christie's eye met that of her uncle peering over the top of his paper with an expression that always tried her patience. Now it was like a dash of cold water on her enthusiasm, and her face fell as she asked quickly: "How do you mean, sir?" "I mean that you are startin' all wrong; your re- dic'lus notions about independence and self-cultur won't come to nothin' in the long run, and you 'll make as bad a failure of your life as your mother did of her'n." "Please, don't say that to me; I can't bear it, for I shall never think her life a failure, because she tried to help herself, and married a good man in spite of pov- erty, when she loved him! You call that folly; but I'll do the same if I can; and I'd rather have what my father and mother left me, than all the money you are piling up, just for the pleasure of being richer than your neighbors." "Never mind, dear, he don't mean no harm " whis- pered Aunt Betsey, fearing a storm. CHRISTIE. 9 But though Christie's eyes had kindled and her color deepened, her voice was low and steady, and her indig- nation was of the inward sort. "Uncle likes to try me by saying such things, and this is one reason why I want to go away before I get sharp and bitter and distrustful as he is. I don't sup- pose I can make you understand my feeling, but I'd like to try, and then I 'll never speak of it again;" and, carefully controlling voice and face, Christie slowly added, with a look that would have been pathetically eloquent to one who could have understood the instincts of a strong nature for light and freedom: "You say I am discontented, proud and ambitious; that's true, and I'm glad of it. I am discontented, because I can't help feeling that there is a better sort of life than this dull one made up of everlasting work, with no object but money. I can't starve my soul for the sake of my body, and I mean to get out of the treadmill if I can. I 'm proud, as you call it, because I hate dependence where there isn't any love to make it bearable. You don't say so in words, but I know you begrudge me a home, though you will call me ungrateful when I'm gone. I'm willing to work, but I want work that I can put my heart into, and feel that it does me good, no matter how hard it is. I only ask for a chance to be a useful, happy woman, and I don't think that is a bad ambition. Even if I only do what my dear mother did, earn my living honestly and happily, and leave a beau- tiful example behind me, to help one other woman as hers helps me, I shall be satisfied." Christie's voice faltered over the last words, for the thoughts and feelings which had been working within 10 WORK. her during the last few days had stirred her deeply, and the resolution to cut loose from the old life had not been lightly made. Mr. Devon had listened behind his paper to this unusual outpouring with a sense of dis- comfort which was new to him. But though the words reproached and annoyed, they did not soften him, and when Christie paused with tearful eyes, her uncle rose, saying, slowly, as he lighted his candle: "Ef I'd refused to let you go before, I'd agree to it now; for you need breakin' in, my girl, and you are goin' where you'll get it, so the sooner you're off the better for all on us. Come, Betsey, we may as wal leave, for we can't understand the wants of her higher nater, as Christie calls it, and we've had lecterin' enough for one night." And with a grim laugh the old man quitted the field, worsted but in good order. "There, there, dear, hev a good cry, and forgit all about it!" purred Aunt Betsey, as the heavy footsteps creaked away, for the good soul had a most old-fash- ioned and dutiful awe of her lord and master. "I shan't cry but act; for it is high time I was off. I've stayed for your sake; now I'm more trouble than comfort, and away I go. Good-night, my dear old Aunty, and don't look troubled, for I 'll be a lamb while I stay." Having kissed the old lady, Christie swept her work away, and sat down to write the letter which was the first step toward freedom. When it was done, she drew nearer to her friendly confidante the fire, and till late into the night sat thinking tenderly of the past, bravely of the present, hopefully of the future. Twenty- one to-morrow, and her inheritance a head, a heart, a CHRISTIE. 11 pair of hands; also the dower of most New England girls, intelligence, courage, and common sense, many practical gifts, and, hidden under the reserve that soon melts in a genial atmosphere, much romance and enthusiasm, and the spirit which can rise to heroism when the great moment comes. Christie was one of that large class of women who, moderately endowed with talents, earnest and true- hearted, are driven by necessity, temperament, or prin- ciple out into the world to find support, happiness, and homes for themselves. Many turn back discouraged; more accept shadow for substance, and discover their mistake too late; the weakest lose their purpose and themselves; but the strongest struggle on, and, after danger and defeat, earn at last the best success this world can give us, the possession of a brave and cheer- ful spirit, rich in self-knowledge, self-control, self-help. This was the real desire of Christie's heart; this was to be her lesson and reward, and to this happy end she was slowly yet surely brought by the long discipline of life and labor. Sitting alone there in the night, she tried to strength- en herself with all the good and helpful memories she could recall, before she went away to find her place in the great unknown world. She thought of her mother, so like herself, who had borne the commonplace life of home till she could bear it no longer. Then had gone away to teach, as most country girls are forced to do. Had met, loved, and married a poor gentleman, and, after a few years of genuine happiness, untroubled even by much care and poverty, had followed him out of the world, leaving her little child to the protection of her brother. 12 WORK. Christie looked back over the long, lonely years she had spent in the old farm-house, plodding to school and church, and doing her tasks with kind Aunt Betsey while a child; and slowly growing into girlhood, with a world of romance locked up in a heart hungry for love and a larger, nobler life. She had tried to appease this hunger in many ways, but found little help. Her father's old books were all she could command, and these she wore out with much reading. Inheriting his refined tastes, she found noth- ing to attract her in the society of the commonplace and often coarse people about her. She tried to like the buxom girls whose one ambition was to " get mar- ried," and whose only subjects of conversation were "smart bonnets" and "nice dresses." She tried to believe that the admiration and regard of the bluff young farmers was worth striving for; but when one well-to-do neighbor laid his acres at her feet, she found it impossible to accept for her life's companion a man whose soul was wrapped up in prize cattle and big turnips. Uncle Enos never could forgive her for this piece of folly, and Christie plainly saw that one of three things would surely happen, if she lived on there with no vent for her full heart and busy mind. She would either marry Joe Butterfield in sheer desperation, and become a farmer's household drudge; settle down into a sour spinster, content to make butter, gossip, and lay up money all her days; or do what poor Matty Stone had done, try to crush and curb her needs and aspirations till the struggle grew too hard, and then in a fit of despair end her life, and leave a tragic story to haunt their quiet river. CHRISTIE. 13 To escape these fates but one way appeared; to break loose from this narrow life, go out into the world and see what she could do for herself. This idea was full of enchantment to the eager girl, and, after much earnest thought, she had resolved to try it. "If I fail, I can come back," she said to herself, even while she scorned the thought of failure, for with all her shy pride she was both brave and ardent and her dreams were of the rosiest sort. "I won't marry Joe; I won't wear myself out in a district-school for the mean sum they give a woman; I won't delve away here where I'm not wanted; and I won't end my life like a coward, because it is dull and hard. I'll try my fate as mother did, and perhaps I may succeed as well." And Christie's thoughts went wandering away into the dim, sweet past when she, a happy child, lived with loving parents in a different world from that. Lost in these tender memories, she sat till the old moon-faced clock behind the door struck twelve, then the visions vanished, leaving their benison behind them. As she glanced backward at the smouldering fire, a slender spire of flame shot up from the log that had blazed so cheerily, and shone upon her as she went. A good omen, gratefully accepted then, and remembered often in the years to come. CHAPTER II. SERVANT. A FORTNIGHT later, and Christie was off. Mrs. Flint had briefly answered that she had a room, and that work was always to be found in the city. So the girl packed her one trunk, folding away splendid hopes among her plain gowns, and filling every corner with happy fancies, utterly impossible plans, and tender little dreams, so lovely at the time, so pathetic to remember, when contact with the hard realities of life has collapsed our bright bubbles, and the frost of disap- pointment nipped all our morning glories in their prime. The old red stage stopped at Enos Devon's door, and his niece crossed the threshold after a cool hand- shake with the master of the house, and a close em- brace with the mistress, who stood pouring out last words with spectacles too dim for seeing. Fat Ben swung up the trunk, slammed the door, mounted his perch, and the ancient vehicle swayed with premonitory symptoms of departure. Then something smote Christie's heart. "Stop!" she cried, and springing out ran back into the dismal room where the old man sat. Straight up to him she went with outstretched hand, saying steadily, though her face was full of feeling: SERVANT. 15 "Uncle, I'm not satisfied with that good-bye. I don't mean to be sentimental, but I do want to say, 'Forgive me!' I see now that I might have made you sorry to part with me, if I had tried to make you love me more. It's too late now, but I 'm not too proud to confess when I'm wrong. I want to part kindly; I ask your pardon; I thank you for all you've done for me, and I say good-bye affectionately now." Mr. Devon had a heart somewhere, though it seldom troubled him; but it did make itself felt when the girl looked at him with his dead sister's eyes, and spoke in a tone whose unaccustomed tenderness was a reproach. Conscience had pricked him more than once that week, and he was glad to own it now; his rough sense of honor was touched by her frank expression, and, as he answered, his hand was offered readily. "I like that, Kitty, and think the better of you for't. Let bygones be bygones. I gen'lly got as good as I give, and I guess I deserved some on't. I wish you wal, my girl, I heartily wish you wal, and hope you won't forgit that the old house ain't never shet aginst you." Christie astonished him with a cordial kiss; then bestowing another warm hug on Aunt Niobe, as she called the old lady in a tearful joke, she ran into the carriage, taking with her all the sunshine of the place. Christie found Mrs. Flint a dreary woman, with "boarders" written all over her sour face and faded figure. Butcher's bills and house rent seemed to fill her eyes with sleepless anxiety; thriftless cooks and saucy housemaids to sharpen the tones of her shrill 16 WORK. voice; and an incapable husband to burden her shoul- ders like a modern "Old man of the sea." A little room far up in the tall house was at the girl's disposal for a reasonable sum, and she took possession, feeling very rich with the hundred dollars Uncle Enos gave her, and delightfully independent, with no milk- pans to scald; no heavy lover to elude; no humdrum district school to imprison her day after day. For a week she enjoyed her liberty heartily, then set about finding something to do. Her wish was to be a governess, that being the usual refuge for respectable girls who have a living to get. But Christie soon found her want of accomplishments a barrier to success in that line, for the mammas thought less of the solid than of the ornamental branches, and wished their little dar- lings to learn French before English, music before grammar, and drawing before writing. So, after several disappointments, Christie decided that her education was too old-fashioned for the city, and gave up the idea of teaching. Sewing she resolved not to try till every thing else failed; and, after a few more attempts to get writing to do, she said to herself, in a fit of humility and good sense: "I'll begin at the beginning, and work my way up. I'll put my pride in my pocket, and go out to service. Housework I like, and can do well, thanks to Aunt Betsey. I never thought it degradation to do it for her, so why should I mind doing it for others if they pay for it? It isn't what I want, but it's betterthan idleness, so I 'll try it!" Full of this wise resolution, she took to haunting that purgatory of the poor, an intelligence office. Mrs. Flint gave her a recommendation, and she hopefully SERVANT. 17 took her place among the ranks of buxom German, incapable Irish, and "smart" American women; for in those days foreign help had not driven farmers' daugh- ters out of the field, and made domestic comfort a lost art. At first Christie enjoyed the novelty of the thing, and watched with interest the anxious housewives who flocked in demanding that rara avis, an angel at nine shillings a week; and not finding it, bewailed the degeneracy of the times. Being too honest to profess herself absolutely perfect in every known branch of house-work, it was some time before she suited herself. Meanwhile, she was questioned and lectured, half en- gaged and kept waiting, dismissed for a whim, and so worried that she began to regard herself as the incar- nation of all human vanities and shortcomings. "A desirable place in a small, genteel family," was at last offered her, and she posted away to secure it, having reached a state of desperation and resolved to go as a first-class cook rather than sit with her hands before her any longer. A well-appointed house, good wages, and light duties seemed things to be grateful for, and Christie decided that going out to service was not the hardest fate in life, as she stood at the door of a handsome house in a sunny square waiting to be inspected. Mrs. Stuart, having just returned from Italy, affected the artistic, and the new applicant found her with a Roman scarf about her head, a rosary like a string of small cannon balls at her side, and azure draperies which became her as well as they did the sea-green furniture of her marine boudoir, where unwary walkers SERVANT. 19 tripped over coral and shells, grew sea-sick looking at pictures of tempestuous billows engulfing every sort of craft, from a man-of-war to a hencoop with a ghostly young lady clinging to it with one hand, and had their appetites effectually taken away by a choice collection of water-bugs and snakes in a glass globe, that looked like a jar of mixed pickles in a state of agitation. MRS. STUART. SERVANT. 19 Madame was intent on a water-color copy of Turner's "Rain, Wind, and Hail," that pleasing work which was sold upsidedown and no one found it out. Motioning Christie to a seat she finished some delicate sloppy process before speaking. In that little pause Christie examined her, and the impression then received was afterward confirmed. Mrs. Stuart possessed some beauty and chose to think herself a queen of society. She assumed majestic man- ners in public and could not entirely divest herself of them in private, which often produced comic effects. Zenobia troubled about fish-sauce, or Aspasia indignant at the price of eggs will give some idea of this lady when she condescended to the cares of housekeeping. Presently she looked up and inspected the girl as if a new servant were no more than a new bonnet, a necessary article to be ordered home for examination. Christie presented her recommendation, made her mod- est little speech, and awaited her doom. Mrs. Stuart read, listened, and then demanded with queenly brevity: "Your name?" "Christie Devon." "Too long; I should prefer to call you Jane as I am accustomed to the name." "As you please, ma'am. "Your age?" "Twenty-one." "You are an American?" "Yes, ma'am." I Mrs. Stuart gazed into space a moment, then deliv- ered the following address with impressive solemnity. 20 WORK. "I wish a capable, intelligent, honest, neat, well-con- ducted person who knows her place and keeps it. The work is light, as there are but two in the family. I am very particular and so is Mr. Stuart. I pay two dollars and a half, allow one afternoon out, one service on Sun- day, and no followers. My table-girl must understand her duties thoroughly, be extremly neat, and always wear white aprons." "I think I can suit you, ma'am, when I have learned the ways of the house," meekly replied Christie. Mrs. Stuart looked graciously satisfied and returned the paper with a gesture that Victoria might have used in restoring a granted petition, though her next words rather marred the effect of the regal act, "My cook is black." "I have no objection to color, ma'am." An expression of relief dawned upon Mrs. Stuart's countenance, for the black cook had been an insur- mountable obstacle to all the Irish ladies who had applied. Thoughtfully tapping her Roman nose with the handle of her brush Madame took another survey of the new applicant, and seeing that she looked neat, intelligent, and respectful, gave a sigh of thankfulness and engaged her on the spot. Much elated Christie rushed home, selected a bag of necessary articles, bundled the rest of her possessions into an empty closet (lent her rent-free owing to a pro- fusion of cockroaches), paid up her board, and at two o'clock introduced herself to Hepsey Johnson, her fellow servant. Hepsey was a tall, gaunt woman, bearing the tragedy of her race written in her face, with its melancholy SERVANT. 21 eyes, subdued expression, and the pathetic patience of a wronged dumb animal. She received Christie with an air of resignation, and speedily bewildered her with an account of the duties she would be expected to per- form. A long and careful drill enabled Christie to set the table with but few mistakes, and to retain a tolerably clear recollection of the order of performances. She had just assumed her badge of servitude, as she called the white apron, when the bell rang violently and Hep- sey, who was hurrying away to "dish up," said: "It's de marster. You has to answer de bell, honey, and he likes it done bery spry." Christie ran and admitted an impetuous, stout gentle- man, who appeared to be incensed against the elements, for he burst in as if blown, shook himself like a New- foundland dog, and said all in one breath: "You're the new girl, are you? Well, take my umbrella and pull off my rubbers." "Sir?" Mr. Stuart was struggling with his gloves, and, quite unconscious of the astonishment of his new maid, impa- tiently repeated his request. "Take this wet thing away, and pull off my over- shoes. Don't you see it's raining like the very deuce!" Christie folded her lips together in a peculiar manner as she knelt down and removed a pair of muddy over- shoes, took the dripping umbrella, and was walking away with her agreeable burden when Mr. Stuart gave her another shock by calling over the banister: "I'm going out again; so clean those rubbers, and 22 WORK. see that the boots I sent down this morning are in order." "Yes, sir," answered Christie meekly, and imme- diately afterward startled Hepsey by casting overshoes and umbrella upon the kitchen floor, and indignantly demanding: "Am I expected to be a boot-jack to that man?" "I 'spects you is, honey." "Am I also expected to clean his boots?" "Yes, chile. Katy did, and de work ain't hard when you gits used to it." "It isn't the work; it's the degradation; and I won't submit to it." Christie looked fiercely determined; but Hepsey shook her head, saying quietly as she went on garnish- ing a dish: "Dere's more 'gradin' works dan dat, chile, and dem dat's bin 'bliged to do um finds dis sort bery easy. You's paid for it, honey; and if you does it willin, it won't hurt you more dan washin' de marster's dishes, or sweepin' his rooms." "There ought to be a boy to do this sort of thing. Do you think it's right to ask it of me?" cried Christie, feeling that being servant was not as pleasant a task as she had thought it. "Dunno, chile. I'se shore I'd never ask it of any woman if I was a man, 'less I was sick or ole. But folks don't seem to 'member dat we've got feelin's, and de best way is not to mind dese ere little trubbles. You jes leave de boots to me; blackin' can't do dese ole hands no hurt, and dis ain't no deggydation to me now; I's a free woman." SERVANT. 23 "Why, Hepsey, were you ever a slave?" asked the girl, forgetting her own small injury at this suggestion of the greatest of all wrongs. "All my life, till I run away five year ago. My ole folks, and eight brudders and sisters, is down dere in de pit now, waitin' for the Lord to set 'em free. And He's gwine to do it soon, soon!" As she uttered the last words, a sudden light chased the tragic shadow from Hepsey's face, and the solemn fervor of her voice thrilled Christie's heart. All her anger died out in a great pity, and she put her hand on the woman's shoul- der, saying earnestly: "I hope so; and I wish I could help to bring that happy day at once!" For the first time Hepsey smiled, as she said grate- fully, "De Lord bress you for dat wish, chile." Then, dropping suddenly into her old, quiet way, she added, turning to her work: "Now you tote up de dinner, and I'll be handy by to 'fresh your mind 'bout how de dishes goes, for missis is bery 'ticular, and don't like no 'stakes in tendin'." Thanks to her own neat-handed ways and Hepsey's prompting through the slide, Christie got on very well; managed her salver dexterously, only upset one glass, clashed one dish-cover, and forgot to sugar the pie before putting it on the table; an omission which was majestically pointed out, and graciously pardoned as a first offence. By seven o'clock the ceremonial was fairly over, and Christie dropped into a chair quite tired out with fre- quent pacings to and fro. In the kitchen she found the table spread for one, and Hepsey busy with the boots. 24 WORK. "Aren't you coming to your dinner, Mrs. Johnson?" she asked, not pleased at the arrangement. "When you's done, honey; dere's no hurry 'bout me. Katy liked dat way best, and I'se used ter waitin'." "But I don't like that way, and I won't have it. I suppose Katy thought her white skin gave her a right to be disrespectful to a woman old enough to be her mother just because she was black. I don't; and while I'm here, there must be no difference made. If we can work together, we can eat together; and because you have been a slave is all the more reason I should be good to you now." If Hepsey had been surprised by the new girl's pro- test against being made a boot-jack of, she was still more surprised at this sudden kindness, for she had set Christie down in her own mind as "one ob dem toppin' smart ones dat don't stay long nowheres. "She changed her opinion now, and sat watching the girl with a new expression on her face, as Christie took boot and brush from her, and fell to work energetically, saying as she scrubbed: "I'm ashamed of complaining about such a little thing as this, and don't mean to feel degraded by it, though I should by letting you do it for me. I never lived out before: that's the reason I made a fuss. There's a polish, for you, and I'm in a good humor again; so Mr. Stuart may call for his boots whenever he likes, and we 'll go to dinner like fashionable people, as we are." There was something so irresistible in the girl's hearty manner, that Hepsey submitted at once with a visible satisfaction, which gave a relish to Christie's dinner, SERVANT. 25 though it was eaten at a kitchen table, with a bare- armed cook sitting opposite, and three rows of bur- nished dish-covers reflecting the dreadful spectacle. After this, Christie got on excellently, for she did her best, and found both pleasure and profit in her new employment. It gave her real satisfaction to keep the handsome rooms in order, to polish plate, and spread bountiful meals. There was an atmosphere of ease and comfort about her which contrasted agreeably with the shabbiness of Mrs. Flint's boarding-house, and the bare simplicity of the old home. Like most young people, Christie loved luxury, and was sensible enough to see and value the comforts of her situation, and to wonder why more girls placed as she was did not choose a life like this rather than the confinements of a sewing-room, or the fatigue and publicity of a shop. She did not learn to love her mistress, because Mrs. Stuart evidently considered herself as one belonging to a superior race of beings, and had no desire to establish any of the friendly relations that may become so help- ful and pleasant to both mistress and maid. She made a royal progress through her dominions every morning, issued orders, found fault liberally, bestowed praise sparingly, and took no more personal interest in her ser- vants than if they were clocks, to be wound up once a day, and sent away the moment they got out of repair. Mr. Stuart was absent from morning till night, and all Christie ever knew about him was that he was a kind-hearted, hot-tempered, and very conceited man; fond of his wife, proud of the society they managed to draw about them, and bent on making his way in the world at any cost. 26 WORK. If masters and mistresses knew how skilfully they are studied, criticised, and imitated by their servants, they would take more heed to their ways, and set better examples, perhaps. Mrs. Stuart never dreamed that her quiet, respectful Jane kept a sharp eye on all her movements, smiled covertly at her affectations, envied her accomplishments, and practised certain little elegancies that struck her fancy. Mr. Stuart would have become apoplectic with indig- nation if he had known that this too intelligent table- girl often contrasted her master with his guests, and dared to think him wanting in good breeding when he boasted of his money, flattered a great man, or laid plans to lure some lion into his house. When he lost his temper, she always wanted to laugh, he bounced and bumbled about so like an angry blue-bottle fly; and when he got himself up elaborately for a party, this disrespectful hussy confided to Hepsey her opinion that "master was a fat dandy, with nothing to be vain of but his clothes,"--a sacrilegious remark which would have caused her to be summarily ejected from the house if it had reached the august ears of master or mistress. "My father was a gentleman; and I shall never for- get it, though I do go out to service. I've got no rich friends to help me up, but, sooner or later, I mean to find a place among cultivated people; and while I'm working and waiting, I can be fitting myself to fill that place like a gentlewoman I am." With this ambition in her mind, Christie took notes of all that went on in the polite world, of which she got frequent glimpses while "living out." Mrs. Stuart SERVANT. 27 received one evening of each week, and on these occa- sions Christie, with an extra frill on her white apron, served the company, and enjoyed herself more than they did, if the truth had been known. While helping the ladies with their wraps, she observed what they wore, how they carried them- selves, and what a vast amount of prinking they did, not to mention the flood of gossip they talked while shaking out their flounces and settling their topknots. Later in the evening, when she passed cups and glasses, this demure-looking damsel heard much fine discourse, saw many famous beings, and improved her mind with surreptitious studies of the rich and great when on parade. But her best time was after supper, when, through the crack of the door of the little room where she was supposed to be clearing away the relics of the feast, she looked and listened at her ease; laughed at the wits, stared at the lions, heard the music, was impressed by the wisdom, and much edified by the gentility of the whole affair. After a time, however, Christie got rather tired of it, for there was an elegant sameness about these evenings that became intensely wearisome to the uninitiated, but she fancied that as each had his part to play he man- aged to do it with spirit. Night after night the wag told his stories, the poet read his poems, the singers warbled, the pretty women simpered and dressed, the heavy scientific was duly discussed by the elect precious, and Mrs. Stuart, in amazing costumes, sailed to and fro in her most swan-like manner; while my lord stirred up the lions he had captured, till they roared their best, great and small. 28 WORK. "Good heavens! why don't they do or say something new and interesting, and not keep twaddling on about art, and music, and poetry, and cosmos? The papers are full of appeals for help for the poor, reforms of all sorts, and splendid work that others are doing; but these people seem to think it isn't genteel enough to be spoken of here. I suppose it is all very elegant to go on like a set of trained canaries, but it's very dull fun to watch them, and Hepsey's stories are a deal more interesting to me." Having come to this conclusion, after studying dilet- tanteism through the crack of the door for some months, Christie left the "trained canaries" to twitter and hop about their gilded cage, and devoted herself to Hepsey, who gave her glimpses into another sort of life so bit- terly real that she never could forget it. HEPSEY. Friendship had prospered in teh lower regions, for Hepsey had a motherly heart, and Christie soon won SERVANT. 29 her confidence by bestowing her own. Her story was like many another; yet, being the first Christie had ever heard, and told with the unconscious eloquence of one who had suffered and escaped, it made a deep im- pression on her, bringing home to her a sense of obliga- tion so forcibly that she began at once to pay a little part of the great debt which the white race owes the black. Christie loved books; and the attic next her own was full of them. To this store she found her way by a sort of instinct as sure as that which leads a fly to a honey- pot, and, finding many novels, she read her fill. This amusement lightened many heavy hours, peopled the silent house with troops of friends, and, for a time, was the joy of her life. Hepsey used to watch her as she sat buried in her book when the day's work was done, and once a heavy sigh roused Christie from the most exciting crisis of "The Abbot." "What's the matter? Are you very tired, Aunty?" she asked, using the name that came most readily to her lips. "No, honey; I was only wishin' I could read fast like you does. I's berry slow 'bout readin' and I want to learn a heap," answered Hepsey, with such a wistful look in her soft eyes that Christie shut her book, saying briskly: "Then I'll teach you. Bring out your primer and let's begin at once." "Dear chile, it's orful hard work to put learnin' in my ole head, and I wouldn't 'cept such a ting from you only I needs dis sort of help so bad, and I can trust you to gib it to me as I wants it." 30 WORK. Then in a whisper that went straight to Christie's art, Hepsey told her plan and showed what help she craved. For five years she had worked hard, and saved her earnings for the purpose of her life. When a consider- able sum had been hoarded up, she confided it to one, whom she believed to be a friend, and sent him to buy her old mother. But be proved false, and she never saw either mother or money. It was a hard blow, but she took heart and went to work again, resolving this time to trust no one with the dangerous part of the affair, but when she had scraped together enough to pay her way she meant to go South and steal her mother at the risk of her life. "I don't want much money, but I must know little 'bout readin' and countin' up, else I'll get lost and cheated. You'll help me do dis, honey, and I'll bless you all my days, and so will my old mammy, if I ever gets her safe away." With tears of sympathy shining on her cheeks, and both hands stretched out to the poor soul who implored this small boon of her, Christie promised all the help that in her lay, and kept her word religiously. From that time, Hepsey's cause was hers; she laid by a part of her wages for "ole mammy," she com- forted Hepsey with happy prophecies of success, and taught with an energy and skill she had never known before. Novels lost their charms now, for Hepsey could give her a comedy and tragedy surpassing any thing she found in them, because truth stamped her tales with a power and pathos the most gifted fancy could but poorly imitate. SERVANT. 31 The select receptions upstairs seemed duller than ever to her now, and her happiest evenings were spent in the tidy kitchen, watching Hepsey laboriously shap- A's and B's, or counting up on her worn fingers the wages they had earned by months of weary work, that she might purchase one treasure,--a feeble, old woman, worn out with seventy years of slavery far away there in Virginia. For a year Christie was a faithful servant to her mistress, who appreciated her virtues, but did not encourage them; a true friend to poor Hepsey, who loved her dearly, and found in her sympathy and affec- tion a solace for many griefs and wrongs. But Provi- dence had other lessons for Christie, and when this one was well learned she was sent away to learn another phase of woman's life and labor. While their domestics amused themselves with privy conspiracy and rebellion at home, Mr. and Mrs. Stuart spent their evenings in chasing that bright bubble called social success, and usually came home rather cross because they could not catch it. On one of these occasions they received a warm welcome, for, as they approached the house, smoke was seen issuing from an attic window, and flames flickering behind the half-drawn curtain. Bursting out of the carriage with his usual impetuosity, Mr. Stuart let him- self in and tore upstairs shouting "Fire!" like an engine company. In the attic Christie was discovered lying dressed upon her bed, asleep or suffocated by the smoke that filled the room. A book had slipped from her hand, and in falling had upset the candle on a chair beside 32 WORK. her; the long wick leaned against a cotton gown hang- ing on the wall, and a greater part of Christie's ward- robe was burning brilliantly. "I forbade her to keep the gas lighted so late, and see what the deceitful creature has done with her pri- vate candle!" cried Mrs. Stuart with a shrillness that roused the girl from her heavy sleep more effectually than the anathemas Mr. Stuart was fulminating against the fire. Sitting up she looked dizzily about her. The smoke was clearing fast, a window having been opened; and the tableau was a striking one. Mr. Stuart with an excited countenance was dancing frantically on a heap of half-consumed clothes pulled from the wall. He had not only drenched them with water from bowl and pitcher, but had also cast those articles upon the pile like extinguishers, and was skipping among the frag- ments with an agility which contrasted with his stout figure in full evening costume, and his besmirched face, made the sight irresistibly ludicrous. Mrs. Stuart, though in her most regal array, seemed to have left her dignity downstairs with her opera cloak, for with skirts gathered closely about her, tiara all askew, and face full of fear and anger, she stood upon a chair and scolded like any shrew. The comic overpowered the tragic, and being a little hysterical with the sudden alarm, Christie broke into a peal of laughter that sealed her fate. "Look at her! look at her!" cried Mrs. Stuart gestic- ulating on her perch as if about to fly. "She has been at the wine, or lost her wits. She must go, Horatio, she must go! I cannot have my nerves shattered by SERVANT. 33 such dreadful scenes. She is too fond of books, and it has turned her brain. Hepsey can watch her to-night, and at dawn she shall leave the house for ever." "Not till after breakfast, my dear. Let us have that in comfort I beg, for upon my soul we shall need it," panted Mr. Stuart, sinking into a chair exhausted with the vigorous measures which had quenched the con- flagration. Christie checked her untimely mirth, explained the probable cause of the mischief, and penitently promised to be more careful for the future. Mr. Stuart would have pardoned her on the spot, but Madame was inexorable, for she had so completely for- gotten her dignity that she felt it would be impossible ever to recover it in the eyes of this disrespectful menial. Therefore she dismissed her with a lecture that made both mistress and maid glad to part. She did not appear at breakfast, and after that meal Mr. Stuart paid Christie her wages with a solemnity which proved that he had taken a curtain lecture to heart. There was a twinkle in his eye, however, as he kindly added a recommendation, and after the door closed behind him Christie was sure that he exploded into a laugh at the recollection of his last night's per- formance. This lightened her sense of disgrace very much, so, leaving a part of her money to repair damages, she packed up her dilapidated wardrobe, and, making Hep- sey promise to report progress from time to time, Chris- tie went back to Mrs. Flint's to compose her mind and be ready à la Micawber "for something to turn up." CHAPTER III. ACTRESS. FEELING that she had all the world before her where to choose, and that her next step ought to take her up at least one round higher on the ladder she was climbing, Christie decided not to try going out to service again. She knew very well that she would never live with Irish mates, and could not expect to find another Hepsey. So she tried to get a place as companion to an invalid, but failed to secure the only situation of the sort that was offered her, because she mildly objected to waiting on a nervous cripple all day, and reading aloud half the night. The old lady called her an "impertinent baggage," and Christie retired in great disgust, resolving not to be a slave to anybody. Things seldom turn out as we plan them, and after much waiting and hoping for other work Christie at last accepted about the only employment which had not entered her mind. Among the boarders at Mrs. Flint's were an old lady and her pretty daughter, both actresses at a respectable theatre. Not stars by any means, but good second-rate players, doing their work creditably and earning an honest living. The mother had been kind to Christie in offering advice, and sympathizing with her disap- ACTRESS. 35 pointments. The daughter, a gay little lass, had taken Christie to the theatre several times, there to behold her in all the gauzy glories that surround the nymphs of spectacular romance. To Christie this was a great delight, for, though she had pored over her father's Shakespeare till she knew many scenes by heart, she had never seen a play till Lucy led her into what seemed an enchanted world. Her interest and admiration pleased the little actress, and sundry lifts when she was hurried with her dresses made her grateful to Christie. The girl's despondent face, as she came in day after day from her unsuccessful quest, told its own story, though she uttered no complaint, and these friendly souls laid their heads together, eager to help her in their own dramatic fashion. "I've got it! I've got it! All hail to the queen!" was the cry that one day startled Christie as she sat thinking anxiously, while sewing mock-pearls on a crown for Mrs. Black. Looking up she saw Lucy just home from rehearsal, going through a series of pantomimic evolutions sug- gestive of a warrior doing battle with incredible valor, and a very limited knowledge of the noble art of self- defence. "What have you got? Who is the queen?" she asked, laughing, as the breathless hero lowered her umbrella, and laid her bonnet at Christie's feet. "You are to be the Queen of the Amazons in our new spectacle, at half a dollar a night for six or eight weeks, if the piece goes well." "No!" cried Christie, with a gasp. 36 WORK. "Yes!" cried Lucy, clapping her hands; and then she proceeded to tell her news with theatrical volubil- ity. "Mr. Sharp, the manager, wants a lot of tallish girls, and I told him I knew of a perfect dear. He said: 'Bring her on, then,' and I flew home to tell you. Now, don't look wild, and say no. You've only got to sing in one chorus, march in the grand procession, and lead your band in the terrific battle-scene. The dress is splendid! Red tunic, tiger-skin over shoulder, helmet, shield, lance, fleshings, sandals, hair down, and as much cork to your eyebrows as you like." Christie certainly did look wild, for Lucy had burst into the room like a small hurricane, and her rapid words rattled about the listeners' ears as if a hail-storm had followed the gust. While Christie still sat with her mouth open, too bewildered to reply, Mrs. Black said in her cosey voice: "Try it, me dear, it's just what you'll enjoy, and a capital beginning I assure ye; for if you do well old Sharp will want you again, and then, when some one slips out of the company, you can slip in, and there you are quite comfortable. Try it, me dear, and if you don't like it drop it when the piece is over, and there's no harm done." "It's much easier and jollier than any of the things you are after. We'll stand by you like bricks, and in a week you'll say it's the best lark you ever had in your life. Don't be prim, now, but say yes, like a trump, as you are," added Lucy, waving a pink satin train tempt- ingly before her friend. "I will try it!" said Christie, with sudden decision, feeling that something entirely new and absorbing was ACTRESS. 37 what she needed to expend the vigor, romance, and enthusiasm of her youth upon. With a shriek of delight Lucy swept her off her chair, and twirled her about the room as excitable young ladies are fond of doing when their joyful emo- tions need a vent. When both were giddy they sub- sided into a corner and a breathless discussion of the important step. Though she had consented, Christie had endless doubts and fears, but Lucy removed many of the former, and her own desire for pleasant employment conquered many of the latter. In her most despairing moods she had never thought of trying this. Uncle Enos consid- ered "play-actin'" as the sum of all iniquity. What would he say if she went calmly to destruction by that road? Sad to relate, this recollection rather strength- ened her purpose, for a delicious sense of freedom per- vaded her soul, and the old defiant spirit seemed to rise up within her at the memory of her Uncle's grim prophecies and narrow views. "Lucy is happy, virtuous, and independent, why can't I be so too if I have any talent? It isn't exactly what I should choose, but any thing honest is better than idleness. I'll try it any way, and get a little fun, even if I don't make much money or glory out of it." So Christie held to her resolution in spite of many secret misgivings, and followed Mrs. Black's advice on all points with a docility which caused that sanguine lady to predict that she would be a star before she knew where she was. "Is this the stage? How dusty and dull it is by daylight!" said Christie next day, as she stood by Lucy 38 WORK. on the very spot where she had seen Hamlet die in great anguish two nights before. "Bless you, child, it's in curl-papers now, as I am of a morning. Mr. Sharp, here's an Amazon for you." As she spoke, Lucy hurried across the stage, followed by Christie, wearing any thing but an Amazonian expression just then. "Ever on before?" abruptly asked a keen-faced, little man, glancing with an experienced eye at the young person who stood before him bathed in blushes. "No, sir." "Do you sing?" A little, sir." "Dance, of course?" "Yes, sir." "Just take a turn across the stage, will you? Must walk well to lead a march." As she went, Christie heard Mr. Sharp taking notes audibly: "Good tread; capital figure; fine eye. She 'll make up well, and behave herself, I fancy." A strong desire to make off seized the girl; but, remembering that she had presented herself for inspec- tion, she controlled the impulse, and returned to him with no demonstration of displeasure, but a little more fire in "the fine eye," and a more erect carriage of the "capital figure." "All right, my dear. Give your name to Mr. Tripp, and your mind to the business, and consider yourself engaged,"--with which satisfactory remark the little man vanished like a ghost. "Lucy, did you hear that impertinent 'my dear'?" ACTRESS. 89 asked Christie, whose sense of propriety had received its first shock. "Lord, child, all managers do it. They don't mean any thing; so be resigned, and thank your stars he didn't say 'love' and 'darling,' and kiss you, as old Vining used to," was all the sympathy she got. Having obeyed orders, Lucy initiated her into the mysteries of the place, and then put her in a corner to look over the scenes in which she was to appear. Chris- tie soon caught the idea of her part,--not a difficult matter, as there were but few ideas in the whole piece, after which she sat watching the arrival of the troop she was to lead. A most forlorn band of warriors they seemed, huddled together, and looking as if afraid to speak, lest they should infringe some rule; or to move, lest they be swallowed up by some unsuspected trap- door. Presently the ballet-master appeared, the orchestra struck up, and Christie found herself marching and counter-marching at word of command. At first, a most uncomfortable sense of the absurdity of her posi- tion oppressed and confused her; then the ludicrous contrast between the solemn anxiety of the troop and the fantastic evolutions they were performing amused her till the novelty wore off; the martial music excited her; the desire to please sharpened her wits; and natural grace made it easy for her to catch and copy the steps and poses given her to imitate. Soon she forgot herself, entered into the spirit of the thing, and exerted every sense to please, so successfully that Mr. Tripp praised her quickness at comprehension, Lucy applauded heartily from a fairy car, and Mr. Sharp 40 WORK. popped his head out of a palace window to watch the Amazon's descent from the Mountains of the Moon. When the regular company arrived, the troop was dismissed till the progress of the play demanded their reappearance. Much interested in the piece, Christie stood aside under a palm-tree, the foliage of which was strongly suggestive of a dilapidated green umbrella, enjoying the novel sights and sounds about her. Yellow-faced gentlemen and sleepy-eyed ladies roamed languidly about with much incoherent jabbering of parts, and frequent explosions of laughter. Princes, with varnished boots and suppressed cigars, fought, bled, and died, without a change of countenance. Damsels of unparalleled beauty, according to the text, gaped in the faces of adoring lovers, and crocheted serenely on the brink of annihilation. Fairies, in rub- ber-boots and woollen head-gear, disported themselves on flowery barks of canvas, or were suspended aloft with hooks in their backs like young Hindoo devotees. Demons, guiltless of hoof or horn, clutched their victims with the inevitable "Ha! ha!" and vanished darkly, eating pea-nuts. The ubiquitous Mr. Sharp seemed to pervade the whole theatre; for his voice came shrilly from above or spectrally from below, and his active little figure darted to and fro like a critical will-o-the- wisp. The grand march and chorus in the closing scene were easily accomplished; for, as Lucy bade her, Chris- tie "sung with all her might," and kept step as she led her band with the dignity of a Boadicea. No one spoke to her; few observed her; all were intent on their own affairs; and when the final shriek and bang ACTRESS. 41 died away without lifting the roof by its din, she could hardly believe that the dreaded first rehearsal was safely over. A visit to the wardrobe-room to see her dress came next; and here Christie had a slight skirmish with the mistress of that department relative to the length of her classical garments. As studies from the nude had not yet become one of the amusements of the élite of Little Babel, Christie was not required to appear in the severe simplicity of a costume consisting of a necklace, sandals, and a bit of gold fiinge about the waist, but was allowed an extra inch or two on her tunic, and departed, much comforted by the assurance that her dress would not be "a shock to modesty," as Lucy expressed it. "Now, look at yourself, and, for my sake, prove an honor to your country and a terror to the foe," said Lucy, as she led her protégée before the green-room mirror on the first night of "The Demon's Daughter, or The Castle of the Sun!! The most Magnificent Spectacle ever produced upon the American Stage!!!" Christie looked, and saw a warlike figure with glitter- ing helmet, shield and lance, streaming hair and savage cloak. She liked the picture, for there was much of the heroic spirit in the girl, and even this poor coun- terfeit pleased her eye and filled her fancy with martial memories of Joan of Arc, Zenobia, and Brito- marte. "Go to!" cried Lucy, who affected theatrical modes of speech. "Don't admire yourself any longer, but tie up your sandals and come on. Be sure you rush down the instant I cry, 'Demon, I defy thee!' Don't break 42 WORK. your neck, or pick your way like a cat in wet weather, but come with effect, for I want that scene to make a hit." CHRISTIE AS QUEEN OF THE AMAZONS. Princess Caremfil swept away, and the Amazonian queen climbed to her perch among the painted moun- tains, where her troop already sat like a flock of pigeons shining in the sun. The gilded breast-plate rose and fell with the quick beating of her heart, the spear shook with the trembling of her hand, her lips were dry, her head dizzy, and more than once, as she waited for her cue, she was sorely tempted to run away and take the consequences. But the thought of Lucy's good-will and confidence kept her, and when the cry came she answered with a ACTRESS. 43 ringing shout, rushed down the ten-foot precipice, and charged upon the foe with an energy that inspired her followers, and quite satisfied the princess struggling in the demon's grasp. With clashing of arms and shrill war-cries the rescu- ers of innocence assailed the sooty fiends who fell before their unscientific blows with a rapidity which inspired in the minds of beholders a suspicion that the goblins' own voluminous tails tripped them up and gallantry kept them prostrate. As the last groan expired, the last agonized squirm subsided, the conquerors per- formed the intricate dance with which it appears the Amazons were wont to celebrate their victories. Then the scene closed with a glare of red light and a "grand tableau" of the martial queen standing in a bower of lances, the rescued princess gracefully fainting in her arms, and the vanquished demon scowling fiercely under her foot, while four-and-twenty dishevelled dam- sels sang a song of exultation, to the barbaric music of a tattoo on their shields. All went well that night, and when at last the girls doffed crown and helmet, they confided to one another the firmn opinion that the success of the piece was in a great measure owing to their talent, their exertions, and went gaily home predicting for themselves careers as brilliant as those of Siddons and Rachel. It would be a pleasant task to paint the vicissitudes and victories of a successful actress; but Christie was no dramatic genius born to shine before the world and leave a name behind her. She had no talent except that which may be developed in any girl possessing the lively fancy, sympathetic nature, and ambitious 44 WORK. spirit which make such girls naturally dramatic. This was to be only one of many experiences which were to show her her own weakness and strength, and through effort, pain, and disappointment fit her to play a nobler part on a wider stage. For a few weeks Christie's illusions lasted; then she discovered that the new life was nearly as humdrum as the old, that her companions were ordinary men and women, and her bright hopes were growing as dim as her tarnished shield. She grew unutterably weary of "The Castle of the Sun," and found the "Demon's Daughter" an unmitigated bore. She wias not tired of the profession, only dissatisfied with the place she held in it, and eager to attempt a part that gave some scope for power and passion. Mrs. Black wisely reminded her that she must learn to use her wings before she tried to fly, and comforted her with stories of celebrities who had begun as she was beginning, yet who had suddenly burst from their grub-like obscurity to adorn the world as splendid butterflies. "We'll stand by you, Kit; so keep up your courage, and do your best. Be clever to every one in general, old Sharp in particular, and when a chance comes, have your wits about you and grab it. That's the way to get on," said Lucy, as sagely as if she had been a star for years. "If I had beauty I should stand a better chance," sighed Christie, surveying herself with great disfavor, quite unconscious that to a cultivated eye the soul of beauty was often visible in that face of hers, with its intelligent eyes, sensitive mouth, and fine lines about ACTRESS. 45. the forehead, making it a far more significant and attractive countenance than that of her friend, pos- sessing only piquant prettiness. "Never mind, child; you've got a lovely figure, and an actress's best feature, -- fine eyes and eyebrows. I heard old Kent say so, and he's a judge. So make the best of what you've got, as I do," answered Lucy, glancing at her own comely little person with an air of perfect resignation. Christie laughed at the adviser, but wisely took the advice, and, though she fretted in private, was cheerful and alert in public. Always modest, attentive, and obliging, she soon became a favorite with her mates, and, thanks to Lucy's good offices with Mr. Sharp, whose favorite she was, Christie got promoted sooner than she otherwise would have been. A great Christmas spectacle was brought out the next season, and Christie had a good part in it. When that was over she thought there was no hope for her, as the regular company was full and a different sort of performance was to begin. But just then her chance came, and she "grabbed it." The first soubrette died suddenly, and in the emergency Mr. Sharp offered the place to Christie till he could fill it to his mind. Lucy was second soubrette, and had hoped for this promo- tion; but Lucy did not sing well. Christie had a good voice, had taken lessons and much improved of late, so she had the preference and resolved to stand the test so well that this temporary elevation should become permanent. She did her best, and though many of the parts were distasteful to her she got through them successfully, 46 WORK. while now and then she had one which she thoroughly enjoyed. Her Tilly Slowboy was a hit, and a proud girl was Christie when Kent, the comedian, congratu- lated her on it, and told her he had seldom seen it better done. To find favor in Kent's eyes was an honor indeed, for he belonged to the old school, and rarely condescended to praise modern actors. His own style was so admi- rable that he was justly considered the first comedian in the country, and was the pride and mainstay of the old theatre where he had played for years. Of course he possessed much influence in that little world, and being a kindly man used it generously to help up any young aspirant who seemed to him deserving. He had observed Christie, attracted by her intelli- gent face and modest manners, for in spite of her youth there was a native refinement about her that made it impossible for her to romp and flirt as some of her mates did. But till she played Tilly he had not thought she possessed any talent. That pleased him, and seeing how mnch{sic} she valued his praise, and was flattered by his notice, he gave her the wise but unpalatable advice always offered young actors. Finding that she accepted it, was willing to study hard, work faithfully, and wait patiently, he predicted that in time she would make a clever actress, never a great one. Of course Christie thought he was mistaken, and secretly resolved to prove him a false prophet by the triumphs of her career. But she meekly bowed to his opinion; this docility pleased him, and he took a pater- nal sort of interest in her, which, coming from the pow- erful favorite, did her good service with the higher ACTRESS. 47 powers, and helped her on more rapidly than years of meritorious effort. Toward the end of that second season several of Dickens's dramatized novels were played, and Christie earned fresh laurels. She loved those books, and seemed by instinct to understand and personate the humor and pathos of many of those grotesque creations. Believing she had little beauty to sacrifice, she dressed such parts to the life, and played them with a spirit and ease that surprised those who had considered her a dignified and rather dull young person. "I'll tell you what it is, Sharp, that girl is going to make a capital character actress. When her parts suit, she forgets herself entirely and does admirably well. Her Miggs was nearly the death of me to-night. She's got that one gift, and it's a good one. You'd better give her a chance, for I think she'll be a credit to the old concern." Kent said that, -- Christie heard it, and flew to Lucy, waving Miggs's cap for joy as she told the news. "What did Mr. Sharp say?" asked Lucy, turning round with her face half "made up." "He merely said 'Hum,' and smiled. Wasn't that a good sign?" said Christie, anxiously. "Can't say," and Lucy touched up her eyebrows as if she took no interest in the affair. Christie's face fell, and her heart sunk at the thought of failure; but she kept up her spirits by working harder than ever, and soon had her reward. Mr. Sharp's "Hum" did mean yes, and the next season she was regularly engaged, with a salary of thirty dollars a week. 48 WORK. It was a grand step, and knowing that she owed it to Kent, Christie did her utmost to show that she deserved his good opinion. New trials and temptations beset her now, but hard work and an innocent nature kept her safe and busy. Obstacles only spurred her on to redoubled exertion, and whether she did well or ill, was praised or blamed, she found a never-failing excitement in her attempts to reach the standard of perfection she had set up for herself. Kent did not regret his patron- age. Mr. Sharp was satisfied with the success of the experiment, and Christie soon became a favorite in a small way, because behind the actress the public always saw a woman who never "forgot the modesty of nature." But as she grew prosperous in outward things, Chris- tie found herself burdened with a private cross that tried her very much. Lucy was no longer her friend; something had come between them, and a steadily increasing coldness took the place of the confidence and affection which had once existed. Lucy was jeal- ous for Christie had passed her in the race. She knew she could not fill the place Christie had gained by favor, and now held by her own exertions, still she was bitterly envious, though ashamed to own it. Christie tried to be just and gentle, to prove her gratitude to her first friend, and to show that her heart was unchanged. But she failed to win Lucy back and felt herself injured by such unjust resentment. Mrs. Black took her daughter's part, and though they pre- served the peace outwardly the old friendliness was quite gone. Hoping to forget this trouble in excitement Christie ACTRESS. 49 gave herself entirely to her profession, finding in it a satisfaction which for a time consoled her. But gradually she underwent the sorrowful change which comes to strong natures when they wrong them- selves through ignorance or wilfulness. Pride and native integrity kept her from the worst temptations of such a life, but to the lesser ones she yielded, growing selfish, frivolous, and vain, -- intent on her own advancement, and careless by what means she reached it. She had no thought now beyond her art, no desire beyond the commendation of those whose opinion was serviceable, no care for any one but her- self. Her love of admiration grew by what it fed on, till the sound of applause became the sweetest music to her ear. She rose with this hope, lay down with this satisfaction, and month after month passed in this fever- ish life, with no wish to change it, but a growing appe- tite for its unsatisfactory delights, an ever-increasing forgetfulness of any higher aspiration than dramatic fame. "Give me joy, Lucy, I'm to have a benefit next week! Everybody else has had one, and I've played for them all, so no one seemed to begrudge me my turn when dear old Kent proposed it," said Christie, coming in one night still flushed and excited with the good news. "What shall you have?" asked Lucy, trying to look pleased, and failing decidedly. "'Masks and Faces.' I've always wanted to play Peg. and it has good parts for you and Kent, and St. George. 50 WORK. I chose it for that reason, for I shall need all the help I can get to pull me through, I dare say." The smile vanished entirely at this speech, and Chris- tie was suddenly seized with a suspicion that Lucy was not only jealous of her as an actress, but as a woman. St. George was a comely young actor who usually played lovers' parts with Christie, and played them very well, too, being possessed of much talent, and a gentleman. They had never thought of falling in love with each other, though St. George wooed and won Christie night after night in vaudeville and farce. But it was very easy to imagine that so much mock passion had a basis of truth, and Lucy evidently tormented herself with this belief. "Why didn't you choose Juliet: St. George would do Romeo so well?" said Lucy, with a sneer. "No, that is beyond me. Kent says Shakespeare will never be my line, and I believe him. I should think you'd be satisfied with 'Masks and Faces,' for you know Mabel gets her husband safely back in the end," answered Christie, watching the effect of her words. "As if I wanted the man! No, thank you, other people's leavings won't suit me," cried Lucy, tossing her head, though her face belied her words. "Not even though he has 'heavenly eyes,' 'distract- ing legs,' and 'a melting voice?'" asked Christie mali- ciously, quoting Lucy's own rapturous speeches when the new actor came. "Come, come, girls, don't quarrel. I won't 'ave it in me room. Lucy's tired to death, and it's not nice of you, Kitty, to come and crow over her this way," said ACTRESS. 51 Mamma Black, coming to the rescue, for Lucy was in tears, and Christie looking dangerous. "It's impossible to please you, so I'll say good-night," and Christie went to her room with resentment burn- ing hotly in her heart. As she crossed the chamber her eye fell on her own figure reflected in the long glass, and with a sudden impulse she turned up the gas, wiped the rouge from her cheeks, pushed back her hair, and studied her own face intently for several moments. It was pale and jaded now, and all its freshness seemed gone; hard lines had come about the mouth, a feverish disquiet filled the eyes, and on the forehead seemed to lie the shadow of a discontent that saddened the whole face. If one could believe the testimony of that countenance things were not going well with Christie, and she owned it with a regretful sigh, as she asked herself, "Am I what I hoped I should be? No, and it is my fault. If three years of this life have made me this, what shall I be in ten? A fine actress perhaps, but how good a woman?" With gloomy eyes fixed on her altered face she stood a moment struggling with herself. Then the hard look returned, and she spoke out defiantly, as if in answer to some warning voice within herself. "No one cares what I am, so why care myself? Why not go on and get as much fame as I can? Success gives me power if it cannot give me happiness, and I must have some reward for my hard work. Yes! a gay life and a short one, then out with the lights and down with the curtain!" But in spite of her reckless words Christie sobbed 52 WORK. herself to sleep that night like a child who knows it is astray, yet cannot see the right path or hear its mother's voice calling it home. On the night of the benefit, Lucy was in a most exas- perating mood, Christie in a very indignant one, and as they entered their dressing-room they looked as if they might have played the Rival Queens with great effect. Lucy offered no help and Christie asked none, but putting her vexation resolutely out of sight fixed her mind on the task before her. As the pleasant stir began all about her, actress-like, she felt her spirits rise, her courage increase with every curl she fastened up, every gay garment she put on, and soon smiled approvingly at herself for excitement lent her cheeks a better color than rouge, her eyes shone with satisfaction, and her heart beat high with the resolve to make a hit or die. Christie needed encouragement that night, and found it in the hearty welcome that greeted her, and the full house, which proved how kind a regard was entertained for her by many who knew her only by a fictitious name. She felt this deeply, and it helped her much, for she was vexed with many trials those before the footlights knew nothing of. The other players were full of kindly interest in her success, but Lucy took a naughty satisfaction in har- assing her by all the small slights and unanswerable provocations which one actress has it in her power to inflict upon another. Christie was fretted almost beyond endurance, and retaliated by an ominous frown when her position allowed, threatening asides when a moment's by-play ACTRESS. 53 favored their delivery, and angry protests whenever she met Lucy off the stage. But in spite of all annoyances she had never played better in her life. She liked the part, and acted the warm-hearted, quick-witted, sharp-tongued Peg with a spirit and grace that surprised even those who knew her best. Especially good was she in the scenes with Triplet, for Kent played the part admirably, and cheered her on with many an encouraging look and word. Anxious to do honor to her patron and friend she threw her whole heart into the work; in the scene where she comes like a good angel to the home of the poor play-wright, she brought tears to the eyes of her audience; and when at her command Triplet strikes up a jig to amuse the children she "covered the buckle" in gallant style, dancing with all the frolic- some abandon of the Irish orange-girl who for a moment forgot her grandeur and her grief. That scene was her best, for it is full of those touches of nature that need very little art to make them effec- tive; and when a great bouquet fell with a thump at Christie's feet, as she paused to bow her thanks for an encore, she felt that she had reached the height of earthly bliss. In the studio scene Lucy seemed suddenly gifted with unsuspected skill; for when Mabel kneels to the picture, praying her rival to give her back her husband's heart, Christie was amazed to see real tears roll down Lucy's checks, and to hear real love and longing thrill her trembling words with sudden power and passion. "That is not acting. She does love St. George, and thinks I mean to keep him from her. Poor dear! I'll 54 WORK. tell her all about it to-night, and set her heart at rest," thought Christie; and when Peg left the frame, her face expressed the genuine pity that she felt, and her voice was beautifully tender as she promised to restore the stolen treasure. Lucy felt comforted without knowing why, and the piece went smoothly on to its last scene. Peg was just relinquishing the repentant husband to his forgiv- ing wife with those brave words of hers, when a rend- ing sound above their heads made all look up and start back; all but Lucy, who stood bewildered. Christie's quick eye saw the impending danger, and with a sud- den spring she caught her friend from it. It was only a second's work, but it cost her much; for in the act, down crashed one of the mechanical contrivances used in a late spectacle, and in its fall stretched Christie stunned and senseless on the stage. A swift uprising filled the house with tumult; a crowd of actors hurried forward, and the panic-stricken audience caught glimpses of poor Peg lying mute and pallid in Mabel's arms, while Vane wrung his hands, and Triplet audibly demanded, "Why the devil some- body didn't go for a doctor?" Then a brilliant view of Mount Parnassus, with Apollo and the Nine Muses in full blast, shut the scene from sight, and soon Mr. Sharp appeared to ask their patience till the after-piece was ready, for Miss Douglas was too much injured to appear again. And with an unwonted expression of feeling, the little man alluded to "the generous act which perhaps had changed the comedy to a tragedy and robbed the beneficiary of her well-earned reward at their hands." ACTRESS. 55 All had seen the impulsive spring toward, not from, the danger, and this unpremeditated action won heart- ier applause than Christie ever had received for her best rendering of more heroic deeds. But she did not hear the cordial round they gave her. She had said she would "make a hit or die;" and just then it seemed as if she had done both, for she was deaf and blind to the admiration and the sympathy bestowed upon her as the curtain fell on the first, last benefit she ever was to have. CHAPTER IV. GOVERNESS. MR. PHILIP FLETCHER. DURUING the next few weeks Christie learned the worth of many things which she had valued very lightly until then. Health became a boon too precious to be trifled with; life assumed a deeper significance when death's shadow fell upon its light, and she dis- covered that dependence might be made endurable by the sympathy of unsuspected friends. Lucy waited upon her with a remorseful devotion GOVERNESS. 57 which touched her very much and won entire forgive- ness for the past, long before it was repentantly im- plored. All her comrades came with offers of help and affectionate regrets. Several whom she had most dis- liked now earned her gratitude by the kindly thought- fulness which filled her sick-room with fruit and flowers, supplied carriages for the convalescent, and paid her doctor's bill without her knowledge. Thus Christie learned, like many another needy member of the gay profession, that though often extrav- agant and jovial in their way of life, these men and women give as freely as they spend, wear warm, true hearts under their motley, and make misfortune only another link in the bond of good-fellowship which binds them loyally together. Slowly Christie gathered her energies after weeks of suffering, and took up her life again, grateful for the gift, and anxious to be more worthy of it. Looking back upon the past she felt that she had made a mis- take and lost more than she had gained in those three years. Others might lead that life of alternate excite- ment and hard work unharmed, but she could not. The very ardor and insight which gave power to the actress made that mimic life unsatisfactory to the woman, for hers was an earnest nature that took fast hold of whatever task she gave herself to do, and lived in it heartily while duty made it right, or novelty lent it charms. But when she saw the error of a step, the emptiness of a belief, with a like earnestness she tried to retrieve the one and to replace the other with a better substitute. In the silence of wakeful nights and the solitude of 58 WORK. quiet days, she took counsel with her better self, con- demned the reckless spirit which had possessed her, and came at last to the decision which conscience prompted and much thought confirmed. "The stage is not the place for me," she said. "I have no genius to glorify the drudgery, keep me from temptation, and repay me for any sacrifice I make. Other women can lead this life safely and happily: I cannot, and I must not go back to it, because, with all my past experience, and in spite of all my present good resolutions, I should do no better, and I might do worse. I'm not wise enough to keep steady there; I must return to the old ways, dull but safe, and plod along till I find my real place and work." Great was the surprise of Lucy and her mother when Christie told her resolution, adding, in a whisper, to the girl, "I leave the field clear for you, dear, and will dance at your wedding with all my heart when St. George asks you to play the 'Honeymoon' with him, as I'm sure he will before long." Many entreaties from friends, as well as secret long- ings, tried and tempted Christie sorely, but she with- stood them all, carried her point, and renounced the profession she could not follow without self-injury and self-reproach. The season was nearly over when she was well enough to take her place again, but she refused to return, relinquished her salary, sold her ward- robe, and never crossed the threshold of the theatre after she had said good-bye. Then she asked, "What next?" and was speedily answered. An advertisement for a governess met her eye, which seemed to combine the two things she GOVERNESS. 59 most needed just then, -- employment and change of air. "Mind you don't mention that you've been an actress or it will be all up with you, me dear," said Mrs. Black, as Christie prepared to investigate the matter, for since her last effort in that line she had increased her knowl- edge of music, and learned French enough to venture teolching it to very young pupils. "I'd rather tell in the beginning, for if you keep any thing back it's sure to pop out when you least expect or want it. I don't believe these people will care as long as I'm respectable and teach well," returned Christie, wishing she looked stronger and rosier. "You'll be sorry if you do tell," warned Mrs. Black, who knew the ways of the world. "I shall be sorry if I don't," laughed Christie, and so she was, in the end. "L. N. Saltonstall" was the name on the door, and L. N. Saltonstall's servant was so leisurely about answering Christie's meek solo on the bell, that she had time to pull out her bonnet-strings half-a-dozen times before a very black man in a very white jacket conde- scended to conduct her to his mistress. A frail, tea-colored lady appeared, displaying such a small proportion of woman to such a large pro- portion of purple and fine linen, that she looked as if she was literally as well as figuratively "dressed to death." Christie went to the point in a business-like manner that seemed to suit Mrs. Saltonstall, because it saved so much trouble, and she replied, with a languid affa- bility: 60 WORK. "I wish some one to teach the children a little, for they are getting too old to be left entirely to nurse. I am anxious to get to the sea-shore as soon as possible, for they have been poorly all winter, and my own health has suffered. Do you feel inclined to try the place? And what compensation do you require? Christie had but a vague idea of what wages were usually paid to nursery governesses, and hesitatingly named a sum which seemed reasonable to her, but was so much less than any other applicant had asked, that Mrs. Saltonstall began to think she could not do better than secure this cheap young person, who looked firm enough to manage her rebellious son and heir, and well-bred enough to begin the education of a little fine lady. Her winter had been an extravagant one, and she could economize in the governess better perhaps tnan elsewhere; so she decided to try Christie, and get out of town at once. "Your terms are quite satisfactory, Miss Devon, and if my brother approves, I think we will consider the matter settled. Perhaps you would like to see the children? They are little darlings, and you will soon be fond of them, I am sure." A bell was rung, an order given, and presently appeared an eight-year old boy, so excessively Scotch his costume that he looked like an animated checker- board; and a little girl, who presented the appearance of a miniature opera-dancer staggering under the weight of an immense sash. "Go and speak prettily to Miss Devon, my pets, for she is coming to play with you, and you must mind what she says," commandeed mamma. GOVERNESS. 61 The pale, fretful-looking little pair went solemnly to Christie's knee, and stood there staring at her with a dull composure that quite daunted her, it was so sadly unchildlike. "What is your name, dear?" she asked, laying her hand on the young lady's head. "Villamena Temmatina Taltentall. You mustn't touch my hair; it's just turled," was the somewhat embarrassing reply. "Mine's Louy 'Poleon Thaltensthall, like papa's," volunteered the other young person, anld Christie pri- vately wondered if the possession of names nearly as long as themselves was not a burden to the poor dears. Feeling that she must say something, she asked, in her most persuasive tone: "Would you like to have me come and teach you some nice lessons out of your little books?" If she had proposed corporal punishment on the spot it could not have caused greater dismay Wilhelmina cast herself upon the floor passionately, declaring that she "touldn't tuddy," and Saltonstall, Jr., retreated precipitately to the door, and from that refuge defied the whole race of governesses and "nasty lessons" jointly. "There, run away to Justine. They are sadly out of sorts, and quite pining for sea-air," said mamma, with both hands at her ears, for the war-cries of her darlings were piercing as they departed, proclaiming their wrongs while swarming up stairs, with a skirmish on each landing. With a few more words Christie took leave, and 62 WORK. scandalized the sable retainer by smiling all through the hall, and laughing audibly as the door closed. The contrast of the plaid boy and beruffled girl's irritability with their mother's languid affectation, and her own unfortunate efforts, was too much for her. In the middle of her merriment she paused suddenly, saying to herself: "I never told about my acting. I must go back and have it settled." She retraced a few steps, then turned and went on again, thinking, "No ; for once I'll be guided by other people's advice, and let well alone." A note arrived soon after, bidding Miss Devon con- sider herself engaged, and desiring her to join the family at the boat on Monday next. At the appointed time Christie was on board, and looked about for her party. Mrs. Saltonstall appeared in the distance with her family about her, and Christie took a survey before reporting herself. Madame looked more like a fashion-plate than ever, in a mass of green flounces, and an impressive bonnet flushed with poppies and bristling with wheat-cars. Beside her sat a gentle- man, rapt in a newspaper, of course, for to an American man life is a burden till the daily news have been ab- sorbed. Mrs. Saltonstall's brother was the possessor of a handsome eye without softness, thin lips without benevolence, but plenty of will; a face and figure which some thirty-five years of ease and pleasure had done their best to polish and spoil, and a costume without flaw, from his aristocratic boots to the summer hat on his head. The little boy more checkered and the little girl GOVERVNESS. 63 more operatic than before, sat on stools eating bonbons, while a French maid and the African footman hovered in the background. MRS. SALTONSTALL AND FAMILY Feeling very much like a meek gray moth among a flock of butterflies, Christie modestly presented her- self. "Good morning," said Madame with a nod, which, 64 WORK. slight as it was, caused a great commotion among the poppies and the wheat; "I began to be anxious about you. Miss Devon, my brother, Mr. Fletcher." The gentleman bowed, and as Christie sat down he got up, saying, as he sauntered away with a bored expression: "Will you have the paper, Charlotte? There's nothing in it." As Mrs. Saltonstall seemed going to sleep and she felt delicate about addressing the irritable infants in public, Christie amused herself by watching Mr. Fletcher as he roamed listlessly about, and deciding, in her usual rash way, that she did not like him because he looked both lazy and cross, and ennui was evidently his bosom friend. Soon, however, she forgot every thing but the shimmer of the sunshine on the sea, the fresh wind that brought color to her pale cheeks, and the happy thoughts that left a smile upon her lips. Then Mr. Fletcher put up his glass and stared at her, shook his head, and said, as he lit a cigar: "Poor little wretch, what a time she will have of it between Charlotte and the brats! But Christie needed no pity, and thought herself a fortunate young woman when fairly established in her corner of the luxurious apartments occupied by the family. Her duties seemed light compared to those she had left, her dreams were almost as bright as of old, and the new life looked pleasant to her, for she was one of those who could find little bits of happiness for herself and enjoy them heartily in spite of loneliness or neglect. One of her amusements was studying her companions, GOVERNESS. 65 and for a time this occupied her, for Christie possessed penetration and a feminine fancy for finding out people. Mrs. Saltonstall's mission appeared to be the illus- tration of each new fashion as it came, and she per- formed it with a devotion worthy of a better cause. If a color reigned supreme she flushed herself with scarlet or faded into primrose, made herself pretty in the bluest of blue gowns, or turned livid under a goose- berry colored bonnet. Her hat-brims went up or down, were preposterously wide or dwindled to an inch, as the mode demanded. IIer skirts were rampant with sixteen frills, or picturesque with landscapes down each side, and a Greek border or a plain hem. Her waists were as pointed as those of Queen Bess or as short as Diana's; and it was the opinion of those who knew her that if the autocrat who ruled her life decreed the wearing of black cats as well as of vegetables, bugs, and birds, the blackest, glossiest Puss procurable for money would have adorned her head in some way. Her time was spent in dressing, driving, dining and dancing; in skimming novels, and embroidering muslin; going to church with a velvet prayer-book and a new bonnet; and writing to her husband when she wanted money, for she had a husband somewhere abroad, who so happily combined business with pleasure that he never found time to come home. Her children were inconvenient blessings, but she loved them with the love of a shallow heart, and took such good care of their little bodies that there was none left for their little souls. A few days' trial satisfied her as to Christie's capabilities, and, relieved of that anxiety, she gave her- self up to her social duties, leaving the ocean and the 66 WORK. governess to make the summer wholesome and agree- able to "the darlings." Mr. Fletcher, having tried all sorts of pleasure and found that, like his newspaper, there was "nothing in it," was now paying the penalty for that unsatisfactory knowledge. Ill health soured his temper and made his life a burden to him. Having few resources within himself to fall back upon, he was very dependent upon other people, and other people were so busy amusing themselves, they seemed to find little time or inclina- tion to amuse a man who had never troubled himself about them. He was rich, but while his money could hire a servant to supply each want, gratify each caprice, it could not buy a tender, faithful friend to serve for love, and ask no wages but his comfort. He knew this, and felt the vain regret that inevitably comes to those who waste life and learn the value of good gifts by their loss. But he was not wise or brave enough to bear his punishment manfully, and lay the lesson honestly to heart. Fretful and imperious when in pain, listless and selflsh when at ease, his one aim in life now was to kill time, and any thing that aided him in this was most gratefully welcomed. For a long while he took no more notice of Christie than if she had been a shadow, seldom speaking beyond the necessary salutations, and merely carrying his finger to his hat-brim when he passed her on the beach with the children. Her first dislike was softened by pity when she found he was an invalid, but she troubled herself very little about him, and made no romances with him, for all her dreams were of younger, nobler lovers. GOVERNESS. 67 Busied with her own affairs, the days though monot- onous were not unhappy. She prospered in her work and the children soon believed in her as devoutly as young Turks in their Prophet. She devised amuse- ments for helrself as well as for them; walked, bathed, drove, and romped with the little people till her own eyes shone like theirs, her cheek grew rosy, and her thin figure rounded with the promise of vigorous health again. Christie was at her best that summer, physically speaking, for sickness had refined her face, giving it that indescribable expression which pain often leaves upon a countenance as if in compensation for the bloom it takes away. The frank eyes had a softer shadow in their depths, the firm lips smiled less often, but when it came the smile was the sweeter for the gravity that went before, and in her voice there was a new under- tone of that subtle music, called sympathy, which steals into the heart and nestles there. She was unconscious of this gracious change, but others saw and felt it, and to some a face bright with health, intelligence and modesty was more attractive than mere beauty. Thanks to this and her quiet, cordial manners, she found friends here and there to add charms to that summer by the sea. The dashing young men took no more notice of her than is she had been a little gray peep on the sands; not so much, for they shot peeps now and then, but a governess was not worth bringing down. The fashion- able belles and beauties were not even aware of her existence, being too entirely absorbed in their yearly husband-hunt to think of any one but themselves and 68 WORK. their prey. The dowagers had more interesting topics to discuss, and found nothing in Christie's humble for- tunes worthy of a thought, for they liked their gossip strong and highly flavored, like their tea. But a kind-hearted girl or two found her out, several lively old maids, as full of the romance of the past as ancient novels, a bashful boy, three or four invalids, and all the children, for Christie had a motherly heart and could find charms in the plainest, crossest baby that ever squalled. Of her old friends she saw nothing, as her theatrical ones were off on their vacations, Hepsey had left her place for one in another city, and Aunt Betsey seldom wrote. But one day a letter came, telling her that the dear old lady would never write again, and Christie felt as if her nearest and dearest friend was lost. She had gone away to a quiet spot among the rocks to get over her first grief alone, but found it very hard to check her tears, as memory brought back the past, tenderly recalling every kind act, every loving word, and familiar scene. She seldom wept, but when any thing did unseal the fountains that lay so deep, she cried with all her heart, and felt the better for it. With the letter crumpled in her hand, her head on her knees, and her hat at her feet, she was sobbing like a child, when steps startled her, and, looking up, she saw Mr. Fletcher regarding her with an astonished countenance from under his big sun umbrella. Something in the flushed, wet face, with its tremu- lous lips and great tears rolling down, seemed to touch GOVERNESS. 69 even lazy Mr. Fletcher, for he furled his umbrella with unusual rapidity, and came up, saying, anxiously: "My dear Miss Devon, what's the matter? Are you hurt? Has Mrs. S. been scolding? Or have the children been too much for you?" "No; oh, no! it's bad news from home," and Chris- tie's head went down again, for a kind word was more than she could hear just then. "Some one ill, I fancy? I'm sorry to hear it, but you must hope for the best, you know," replied Mr. Fletcher, really quite exerting himself to remember and present this well-worn consolation. "There is no hope; Aunt Betsey's dead!" "Dear me! that's very sad." Mr. Fletcher tried not to smile as Christie sobbed out the old-fashioned name, but a minute afterward there were actually tears in his eyes, for, as if won by his sympathy, she poured out the homely little story of Aunt Betsey's life and love, unconsciously pronouncing the kind old lady's best epitaph in the unaffected grief that made her broken words so eloquent. For a minute Mr. Fletcher forgot himself, and felt as he remembered feeling long ago, when, a warm-hearted boy, he had comforted his little sister for a lost kitten or a broken doll. It was a new sensation, therefore interesting and agreeable while it lasted, and when it vanished, which it speedily did, he sighed, then shrugged his shoulders and wished "the girl would stop crying like a water-spout." "It's hard, but we all have to bear it, you know; and sometimes I fancy if half the pity we give the dead, who don't need it, was given to the living, who 70 WORK. do, they'd bear their troubles more comfortably. I know I should," added Mr. Fletcher, returning to his own afflictions, and vaguely wondering if any one would cry like that when he departed this life. Christie minded little what he said, for his voice was pitiful and it comforted her. She dried her tears, put back her hair, and thanked him with a grateful smile, which gave him another pleasant sensation; for, though young ladies showered smiles upon him with midsum- mer radiance, they seemed cool and pale beside the sweet sincerity of this one given by a girl whose eyes were red with tender tears. "That's right, cheer up, take a little run on the beach, and forget all about it," he said, with a hearti- ness that surprised himself as much as it did Christie. "I will, thank you. Please don't speak of this; I'm used to bearing my troubles alone, and time will help me to do it cheerfully." "That's brave! If I can do any thing, let me know; I shall be most happy." And Mr. Fletcher evidently meant what he said. Christie gave him another grateful "Thank you," then picked up her hat and went away along the sands to try his prescription; while Mr. Fletcher walked the other way, so rapt in thought that he forgot to put up his umbrella till the end of his aristocratic nose was burnt a deep red. That was the beginning of it; for when Mr. Fletcher found a new amusement, he usually pursued it regard- less of consequences. Christie took his pity for what it was worth, and thought no more of that little inter- view, for her heart was very heavy. But he remem- GOVERNESS. 71 bered it, and, when they met on the beach next day, wondered how the governess would behave. She was reading as she walked, and, with a mute acknowledg- ment of his nod, tranquilly turned a page and read on without a pause, a smile, or change of color. Mr. Fletcher laughed as he strolled away; but Chris- tie was all the more amusing for her want of coquetry, and soon after he tried her again. The great hotel was all astir one evening with bustle, light, and music; for the young people had a hop, as an appropriate entertainment for a melting July night. With no taste for such folly, even if health had not forbidden it, Mr. Fletcher lounged about the piazzas, tantalizing the fair fowlers who spread their nets for hlim, and goading sundry desperate spinsters to despair by his erratic movements. Coming to a quiet nook, where a long window gave a fine view of the brilliant scene, he found Christie leaning in, with a bright, wistful face, while her hand kept time to the enchanting music of a waltz. "Wisely watching the lunatics, instead of joining in their antics," he said, sitting down with a sigh. Christie looked around and answered, with the wist- full look still in her eyes: "I'm very fond of that sort of insanity; but there is no place for me in Bedlam at present." "I daresay I can find you one, if you care to try it. I don't indulge myself." And Mr. Fletcher's eye went from the rose in Christie's brown hair to the silvery folds of her best gown, put on merely for the pleasure of wearing it because every one else was in festival array. 72 WORK. She shook her head. "No, thank you. Governesses are very kindly treated in America; but ball-rooms like that are not for them. I enjoy looking on, fortu- nately; so I have my share of fun after all." "I shan't get any complaints out of her. Plucky little soul! I rather like that," said Mr. Fletcler to himself; and, finding his seat comfortable, the corner cool, and his companion pleasant to look at, with the moonlight doing its best for her, he went on talking for his own satisfaction. Christie would rather have been left in peace; but fancying that he did it out of kindness to her, and that she had done him injustice before, she was grateful now, and exerted herself to seem so; in which endeavor she succeeded so well that Mr. Fletcher proved he could be a very agreeable companion when he chose. He talked well; and Christie was a good listener. Soon interest conquered her reserve, and she ventured to ask a question, make a criticism, or express an opinion in her own simple way. Unconsciously she piqued the curiosity of the man; for, though he knew many lovely, wise, and witty women, he had never chanced to meet with one like this before; and novelty was the desire of his life. Of course he did not find moonlight, music, and agreeable chat as delightful as she did; but there was something animating in the fresh face opposite, something flattering in the eager interest she showed, and something most attractive in the glimpses uncon- sciously given him of a nature genuine in its womanly sincerity and strength. Something about this girl seemed to appeal to the old self, so long neglected that he thought it dead. He could not analyze the feeling, GOVERNESS. 73 but was conscious of a desire to seem better than he was as he looked into those honest eyes; to talk well, that he might bring that frank smile to the lips that grew either sad or scornful when he tried worldly gos- sip or bitter satire; and to prove himself a man under all the elegance and polish of the gentleman. He was discovering then, what Christie learned when her turn came, that fine natures seldom fail to draw out the finer traits of those who approach them, as the little witch-hazel wand, even in the hand of a child, detects and points to hidden springs in unsus- pected spots. Women often possess this gift, and when used worthily find it as powerful as beauty; for, if less alluring, it is more lasting and more helpful, since it appeals, not to the senses, but tlhe souls of men. Christie was one of these; and in proportion as her own nature was sound and sweet so was its power as a touchstone for the genuineness of others. It was this unconscious gift that made her wonder at the unex- pected kindness she found in Mr. Fletcher, and this which made him, for an hour or two at least, heart- ily wish he could live his life over again and do it better. After that evening Mr. Fletcher spoke to Christie when he met her, turned and joined her sometimes as she walked with the children, and fell into the way of lounging near when she sat reading aloud to an invalid friend on piazza or sea-shore. Christie much preferred to have no auditor but kind Miss Tudor; but finding the old lady enjoyed his chat she resigned her- self, and when he brought them new books as well as himself, she became quite cordial. 74 WORK. Everybody sauntered and lounged, so no one minded the little group that met day after day among the rocks. Christie read aloud, while the children revelled in sand, shells, and puddles; Miss Tudor spun endless webs of gay silk and wool; and Mr. Fletcher, with his hat over his eyes, lay sunning himself like a luxurious lizard, as he watched the face that grew daily fairer in his sight, and listened to the pleasant voice that went reading on till all his ills and ennui seemed lulled to sleep as by a spell. A week or two of this new caprice set Christie to thinking. She knew that Uncle Philip was not fond of "the darlings;" it was evident that good Miss Tu- dor, with her mild twaddle and eternal knitting, was not the attraction, so she was forced to believe that he came for her sake alone. She laughed at herself for this fancy at first; but not possessing the sweet uncon- sciousness of those heroines who can live through three volumes with a burning passion before their eyes, and never see it till the proper moment comes, and Eugene goes down upon his knees, she soon felt sure that Mr. Fletcher found her society agreeable, and wished her to know it. Being a mortal woman, her vanity was flattered, and she found herself showing that she liked it by those small signs and symbols which lovers' eyes are so quick to see and understand, -- an artfull bow on her hat, a flower in her belt, fresh muslin gowns, and the most becoming arrangement of her hair. "Poor man, he has so few pleasures I'm sure I needn't grudge him such a small one as looking at and listening to me if he likes it," she said to herself one GOVERNESS. 75 day, as she was preparing for her daily stroll with un- usual care. "But how will it end? If he only wants a mild flirtation he is welcome to it; but if he really cares for me, I must make up my mind about it, and not deceive him. I don't believe he loves me: how can he? such an insignificant creature as I am." Here she looked in the glass, and as she looked the color deepened in her cheek, her eyes shone, and a smile would sit upon her lips, for the reflection showed her a very winning face under the coquettish hat put on to captivate. "Don't be foolish, Christie! Mind what you do, and be sure vanity doesn't delude you, for you are only a woman, and in things of this sort we are so blind and silly. I'll think of this possibility soberly, but I won't flirt, and then which ever way I decide I shall have nothing to reproach myself with." Armed with this virtuous resolution, Christie sternly replaced the pretty hat with her old brown one, fas- tened up a becoming curl, which of late she had worn behind her ear, and put on a pair of stout, rusty boots, much fitter for rocks and sand than the smart slippers she was preparing to sacrifice. Then she trudged away to Miss Tudor, bent on being very quiet and reserved, as became a meek and lowly governess. But, dear heart, how feeble are the resolutions of womankind! When she found herself sitting in her favorite nook, with the wide, blue sea glittering below, the fresh wind making her blood dance in her veins, and all the earth and sky so full of summer life and loveliness, her heart would sing for joy, her face would shine with the mere bliss of living, and underneath 76 WORK. all this natural content the new thought, half con- fessed, yet very sweet, would whisper, "Somebody cares for me." If she had doubted it, the expression of Mr. Fletch- er's face that morning would have dispelled the doubt, for, as she read, he was saying to himself: "Yes, this healthful, cheery, helpful creature is what I want to make life pleasant. Every thing else is used up; why not try this, and make the most of my last chance? She does me good, and I don't seem to get tired of her. I can't have a long life, they tell me, nor an easy one, with the devil to pay with my vitals generally; so it would be a wise thing to provide myself with a good- tempered, faithful soul to take care of me. My fortune would pay for loss of time, and my death leave her a bonny widow. I won't be rash, but I think I'll try it." With this mixture of tender, selfish, and regretful thoughts in his mind, it is no wonder Mr. Fletcher's eyes betrayed him, as he lay looking at Christie. Never had she read so badly, for she could not keep her mind on her book. It would wander to that new and trouble- some fancy of hers; she could not help thinking that Mr. Fletcher must have been a handsome man before he was so ill; wondering if his temper was very bad, and fancying that he might prove both generous and kind and true to one who loved and served him well. At this point she was suddenly checked by a slip of the tongue that covered her with confusion. She was reading "John Halifax," and instead of say- ing "Phineas Fletcher" she said Philip, and then colored to her forehead, and lost her place. Miss Tudor did GOVERNESS. 77 not mind it, but Mr. Fletcher laughed, and Christie thanked Heaven that her face was half hidden by the old brown hat. Nothing was said, but she was much relieved to find that Mr. Fletcher had joined a yachting party next day and he would be away for a week. During that week Christie thought over the matter, and fancied she had made up her mind. She recalled certain speeches she had heard, and which had more weight with her than she suspected. One dowager had said to another: "P. F. intends to marry, I assure you, for his sister told me so, with tears in her eyes. Men who have been gay in their youth make very good husbands when their wild oats are sowed. Clara could not do better, and I should be quite content to give her to him." "Well, dear, I should be sorry to see my Augusta his wife, for whoever he marries will be a perfect slave to him. His fortune would be a nice thing if he did not live long; but even for that my Augusta shall not be sacrificed," returned the other matron whose Augusta had vainly tried to captivate "P. F.," and revenged herself by calling him "a wreck, my dear, a perfect wreck." At another time Christie heard some girls discussing the eligibility of several gentlemen, and Mr. Fletcher was considered the best match among them. "You can do any thing you like with a husband a good deal older than yourself. He's happy with his business, his club, and his dinner, and leaves you to do what you please; just keep him comfortable and he'll pay your bills without much fuss," said one young thing who had seen life at twenty. 78 WORK. "I'd take him if I had the chance, just because everybody wants him. Don't admire him a particle, but it will make a jolly stir whenever he does marry, and I wouldn't mind having a hand in it," said the second budding belle. "I'd take him for the diamonds alone. Mamma says they are splendid, and have been in the family for ages. He won't let Mrs. S. wear them, for they always go to the eldest son's wife. Hope he'll choose a hand- some woman who will show them off well," said a third sweet girl, glancing at her own fine neck. "He won't; he'll take some poky old maid who will cuddle him when he is sick, and keep out of his way when he is well. See if he don't." "I saw him dawdling round with old Tudor, perhaps he means to take her: she's a capital nurse, got ill her- self taking care of her father, you know." "Perhaps he's after the governess; she's rather nice looking, though she hasn't a bit of style." "Gracious, no! she's a dowdy thing, always trailing round with a book and those horrid children. No danger of his marrying her." And a derisive laugh seemed to settle that question beyond a doubt. "Oh, indeed!" said Christie, as the girls went troop- ing out of the bath-house, where this pleasing clatter had been carried on regardless of listeners. She called them "mercenary, worldly, unwomanly flirts," and felt herself much their superior. Yet the memory of their gossip haunted her, and had its influence upon her decision, though she thought she came to it through her own good judgment and discretion. "If he really cares for me I will listen, and not refuse GOVERNESS. 79 till I know him well enough to decide. I'm tired of being alone, and should enjoy ease and pleasure so much. He's going abroad for the winter, and that would be charming. I'll try not to be worldly-minded and marry witout love, but it does look tempting to a poor soul like me." So Christie made up her mind to accept, if this pro- motion was offered her; and while she waited, went through so many alternations of feeling, and was so harassed by doubts and fears that she sometimes found herself wishing it had never occurred to her. Mr. Fletcher, meantime, with the help of many medi- tative cigars, was making up his mind. Absence only proved to him how much he needed a better time-killer than billiards, horses, or newspapers, for the long, list- less days seemed endless without the cheerful govern- ess to tone him up, like a new and agreeable sort of bitters. A gradually increasing desire to secure this satisfaction had taken possession of him, and the thought of always having a pleasant companion, with no nerves, nonsense, or affectation about her, was an inviting idea to a man tired of fashionable follies and tormented with the ennui of his own society. The gossip, wonder, and chagrin such a step would cause rather pleased his fancy; the excitement of try- ing almost the only thing as yet untried allured him; and deeper than all the desire to forget the past in a better future led him to Christie by the nobler instincts that never wholly die in any soul. He wanted her as he had wanted many other things in his life, and had little doubt that he could have her for the asking. Even if love was not abounding, surely his fortune, 80 WORK. which hitherto had procured him all he wished (except health and happiness) could buy him a wife, when his friends made better bargains every day. So, having settled the question, he came home again, and every one said the trip had done him a world of good. Christie sat in her favorite nook one bright Septem- ber morning, with the inevitable children hunting hap- less crabs in a pool near by. A book lay on her knee, but she was not reading; her eyes were looking far across the blue waste before her with an eager gaze, and her face was bright with some happy thought. The sound of approaching steps disturbed her reverie, and, recognizing them, she plunged into the heart of the story, reading as if utterly absorbed, till a shadow fell athwart the page, and the voice she had expected to hear asked blandly: "What book now, Miss Devon?" "'Jane Eyre,' sir." Mr. Fletcher sat down just where her hat-brim was no screen, pulled off his gloves, and leisurely composed himself for a comfortable lounge. "What is your opinion of Rochester?" he asked, presently. "Not a very high one." "Then you think Jane was a fool to love and try to make a saint of him, I suppose?" "I like Jane, but never can forgive her marrying that man, as I haven't much faith in the saints such sinners make." "But don't you think a man who had only follies to regret might expect a good woman to lend him a hand and make him happy?" GOVERNESS. 81 "If he has wasted his life he must take the conse- quences, and be content with pity and indifference, instead of respect and love. Many good women do 'lend a hand,' as you say, and it is quite Christian and amiable, I've no doubt; but I cannot think it a fair bargain." Mr. Fletcher liked to make Christie talk, for in the interest of the subject she forgot herself, and her chief charm for him was her earnestness. But just then the earnestness did not seem to suit him, and he said, rather sharply: "What hard-hearted creatures you women are some- times! Now, I fancied you were one of those who wouldn't leave a poor fellow to his fate, if his salvation lay in your hands." "I can't say what I should do in such a case; but it always seemed to me that a man should have energy enough to save himself, and not expect the 'weaker vessel,' as he calls her, to do it for him," answered Christie, with a conscious look, for Mr. Fletcher's face made her feel as if something was going to happen. Evidently anxious to know what she would do in aforesaid case, Mr. Fletcher decided to put one before her as speedily as possible, so he said, in a pensive tone, and with a wistful glance: "You looked very happy just now when I came up. I wish I could believe that my return had any thing to do with it." Christie wished she could control her tell-tale color, but finding she could not, looked hard at the sea, and, ignoring his tender insinuation, said, with suspicious enthusiasm: 82 WORK. "I was thinking of what Mrs. Saltonstall said this morning. She asked me if I would like to go to Paris with her for the winter. It has always been one of my dreams to go abroad, and I do hope I shall not be dis- appointed." Christie's blush seemed to be a truer answer than her words, and, leaning a little nearer, Mr. Fletcher said, in his most persuasive tone: "Will you go to Paris as my governess, instead of Charlotte's?" Christie thought her reply was all ready; but when the moment came, she found it was not, and sat silent, feeling as if that "Yes" would promise far more than she could give. Mr. Fletcher had no doubt what the answer would be, and was in no haste to get it, for that was one of the moments that are so pleasant and so short-lived they should be enjoyed to the uttermost. He liked to watch her color come and go, to see the asters on her bosom tremble with the quickened beat- ing of her heart, and tasted, in anticipation, the satis- faction of the moment when that pleasant voice of hers would falter out its grateful assent. Drawing yet nearer, he went on, still in the persuasive tone that would have been more lover-like if it had been less assured. "I think I am not mistaken in believing that you care for me a little. You must know how fond I am of you, how much I need you, and how glad I should be to give all I have if I might keep you always to make my hard life happy. May I, Christie?" "You would soon tire of me. I have no beauty, no accomplishments, no fortune, -- nothing but my heart GOVERNESS. 83 and my hand to give the man I marry. Is that enough?" asked Christie, looking at him with eyes that betrayed the hunger of an empty heart longing to be fed with genuine food. But Mr. Fletcher did not understand its meaning; he saw the humility in her face, thought she was over- come by the weight of the honor he did her, and tried to reassure her with the gracious air of one who wishes to lighten the favor he confers. "It might not be for some men, but it is for me, because I want you very much. Let people say what they will, if you say yes I am satisfied. You shall not regret it, Christie; I 'll do my best to make you happy; you shall travel wherever I can go with you, have what you like, if possible, and when we come back by and by, you shall take your place in the world as my wife. You will fill it well, I fancy, and I shall be a happy man. I've had my own way all my life, and I mean to have it now, so smile, and say, 'Yes, Philip,' like a sweet soul, as you are." But Christie did not smile, and felt no inclination to say "Yes, Philip," for that last speech of his jarred on her ear. The tone of unconscious condescension in it wounded the woman's sensitive pride; self was too apparent, and the most generous words seemed to her like bribes. This was not the lover she had dreamed of, the brave, true man who gave her all, and felt it could not half repay the treasure of her innocent, first love. This was not the happiness she had hoped for, the perfect faith, the glad surrender, the sweet content that made all things possible, and changed this work-a- day world into a heaven while the joy lasted. 84 WORK. She had decided to say "yes," but her heart said "no" decidedly, and with instinctive loyalty she obeyed it, even while she seemed to yield to the temptation which appeals to three of the strongest foibles in most women's nature, -- vanity, ambition, and the love of pleasure. "You are very kind, but you may repent it, you know so little of me," she began, trying to soften her refusal, but sadly hindered by a feeling of contempt. "I know more about you than you think; but it makes no difference," interrupted Mr. Fletcher, with a smile that irritated Christie, even before she understood its significance. "I thought it would at first, but I found I couldn't get on without you, so I made up my mind to forgive and forget that my wife had ever been an actress." Christie had forgotten it, and it would have been well for him if he had held his tongue. Now she understood the tone that had chilled her, the smile that angered her, and Mr. Fletcher's fate was settled in the drawing of a breath. "Who told you that?" she asked, quickly, while every nerve tingled with the mortification of being found out then and there in the one secret of her life. "I saw you dancing on the beach with the children one day, and it reminded me of an actress I had once seen. I should not have remembered it but for the accident which impressed it on my mind. Powder, paint, and costume made 'Miss Douglas' a very differ- ent woman from Miss Devon, but a few cautious inqui- ries settled the matter, and I then understood where you got that slight soupçon of dash and daring which GOVERNESS. 85 makes our demure governess so charming when with me." As he spoke, Mr. Fletcher smiled again, and kissed his hand to her with a dramatic little gesture that exas- perated Christie beyond measure. She would not make light of it, as he did, and submit to be forgiven for a past she was not ashamed of. Heartily wishing she had been frank at first, she resolved to have it out now, and accept nothing Mr. Fletcher offered her, not even silence. "Yes," she said, as steadily as she could, "I was an actress for three years, and though it was a hard life it was an honest one, and I'm not ashamed of it. I ought to have told Mrs. Saltonstall, but I was warned that if I did it would be difficult to find a place, people are so prejudiced. I sincerely regret it now, and shall tell her at once, so you may save yourself the trouble." "My dear girl, I never dreamed of telling any one!" cried Mr. Fletcher in an injured tone. "I beg you won't speak, but trust me, and let it be a little secret between us two. I assure you it makes no difference to me, for I should marry an opera dancer if I chose, so forget it, as I do, and set my mind at rest upon the other point. I'n still waiting for my answer, you know." "It is ready." "A kind one, I'm sure. What is it, Christie?" "No, I thank you." "But you are not in earnest?" "Perfectly so." Mr. Fletcher got up suddenly and set his back against 86 WORK. the rock, saying in a tone of such unaffected surprise and disappointment that her heart reproached her: "No, I THANK YOU." "Am I to understand that as your final answer, Miss Devon?" "Distinctly and decidedly my final answer, Mr. Fletcher." Christie tried to speak kindly, but she was angry with herself and him, and unconsciously showed it both in face and voice, for she was no actress off the stage, and wanted to be very true just then as a late atone- ment for that earlier want of candor. GOVERNESS. 87 A quick change passed over Mr. Fletcher's face; his cold eyes kindled with an angry spark, his lips were pale with anger, and his voice was very bitter, as he slowly said: "I've made many blunders in my life, and this is one of the greatest; for I believed in a woman, was fool enough to care for her with the sincerest love I ever knew, and fancied that she would be grateful for the sacrifice I made." He got no further, for Christie rose straight up and answered him with all the indignation she felt burning in her face and stirring the voice she tried in vain to keep as steady as his own. "The sacrifice would not have been all yours, for it is what we are, not what we have, that makes one human being superior to another. I am as well-born as you in spite of my poverty; my life, I think, has been a better one than yours; my heart, I know, is fresher, and my memory has fewer faults and follies to reproach me with. What can you give me but money and position in return for the youth and freedom I should sacrifice in marrying you? Not love, for you count the cost of your bargain, as no true lover could, and you reproach me for deceit when in your heart you know you only cared for me because I can amuse and serve you. I too deceived myself, I too see my mis- take, and I decline the honor you would do me, since it is so great in your eyes that you must remind me of it as you offer it." In the excitement of the moment Christie uncon- sciously spoke with something of her old dramatic fer- vor in voice and gesture; Mr. Fletcher saw it, and, 88 WORK. while he never had admired her so much, could not resist avenging himself for the words that angered him, the more deeply for their truth. Wounded vanity and baffled will can make an ungenerous man as spiteful as a woman; and Mr. Fletcher proved it then, for he saw where Christie's pride was sorest, and touched the wound with the skill of a resentful nature. As she paused, he softly clapped his hands, saying, with a smile that made her eyes flash: "Very well done! infinitely superior to your 'Wof- fington,' Miss Devon. I am disappointed in the woman, but I make my compliment to the actress, and leave the stage free for another and a more successful Romeo." Still smiling, he bowed and went away apparently quite calm and much amused, but a more wrathful, dis- appointed man never crossed those sands than the one who kicked his dog and swore at himself for a fool that day when no one saw him. For a minute Christie stood and watched him, then, feeling that she must either laugh or cry, wisely chose the former vent for her emotions, and sat down feeling inclined to look at the whole scene from a ludicrous point of view. "My second love affair is a worse failure than my first, for I did pity poor Joe, but this man is detestable, and I never will forgive him that last insult. I dare say I was absurdly tragical, I'm apt to be when very angry, but what a temper he has got! The white, cold kind, that smoulders and stabs, instead of blazing up and being over in a minute. Thank Heaven, I'm not his wife! Well, I've made an enemy and lost my place, for of course Mrs. Saltonstall won't keep me GOVERNESS. 89 after this awful discovery. I'll tell her at once, for I will have no 'little secrets' with him. No Paris either, and that's the worst of it all! Never mind, I haven't sold my liberty for the Fletcher diamonds, and that's a comfort. Now a short scene with my lady and then exit governess." But though she laughed, Christie felt troubled at the part she had played in this affair; repented of her worldly aspirations; confessed her vanity; accepted her mortification and disappointment as a just punish- ment for her sins; and yet at the bottom of her heart she did enjoy it mightily. She tried to spare Mr. Fletcher in her interview with his sister, and only betrayed her own iniquities. But, to her surprise, Mrs. Saltonstall, though much disturbed at the discovery, valued Christie as a governess, and respected her as a woman, so she was willing to bury the past, she said, and still hoped Miss Devon would remain. Then Christie was forced to tell her why it was im- possible for her to do so; and, in her secret soul, she took a naughty satisfaction in demurely mentioning that she had refused my lord. Mrs. Saltonstall's consternation was comical, for she had been so absorbed in her own affairs she had sus- pected nothing; and horror fell upon her when she learned how near dear Philip had been to the fate from which she jealously guarded him, that his property might one day benefit the darlings. In a moment every thing was changed; and it was evident to Christie that the sooner she left the better it would suit madame. The proprieties were preserved 90 WORK. to the end, and Mrs. Saltonstall treated her with un- usual respect, for she had come to honor, and also con- ducted herself in a most praiseworthy manner. How she could refuse a Fletcher visibly amazed the lady; but she forgave the slight, and gently insinuated that "my brother" was, perhaps, only amusing himself. Christie was but too glad to be off; and when Mrs. Saltonstall asked when she would prefer to leave, promptly replied, "To-morrow," received her salary, which was forthcoming with unusual punctuality, and packed her trunks with delightful rapidity. As the family was to leave in a week, her sudden departure caused no surprise to the few who knew her, and with kind farewells to such of her summer friends as still remained, she went to bed that night all ready for an early start. She saw nothing more of Mr. Fletcher that day, but the sound of excited voices in the drawing-room assured her that madame was having it out with her brother; and with truly feminine incon- sistency Christie hoped that she would not be too hard upon the poor man, for, after all, it was kind of him to overlook the actress, and ask the governess to share his good things with him. She did not repent, but she got herself to sleep, imagining a bridal trip to Paris, and dreamed so delightfully of lost splendors that the awakening was rather blank, the future rather cold and hard. She was early astir, meaning to take the first boat and so escape all disagreeable rencontres, and having kissed the children in their little beds, with tender promises not to forget them, she took a hasty breakfast and stepped into the carriage waiting at the door. The GOVERNESS. 91 sleepy waiters stared, a friendly housemaid nodded, and Miss Walker, the hearty English lady who did her ten miles a day, cried out, as she tramped by, blooming and bedraggled: "Bless me, are you off? "Yes, thank Heaven!" answered Christie; but as she spoke Mr. Fletcher came down the steps looking as wan and heavy-eyed as if a sleepless night had been added to his day's defeat. Leaning in at the window, he asked abruptly, but with a look she never could forget: "Will nothing change your answer, Christie?" "Nothing." His eyes said, "Forgive me," but his lips only said, "Good-by," and the carriage rolled away. Then, being a woman, two great tears fell on the hand still red with the lingering grasp he had given it, and Christie said, as pitifully as if she loved him: "He has got a heart, after all, and perhaps I might have been glad to fill it if he had only shown it to me sooner. Now it is too late." CHAPTER V. COMPANION. BEFORE she had time to find a new situation, Christie received a note from Miss Tudor, saying that hearing she had left Mrs. Saltonstall she wanted to offer her the place of companion to an invalid girl, where the duties were light and the compensation large. "How kind of her to think of me," said Christie, gratefully. "I'll go at once and do my best to secure it, for it must be a good thing or she wouldn't recom- mend it." Away went Christie to the address sent by Miss Tudor, and as she waited at the door she thought: "What a happy family the Carrols must be!" for the house was one of an imposing block in a West End square, which had its own little park where a fountain sparkled in the autumn sunshine, and pretty children played among the fallen leaves. Mrs. Carrol was a stately woman, still beautiful in spite of her fifty years. But though there were few lines on her forehead, few silver threads in the dark hair that lay smoothly over it, and a gracious smile showed the fine teeth, an indescribable expression of unsubmissive sorrow touched the whole face, betraying that life had brought some heavy cross, from which her COMPANION. 93 wealth could purchase no release, for which her pride could find no effectual screen. She looked at Christie with a searching eye, listened attentively when she spoke, and seemed testing her with covert care as if the place she was to fill demanded some unusual gift or skill. "Miss Tudor tells me that you read aloud well, sing sweetly, possess a cheerful temper, and the quiet, patient ways which are peculiarly grateful to an invalid," began Mrs. Carrol, with that keen yet wistful gaze, and an anxious accent in her voice that went to Christie's heart. "Miss Tudor is very kind to think so well of me and my few accomplishments. I have never been with an invalid, but I think I can promise to be patient, willing, and cheerful. My own experience of illness has taught me how to sympathize with others and love to lighten paip. I shall be very glad to try if you think I have any fitness for the place." "I do," and Mrs, Carrol's face softened as she spoke, for something in Christie's words or manner seemed to please her. Then slowly, as if the task was a hard one, she added: "My daughter has been very ill and is still weak and nervous. I must hint to you that the loss of one very dear to her was the cause of the illness and the melan- choly which now oppresses her. Therefore we must avoid any thing that can suggest or recall this trouble. She cares for nothing as yet, will see no one, and pre- fers to live alone. She is still so feeble this is but natural; yet solitude is bad for her, and her physician thinks that a new face might rouse her, and the society 94 WORK. of one in no way connected with the painful past might interest and do her good. You see it is a little difficult to find just what we want, for a young companion is best, yet must be discreet and firm, as few young people are." Fancying from Mrs. Carrol's manner that Miss Tudor had said more in her favor than had been repeated to her, Christie in a few plain words told her little story, resolving to have no concealments here, and feeling that perhaps her experiences might have given her more firmness and discretion than many women of her age possessed. Mrs. Catrrol seemed to find it so; the anxious look lifted a little as she listened, and when Christie ended she said, with a sigh of relief: "Yes, I think Miss Tudor is right, and you are the one we want. Come and try it for a week and then we can decide. Can you begin to-day?" she added, as Christie rose. "Everyr hour is precious, for my poor girl's sad solitude weighs on my heart, and this is my one hope." "I will stay with pleasure," answered Christie, think- ing Mrs. Carrol's anxiety excessive, yet pitying the mother's pain, for something in her face suggested the idea that she reproached herself in some way for her daughter's state. With secret gratitude that she had dressed with care, Christie took off her things and followed Mrs. Carrol upstairs. Entering a room in what seemed to be a wing of the great house, they found an old woman sewing. "How is Helen to-day, Nurse?" asked Mrs. Carrol, pausing. COMPANION. 95 "Poorly, ma'am. I've been in every hour, but she only says: 'Let me be quiet,' and lies looking up at the picture till it's fit to break your heart to see her," answered the woman, with a shake of the head. "I have brought Miss Devon to sit with her a little while. Doctor advises it, and I fancy the experiment may succeed if we can only amuse the dear child, and make her forget herself and her troubles." "As you please, ma'am," said the old woman, look- ing with little favor at the new-comer, for the good soul was jealous of any interference between herself and the child she had tended for years. "I won't disturb her, but you shall take Miss Devon in and tell Helen mamma sends her love, and hopes she will make an effort for all our sakes." "Yes, ma'am." Go, my dear, and do your best." With these words Mrs. Carrol hastily left the room, and Christie followed Nurse. A quick glance showed her that she was in the dain- tily furnished boudoir of a rich man's daughter, but before she could take a second look her eyes were arrested by the occupant of this pretty place, and she forgot all else. On a low luxurious couch lay a girl, so beautiful and pale and still, that for an instant Christie thought her dead or sleeping. She was neither, for at the sound of a voice the great eyes opened wide, dark- ening and dilating with a strange expression as they fell on the unfamiliar face. "Nurse, who is that? I told you I would see no one. I'm too ill to be so worried," she said, in an im- perious tone. 96 WORK. HELEN CARROL. "Yes, dear, I know, but your mamma wished you to make an effort. Miss Devon is to sit with you and try to cheer you up a bit," said the old woman in a dissat- isfied tone, that contrasted strangely with the tender way in which she stroked the beautiful disordered hair that hung about the girl's shoulders. Helen knit her brows and looked most ungracious, but evidently tried to be civil, for with a courteous wave of her hand toward an easy chair in the sunny window she said, quietly: COMPANION. 97 "Please sit down, Miss Devon, and excuse me for a little while. I've had a bad night, and am too tired to talk just yet. There are books of all sorts, or the con- servatory if you like it better." "Thank you. I'll read quietly till you want me. Then I shall be very glad to do any thing I can for you." With that Christie retired to the big chair, and fell to reading the first book she took up, a good deal em- barrassed by her reception, and very curious to know what would come next. The old woman went away after folding the down coverlet carefully over her darling's feet, and Helen seemed to go to sleep. For a time the room was very still; the fire burned softly on the marble hearth, the sun shone warmly on velvet carpet and rich hangings, the delicate breath of flowers blew in through the half-open door that led to a gay little conservatory, and nothing but the roll of a distant carriage broke the silence now and then. Christie's eyes soon wandered from her book to the lovely face and motionless figure on the couch. Just opposite, in a recess, hung the portrait of a young and handsome man, and below it stood a vase of flowers, a graceful Roman lamp, and several little relics, as if it were the shrine where some dead love was mourned and worshipped still. As she looked from the living face, so pale and so pathetic in its quietude, to the painted one so full of color, strength, and happiness, her heart ached for poor Helen, and her eyes were wet with tears of pity. A sudden movement on the couch gave her no time to 98 WORK. hide them, and as she hastily looked down upon her book a treacherous drop fell glittering on the page. "What have you there so interesting?" asked Helen, in that softly imperious tone of hers. "Doll Quixote," answered Christie, too much abashed to have her wits about her. Helen smiled a melancholy smile as she rose, saying wearily: "They gave me that to make me laugb, but I did not find it funny; neither was it sad enough to make me cry as you do." "I was not reading, I was" -- there Christie broke down, and could have cried with vexation at the bad beginning she had made. But that involuntary tear was better balm to Helen than the most perfect tact, the most brilliant conversation. It touched and won her without words, for sympathy works miracles. Her whole face changed, and her mournful eyes grew soft as with the gentle freedom of a child she lifted Chris- tie's downcast face and said, with a falter in her voice: "I know you were pitying me. Well, I need pity, and from you I'll take it, because you don't force it on me. Have you been ill and wretched too? I think so, else you would never care to come and shut yourself up here with me!" "I have been ill, and I know how hard it is to get one's spirits back again. I've had my troubles, too, but not heavier than I could bear, thank God." "What made you ill? Would you mind telling me about it? I seem to fancy hearing other people's woes, though it can't make mine seem lighter." "A piece of the Castle of the Sun fell on my head COMPANION. 99 and nearly killed me," and Christie laughed in spite of herself at the astonishment in Helen's face. "I was an actress once; your mother knows and didn't mind," she added, quickly. "Im glad of that. I used to wish I could be one, I was so fond of the theatre. They should have con- sented, it would have given me something to do, and, however hard it is, it couldn't be worse than this." Helen spoke vehemently and an excited flush rose to her white cheeks; then she checked fierself and dropped into a chair, saying, hurriedly: "Tell about it: don't let me think; it's bad for me. Glad to be set to work, and bent on retrieving her first mistake, Christie plunged into her theatrical experi- ences and talked away in her most lively style. People usually get eloquent when telling their own stories and true tales are always the most interesting. Helen listened at first with a half-absent air, but presently grew more attentivee, and when the catastrophe came sat erect, quite absorbed in the interest of this glimpse behind the curtain. Charmed with her success, Christie branched off right and left, stimulated by questions, led on by suggestive incidents, and generously supplied by memory. Before she knew it, she was telling her whole history in the most expansive manner, for women soon get sociable together, and Helen's interest flattered her immensely. Once she made her laugh at some droll trifle, and as if the unaccustomed sound had startled ber, old nurse popped in her head; but seeing nothing amiss retired, wondering what on earth that girl could be doing to cheer up Miss Helen so. 100 WORK. "Tell about your lovers: you must have had some; actresses always do. Happy women, they can love as they like!" said Helen, with the inquisitive frankness of an invalid for whom etiquette has ceased to exist. Remembering in time that this was a forbidden sub- ject, Christie smiled and shook her head. "I had a few, but one does not tell those secrets, you know." Evidently disappointed, and a little displeased at being reminded of her want of good-breeding, Helen got up and began to wander restlessly about the room. Presently, as if wishing to atone for her impatience, she bade Christie come and see her flowers. Following her, the new companion found herself in a little world where perpetual summer reigned. Vines curtained the roof, slender shrubs and trees made leafy walls on either side, flowers bloomed above and below, birds carolled in half-hidden prisons, aquariums and ferneries stood all about, and the soft plash of a little fountain made pleasant music as it rose and fell. Helen threw herself wearily down on a pile of cush- ions that lay beside the basin, and beckoning Christie to sit near, said, as she pressed her hands to her hot forehead and looked up with a distressful brightness in the haggard eyes that seemed to have no rest in them: "Please sing to me; any humdrum air will do. I am so tired, and yet I cannot sleep. If my head would only stop this dreadful thinking and let me forget one hour it would do me so much good." "I know the feeling, and I'll try what Lucy used to do to quiet me. Put your poor head in my lap, dear, and lie quite still while I cool and comfort it." COMPANION. 101 Obeying like a worn-out child, Helen lay motionless while Christie, dipping her fingers in the basin, passed the wet tips softly to and fio across the hot forehead, and the thin temples where the pulses throbbed so fast. And while she soothed she sang the "Land o' the Leal," and sang it well; for the tender words, the plaintive air were dear to her, because her mother loved and sang it to her years ago. Slowly the heavy eyelids drooped, slowly the lines of pain were smoothed away from the broad brow, slowly the restless hands grew still, and Helen lay asleep. So intent upon her task was Christie, that she forgot herself till the discomfort of her position reminded her that she had a body. Fearing to wake the poor girl in her arms, she tried to lean against the basin, but could not reach a cushion to lay upon the cold stone ledge. An unseen hand supplied the want, and, looking round, she saw two young men standing behind her. Helen's brothers, without doubt; for, though utterly unlike in expression, some of the family traits were strongly marked in both. The elder wore the dress of a priest, had a pale, ascetic face, with melancholy eyes, stern mouth, and the absent air of one who leads an inward life. The younger had a more attractive face, for, though bearing marks of dissipation, it betrayed a generous, ardent nature, proud and wilful, yet lovable in spite of all defects. He was very boyish still, and plainly showed how much he felt, as, with a hasty nod to Christie, he knelt down beside his sister, saying, in a whisper: "Look at her, Augustine! so beautiful, so quiet! What a comfort it is to see her like herself again." 102 WORK. "Ah, yes; and but for the sin of it, I could find it in my heart to wish she might never wake!" returned the other, gloomily. "Don't say that! How could we live without her?" Then, turning to Christie, the younger said, in a friendly tone: "You must be very tired; let us lay her on the sofa. It is very damp here, and if she sleeps long you will faint from weariness." Carefully lifting her, the brothers carried the sleeping girl into her room, and laid her down. She sighed as her head touched the pillow, and her arm clung to Harry's neck, as if she felt his nearness even in sleep. He put his cheek to hers, and lingered over her with an affectionate solicitude beautiful to see. Augustine stood silent, grave and cold as if he had done with human ties, yet found it hard to sever this one, for he stretched his hand above his sister as if he blessed her, then, with another grave bow to Christie, went away as noiselessly as he had come. But Harry kissed the sleeper tenderly, whispered, "Be kind to her," with an imploring voice, and hurried from the room as if to hide the feeling that he must not show. A few minutes later the nurse brought in a note from Mrs. Carrol. "My son tells me that Helen is asleep, and you look very tired. Leave her to Hester, now; you have done enough to-day, so let me thank you heartily, and send you home for a quiet night before you continue your good work to-morrow." Christie went, found a carriage waiting for her, and drove home very happy at the success of her first attempt at companionship. COMPANION. 103 The next day she entered upon the new duties with interest and good-will, for this was work in which heart took part, as well as head and hand. Many things surprised, and some things perplexed her, as she came to know the family better. But she discreetly held her tongue, used her eyes, and did her best to please. Mrs. Carrol seemed satisfied, often thanked her for her faithfulness to Helen, but seldom visited her daugh- ter, never seemed surprised or grieved that the girl expressed no wish to see her; and, though her hand- some face always wore its gracious smile, Christie soon felt very sure that it was a mask put on to hide some heavy sorrow from a curious world. Augustine never came except when Helen was asleep: then, like a shadow, he passed in and out, always silent, cold, and grave, but in his eyes the gloom of some remorseful pain that prayers and penances seemed pow- erless to heal. Harry came every day, and no matter how melan- choly, listless, or irritable his sister might be, for him she always had a smile, an affectionate greeting, a word of praise, or a tender warning against the reckless spirit that seemed to possess him. The love between them was very strong, and Christie found a never-failing pleasure in watching them together, for then Helen showed what she once had been, and Harry was his best self. A boy still, in spite of his one-and-twenty years, he seemed to feel that Helen's room was a safe refuge from the temptations that beset one of his thoughtless and impetuous nature. Here he came to confess his faults and follies with the frankness which is half sad, half comical, and wholly charming in a good-hearted 104 WORK. young scatter-brain. Here he brought gay gossip, lively descriptions, and masculine criticisms of the world he moved in. All his hopes and plans, joys and sorrows, successes and defeats, he told to Helen. And she, poor soul, in this one happy love of her sad life, forgot a little the burden of despair that darkened all the world to her. For his sake she smiled, to him she talked when others got no word from her, and Harry's salva- tion was the only duty that she owned or tried to fulfil. A younger sister was away at school but the others seldom spoke of her, and Christie tired herself with wondering why Bella never wrote to Helen, and why Harry seemed to have nothing but a gloomy sort of pity to bestow upon the blooming girl whose picture hung in the great drawing-room below. It was a very quiet winter, yet a very pleasant one to Christie, for she felt herself loved and trusted, saw that she suited, and believed that she was doing good, as women best love to do it, by bestowing sympathy and care with generous devotion. Helen and Harry loved her like an elder sister; Augustine showed that he was grateful, and Mrs. Car- rol sometimes forgot to put on her mask before one who seemed fast becoming confidante as well as companion.{one line} In the spring the family went to the fine old country- house just out of town, and here Christie and her charge led a freer, happier life. Walking and driving, boating and gardening, with pleasant days on the wide terrace, where Helen swung idly in her hammock, while Christie read or talked to her; and summer twilights beguiled with music, or the silent reveries more elo- quent than speech, which real friends my enjoy to- COMPANI0N. 105 gether, and find the sweeter for the mute companion. ship. Harry was with them, and devoted to his sister, who seemed slowly to be coming out of her sad gloom, won by patient tenderness and the cheerfl influences all about her. Christie's heart was full of pride and satisfaction, as she saw the altered face, heard the tone of interest in that once hopeless voice, and felt each day more sure that Helen had outlived the loss that seemed to have broken her heart. Alas, for Christie's pride, for Harry's hope, and for poor Helen's bitter fate! When all was brightest, the black shadow came; when all looked safest, danger was at hand; and when the past seemed buried, the ghost which haunted it returned, for the punishment of a broken law is as inevitable as death. When settled in town again Bella came home, a gay, young girl, who should have brought sunshine and hap- piness into her home. But from the hour she returned a strange anxiety seemed to possess the others. Mrs. Carrol watched over her with sleepless care, was evi- dently full of maternal pride in the lovely creature, and began to dream dreams about her future. She seemed to wish to keep the sisters apart, and said to Christie, as if to explain this wish: "Bella was away when Helen's trouble and illness came, she knows very little of it, and I do not want her to be saddened by the knowledge. Helen cares only for Hal, and Bella is too young to be of any use to my poor girl; therefore the less they see of each other the better for both. I am sure you agree with 106 WORK. me?" she added, with that covert scrutiny which Chris- tie had often felt before. She could but acquiesce in the mother's decision, and devote herself more faithfully than ever to Helen, who soon needed all her care and patience, for a terrible unrest grew upon her, bringing sleepless nights again, moody days, and all the old afflictions with redoubled force. Bella "came out" and began her career as a beauty and a belle most brilliantly. Harry was proud of her, but seemed jealous of other men's admiration for his charming sister, and would excite both Helen and him- self over the flirtations into which "that child " as they called her, plunged with all the zest of a light-hearted girl whose head was a little turned with sudden and excessive adoration. In vain Christie begged Harry not to report these things, in vain she hinted that Bella had better not come to show herself to Helen night after night in all the dainty splendor of her youth and beauty; in vain she asked Mrs. Carrol to let her go away to some quieter place with Helen, since she never could be per- suaded to join in any gayety at home or abroad. All seemed wilful, blind, or governed by the fear of the gossiping world. So the days rolled on till an event occurred which enlightened Christie, with startling abruptness, and showed her the skeleton that haunted this unhappy family. Going in one morning to Helen she found her walk- ing to and fro as she often walked of late, with hurried steps and excited face as if driven by some power beyond her control. COMPANION. 107 "Good morning, dear. I'm so sorry you had a rest- less night, and wish you had sent for me. Will you come out now for an early drive? It's a lovely day, and your mother thinks it would do you good," began Christie, troubled by the state in which she found the girl. But as she spoke Hlelen turned on her, crying pas- sionately: "My mother! don't speak of her to me, I hate her!" "Oh, Helen, don't say that. Forgive and forget if she has displeased you, and don't exhaust yourself by brooding over it. Come, dear, and let us soothe our- selves with a little music. I want to hear that new song again, though I can never hope to sing it as you do." "Sing!" echoed Helen, with a shrill laugh, "you don't know what you ask. Could you sing when your heart was heavy with the knowledge of a sin about to be committed by those nearest to you? Don't try to quiet me, I must talk whether you listen or not; I shall go frantic if I don't tell some one; all the world will know it soon. Sit down, I'll not hurt you, but don't thwart me or you'll be sorry for it." Speaking with a vehemence that left her breathless, Helen thrust Christie down upon a seat, and went on with an expression in her face that bereft the listener of power to move or speak. "Harry has just told me of it; he was very angry, and I saw it, and made him tell me. Poor boy, he can keep nothing from me. I've been dreading it, and now it's coming. You don't know it, then? Young Butler is in love with Bella, and no one has pre- 108 WORK. vented it. Think how wicked when such a curse is on us all." The question, "What curse?" rose involuntarily to Christie's lips, but did not pass them, for, as if she read the thought, Helen answered it in a whisper that made the blood tingle in the other's veins, so full of ominous suggestion was it. "The curse of insanity I mean. We are all mad, or shall be; we come of a mad race, and for years we have gone recklessly on bequeathing this awful inheri- tance to our descendants. It should end with us, we are the last; none of us should marry; none dare think of it but Bella, and she knows nothing. She must be told, she must be kept from the sin of deceiving her lover, the agony of seeing her cllildren become what I am, and what we all may be." Here Helen wrung her hands and paced the room in such a paroxysm of impotent despair that Christie sat bewildered and aghast, wondering if this were true, or but the fancy of a troubled brain. Mrs. Carrol's face and manner returned to her with sudden vividness, so did Augustine's gloomy expression, and the strange wish uttered over his sleeping sister long ago. Harry's reckless, aimless life might be explained in this way; and all that had perplexed her through that year. Every thing confirmed the belief that this tragical assertion was true, and Christie covered up her face, murmuring, with an involuntary shiver: "My God, how terrible!" Helen came and stood before her with such grief and penitence in her countenance that for a moment it con- quered the despair that had broken bounds. COMPANION. 109 "We should have told you this at first; I longed to do it, but I was afraid you'd go and leave me. I was so lonely, so miserable, Christie. I could not give you up when I had learned to love you; and I did learn very soon, for no wretched creature ever needed help and comfort more than I. For your sake I tried to be quiet, to control my shattered nerves, and hide my desperate thoughts. You helped me very much, and your unconsciousness made me doubly watchfrll. For- give me; don't desert me now, for the old horror may be coming back, and I want you more than ever." Too much moved to speak, Christie held out her hands, with a face full of pity, love, and grief. Poor Helen clung to them as if her only help lay there, and for a moment was quite still. But not long; the old anguish was too sharp to be borne in silence; the relief of confidence once tasted was too great to be denied; and, breakling loose, she went to and fro again, pouring out the bitter secret which had been weighing upon heart and conscience for a year. "You wonder that I hate my mother; let me tell you why. When she was beautiful and young she married, knowing the sad history of my father's family. He was rich, she poor and proud; ambition made her wicked, and she did it after being warned that, though he might escape, his children were sure to inherit the curse, for when one generation goes free it falls more heavily upon the rest. She knew it all, and yet she married him. I have her to thank for all I suffer, and I cannot love her though she is my mother. It may be wrong to say these things, but they are true; they burn in my heart, and I must speak out; for I tell you 110 WORK. there comes a time when children judge their parents as men and women, in spite of filial duty, and woe to those whose actions change affection and respect to hatred or contempt." The bitter grief, the solemn fervor of her words, both touched and awed Christie too much for speech. Helen had passed beyond the bounds of ceremony, fear, or shame: her hard lot, her dark experience, set her apart, and gave her the right to utter the bare truth. To her heart's core Christie felt that warning; and for the first time saw what many never see or wilfully deny,-- the awful responsibility that lies on every man and woman's soul forbidding them to entail upon the inno- cent the burden of their own infirmities, the curse that surely follows their own sins. Sad and stern, as an accusing angel, that most un- happy daughter spoke: "If ever a woman had cause to repent, it is my mother; but she will not, and till she does, God has forsaken us. Nothing can subdue her pride, not even an affliction like mine. She hides the truth; she hides me, and lets the world believe I am dying of consump- tion; not a word about insanity, and no one knows the secret beyond ourselves, but doctor, nurse, and you. This is why I was not sent away, but for a year was shut up in that room yonder where the door is always locked. If you look in, you'll see barred windows, guarded fire, muffled walls, and other sights to chill your blood, when you remember all those dreadful things were meant for me." "Don't speak, don't think of them! Don't talk any more; let me do something to comfort you, for my COMPANION. 111 heart is broken with all this," cried Christie, panic- stricken at the picture Helen's words had conjured up. "I must go on! There is no rest for me till I have tried to lighten this burden by sharing it with you. Let me talk, let me wear myself out, then you shall help and comfort me, if there is any help and comfort for such as I. Now I can tell you all about my Edward, and you'll listen, though mamma forbade it. Three years ago my father died, and we came here. I was well then, and oh, how happy!" Clasping her hands above her head, she stood like a beautiful, pale image of despair; tearless and mute, but with such a world of anguish in the eyes lifted to the smiling picture opposite that it needed no words to tell the story of a broken heart. "How I loved him!" she said, softly, while her whole face glowed for an instant with the light and warmth of a deathless passion. "How I loved him, and how he loved me! Too well to let me darken both our lives with a remorse which would come too late for a just atonement. I thought him cruel then, -- I bless him for it now. I had far rather be the innocent suf- ferer I am, than a wretched woman like my mother. I shall never see him any more, but I know he thinks of me far away in India, and when I die one faithful heart will remember me." There her voice faltered and failed, and for a moment the fire of her eyes was quenched in tears. Christie thought the reaction had come, and rose to go and com- fort her. But instantly Helen's hand was on her shoul- der, and pressing her back into her seat, she said, almost fiercely: 112 WORK. "I 'm not done yet; you must hear the whole, and help me to save Bella. We knew nothing of the blight that hung over us till father told Augustine upon his death-bed. August, urged by mother, kept it to him- self, and went away to bear it as he could. He should have spoken out and saved me in time. But not till he came home and found me engaged did he have courage to warn me of the fate in store for us. So Edward tore himself away, although it broke his heart, and I -- do you see that?" With a quick gesture she rent open her dress, and on her bosom Christie saw a scar that made her turn yet paler than before. "Yes, I tried to kill myself; but they would not let me die, so the old tragedy of our house begins again. August became a priest, hoping to hide his calamity and expiate his father's sin by endless penances and prayers. Harry turned reckless; for what had he to look forward to? A short life, and a gay one, he says, and when his turn comes he will spare himself long suffering, as I tried to do it. Bella was never told; she was so young they kept her ignorant of all they could, even the knowledge of my state. She was long away at school, but now she has come home, now she has learned to love, and is going blindly as I went, because no one tells her what she must know soon or late. Mamma will not. August hesitates, remember- ing me. Harry swears he will speak out, but I implore him not to do it, for he will be too violent; and I am powerless. I never knew about this man till Hal told me to-day. Bella only comes in for a moment, and I have no chance to tell her she must not love him." COMPANION. 113 Pressing her hands to her temples, Helen resumed her restless march again, but suddenly broke out more violently than before: "Now do you wonder why I am half frantic? Now will you ask me to sing and smile, and sit calmly by while this wrong goes on? You have done much for me, and God will bless you for it, but you cannot keep me sane. Death is the only cure for a mad Carrol, and I'n so young, so strong, it will be long in coming unless I hurry it." She clenched her hands, set her teeth, and looked about her as if ready for any desperate act that should set her free from the dark and dreadful future that lay before her. For a moment Christie feared and trembled; then pity conquered fear. She forgot herself, and only remembered this poor girl, so hopeless, helpless, and afflicted. Led by a sudden impulse, she put both arms about her, and held her close with a strong but silent tenderness better than any bonds. At first, Helen seemed unconscious of it, as she stood rigid and motion- less, with her wild eyes dumbly imploring help of earth and heaven. Suddenly both strength and excitement seemed to leave her, and she would have fallen but for the living, loving prop that sustained her. Still silent, Christie laid her down, kissed her white lips, and busied herself about her till she looked up quite herself again, but so wan and weak, it was pitiful to see her. "It's over now," she whispered, with a desolate sigh. "Sing to me, and keep the evil spirit quiet for a little while. To-morrow, if I'm strong enough, we'll talk about poor little Bella." And Christie sang, with tears dropping fast upon the keys, that made a soft accompaniment to the sweet old hymns which soothed this troubled soul as David's music brought repose to Saul. When Helen slept at last from sheer exhaustion, Christie executed the resolution she had made as soon as the excitement of that stormy scene was over. She went straight to Mrs. Carrol's room, and, undeterred by the presence of her sons, told all that had passed. They were evidently not unprepared for it, thanks to old Hester, who had overheard enough of Helen's wild words to know that something was amiss, and had reported accordingly; but none of them had vent- ured to interrupt the interview, lest Helen should be driven to desperation as before. "Mother, Helen is right; we should speak out, and not hide this bitter fact any longer. The world will pity us, and we must bear the pity, but it would con- demn us for deceit, and we should deserve the condem- nation if we let this misery go on. Living a lie will ruin us all. Bella will be destroyed as Helen was; I am only the shadow of a man now, and Hal is killing himself as fast as he can, to avoid the fate we all dread." Augustine spoke first, for Mrs. Carrol sat speechless with her trouble as Christie paused. "Keep to your prayers, and let me go my own way, it's the shortest," muttered Harry, with his face hidden, and his head down on his folded arms. "Boys, boys, you'll kill me if you say such things! I have more now than I can bear. Don't drive me COMPANION. 115 wild with your reproaches to each other!" cried their mother, her heart rent with the remorse that came too late. "No fear of that; you are not a Carrol," answered Harry, with the pitiless bluntness of a resentful and rebellious boy. Augustine turned on him with a wrathful flash of the eye, and a wanrning ring in his stern voice, as he pointed to the door. "You shall not insult your mother! Ask her pardon, or go!" "She should ask mine! I'll go. When you want me, you'll know where to find me." And, with a reck- less laugh, Harry stormed out of the room. Augustine's indignant face grew full of a new trouble as the door banged below, and he pressed his thin hands tightly together, saying, as if to himself: "Heaven help me! Yes, I do know; for, night after night, I find and bring the poor lad home from gamb- ling-tables and the hells where souls like his are lost." Here Christie thought to slip away, feeling that it was no place for her now that her errand was done. But Mrs. Carrol called her back. "Miss Devon -- Christie -- forgive me that I did not trust you sooner. It was so hard to tell; I hoped so much from time; I never could believe that my poor children would be made the victims of my mistake. Do not forsake us: Helen loves you so. Stay with ber, I implore you, and let a most unhappy mother plead for a most unhappy child." Then Christie went to the poor woman, and earnestly assured her of her love and loyalty; for now she felt doubly bound to them because they trusted her. 116 WORK. "What shall we do?" they said to her, with pathetic submission, turning like sick people to a healthful soul for help and comfort. "Tell Bella all the truth, and help her to refuse her lover. Do this just thing, and God will strengthen you to bear the consequences," was her answer, though she trembled at the responsibility they put upon her. "Not yet," cried Mrs. Carrol. "Let the poor child enjoy the holidays with a light heart, -- then we will tell her; and then Heaven help us all!" So it was decided; for only a week or two of the old year remained, and no one had the heart to rob poor Bella of the little span of blissful ignorance that now remained to her. A terrible time was that to Christie; for, while one sister, blessed with beauty, youth, love, and pleasure, tasted life at its sweetest, the other sat in the black shadow of a growing dread, and wearied Heaven with piteous prayers for her relief. "The old horror is coming back; I feel it creeping over me. Don't let it come, Christie! Stay by me! Help me! Keep me sane! And if you cannot, ask God to take me quickly!" With words like these, poor Helen clung to Christie; and, soul and body, Christie devoted herself to the afflicted girl. She would not see her mother; and the unhappy woman haunted that closed door, hungering for the look, the word, that never came to her. Augus- tine was her consolation, and, during those troublous days, the priest was forgotten in the son. But Harry was all in all to Helen then; and it was touching to see how these unfortunate young creatures clung to one COMPANION. 117 another, she tenderly trying to keep him from the wild life that was surely hastening the fate he might other- wise escape for years, and he patiently beariig all her moods, eager to cheer and soothe the sad captivity from which he could not save her. These tender ministrations seemed to be blessed at last; and Christie began to hope the haunting terror would pass by, as quiet gloom succeeded to wild excite- ment. The cheerful spirit of the season seemed to reach even that sad room; and, in preparing gifts for others, Helen seemed to find a little of that best of all gifts, -- peace for herself. On New Year's morning, Christie found her garland- ing her lover's picture with white roses and the myrtle sprays brides wear. "These were his favorite flowers, and I meant to make my wedding wreath of this sweet-scented myrtle, because he gave it to me," she said, with a look that made Christie's eyes grow dim. "Don't grieve for me, dear; we shall surely meet hereafter, though so far asunder here. Nothing can part us there, I devoutly believe; for we leave our burdens all behind us when we go." Then, in a lighter tone, she said, with her arm on Christie's neck: "This day is to be a happy one, no matter what comes after it. I'm going to be my old self for a little while, and forget there's such a word as sorrow. Help me to dress, so that when the boys come up they may find the sister Nell they have not seen for two long years." "Will you wear this, my darling? Your mother sends it, and she tried to have it dainty and beautiful 118 WORK. enough to please you. See, your own colors, though the bows are only laid on that they may be changed for others if you like." As she spoke Christie lifted the cover of the box old Hester had just brought in, and displayed a cashmere wrapper, creamy-white, silk-lined, down-trimmed, and delicately relieved by rosy knots, like holly berries lying upon snow. Helen looked at it without a word for several minutes, then gathering up the ribbons, with a strange smile, she said: "I like it better so; but I 'll not wear it yet." "Bless and save us, deary; it must have a bit of color somewhere, else it looks just like a shroud," cried Hester, and then wrung her hands in dismay as Helen answered, quietly: "Ah, well, keep it for me, then. I shall be happier when I wear it so than in the gayest gown I own, for when you put it on, this poor head and heart of mine will be quiet at last." Motioning Hester to remove the box, Christie tried to banish the cloud her unlucky words had brought to Helen's face, by chatting cheerfully as she helped her make herself "pretty for the boys." All that day she was unusually calm and sweet, and seemed to yield herself wholly to the happy influences of the hour, gave and received her gifts so cheerfully that her brothers watched her with delight; and uncon- scious Bella said, as she hung about her sister, with loving admiration in her eyes: "I always thought you would get well, and now I'm sure of it, for you look as you used before I went away to school, and seem just like our own dear Nell." COMPANION. 119 "I'm glad of that; I wanted you to feel so, my Bella. I'll accept your happy prophecy, and hope I may get well soon, very soon." So cheerfully she spoke, so tranquilly she smiled, that all rejoiced over her believing, with love's blind- ness, that she might yet conquer her malady in spite of their forebodings. It was a very happy day to Christie, not only that she was generously remembered and made one of them by all the family, but because this change for the better in Helen made her heart sing for joy. She had given time, health, and much love to the task, and ventured now to hope they had not been given in vain. One thing only marred her happiness, the sad estrangement of the daughter from her mother, and that evening she resolved to take advantage of Helen's tender mood, and plead for the poor soul who dared not plead for herself. As the brothers and sisters said good-night, Helen clung to them as if loth to part, saying, with each embrace: "Keep hoping for me, Bella; kiss me, Harry; bless me, Augustine, and all wish for me a happier New Year than the last." When they were gone she wandered slowly round the room, stood long before the picture with its fading garland, sung a little softly to herself, and came at last to Christie, saying, like a tired child: "I have been good all day; now let me rest." "One thing has been forgotten, dear," began Christie, fearing to disturb the quietude that seemed to have been so dearly bought. 120 WORK. Helen understood her, and looked up with a sane sweet face, out of which all resentful bitterness had passed. "No, Christie, not forgotten, only kept until the last. To-day is a good day to forgive, as we would be for- given, and I mean to do it before I sleep." Then hold- ing Christie close, she added, with a quiver of emotion in her voice: "I have no words warm enough to thank you, my good angel, for all you have been to me, but I know it will give you a great pleasure to do one thing more. Give dear mamma my love, and tell her that when I am quiet for the night I want her to come and get me to sleep with the old lullaby she used to sing when I was a little child." No gift bestowed that day was so precious to Christie as the joy of carrying this loving message from daugh- ter to mother. How Mrs. Carrol received it need not be told. Sbe would have gone at once, but Christie begged her to wait till rest and quiet, after the efforts of the day, had prepared Helen for an interview which might undo all that had been done if too hastily at- tempted. Hester always waited upon her child at night; so, feeling that she might be wanted later, Christie went to her own room to rest. Quite sure that Mrs. Carrol would come to tell her what had passed, she waited for an hour or two, then went to ask of Hester how the visit had sped. "Her mamma came up long ago, but the dear thing was fast asleep, so I wouldn't let her be disturbed, and Mrs. Carrol went away again," said the old woman, rousing from a nap. COMPANION. 121. Grieved at the mother's disappointment, Christie stole in, hoping that Helen might rouse. She did not, and Christie was about to leave her, when, as she bent to smooth the tumbled coverlet, something dropped at her feet. Only a little pearl-handled penknife of Harry's; but her heart stood still with fear, for it was open, and, as she took it up, a red stain came off upon her hand. Helen's face was tuned away, and, bending nearer, Christie saw how deathly pale it looked in the shadow of the darkened room. She listened at her lips; only a faint flutter of breath parted them; she lifted up the averted head and on the white throat saw a little wound, from which the blood still flowed. Then, like a flash of light, the meaning of the sudden change which came over her grew clear, -- her brave efforts to make the last day happy, her tender good-night part- ings, her wish to be at peace with every one, the tragic death she had chosen rather than live out the tragic life that lay before her. Christie's nerves had been tried to the uttermost; the shock of this discovery was too much for her, and, in the act of calling for help, she fainted, for the first time in her life. When she was herself again, the room was full of people; terror-stricken faces passed before her; broken voices whispered, "It is too late," and, as she saw the group about the bed, she wished for unconsciousness again. Helen lay in her mother's arms at last, quietly breath- ing her life away, for though every thing that love and skill could devise had been tried to save her, the little 122 WORK. knife in that desperate hand had done its work, and this world held no more suffering for her. Harry was down upon his knees beside her, trying to stifle his passionate grief. Augustine prayed audibly above her, and the fervor of his broken words comforted all hearts but one. Bella was clinging, panic-stricken, to the kind old doctor, who was sobbing like a boy, for he had loved and served poor Helen as faithfully as if she had been his own. "Can nothing save her? Christie whispered, as the prayer ended, and a sound of bitter weeping filled the room. "Nothing; she is sane and safe at last, thank God!" Christie could not but echo his thanksgiving, for the blessed tranquillity of the girl's countenance was such as none but death, the great healer, can bring; and, as they looked, her eyes opened, beautifully clear and calm before they closed for ever. From face to face they passed, as if they looked for some one, and her lips moved in vain efforts to speak. Christie went to her, but still the wide, wistful eyes searched the room as if unsatisfied; and, with a longing that conquered the mortal weakness of the body, the heart sent forth one tender cry: My mother -- I want my mother! There was no need to repeat the piteous call, for, as it left her lips, she saw her mother's face bending over her, and felt her mother's arms gathering her in an embrace which held her close even after death had set its seal upon the voiceless prayers for pardon which passed between those reunited hearts. When she was asleep at last, Christie and her mother COMPANION. 123 made her ready for her grave; weeping tender tears as they folded her in the soft, white garment she had put by for that sad hour; and on her breast they laid the flowers she had hung about her lover as a farewell gift. So beautiful she looked when all was done, that in the early dawn they called her brothers, that they might not lose the memory of the blessed peace that shone upon her face, a mute assurance that for her the new year had happily begun. "Now my work here is done, and I must go," thought Christie, when the waves of life closed over the spot where another tired swimmer had gone down. But she found that one more task remained for her before she left the family which, on her coming, she had thought so happy. Mrs. Carrol, worn out with the long effort to conceal her secret cross, broke down entirely under this last blow, and besoughtt Christie to tell Bella all that she must know. It was a hard task, but Christie accepted it, and, when the time came, found that there was very little to be told, for at the death-bed of the elder sister, the younger had learned much of the sad truth. Thus prepared, she listened to all that was most carefully and tenderly confided to her, and, when the heavy tale was done, she surprised Christie by the unsuspected strength she showed. No tears, no lamentations, for she was her mother's daughter, and inherited the pride that can bear heavy burdens, if they are borne unseen. "Tell me what I must do, and I will do it," she said, with the quiet despair of one who submits to the inevi- table, but will not complain. When Christie with difficulty told her that she should 124 WORK. give up her lover, Bella bowed her head, and for a moment could not speak, then lifted it as if defying her own weakness, and spoke out bravely: "It shall be done, for it is right. It is very hard for me, because I love him; he will not suffer much, for he can love again. I should be glad of that, and I'll try to wish it for his sake. He is young, and if, as Harry says, he cares more for my fortune than myself, so much the better. What next, Christie?" Amazed and touched at the courage of the creature she had fancied a sort of lovely butterfly to be crushed by a single blow, Christie took heart, and, instead of soothing sympathy, gave her the solace best fitted for strong natures, something to do for others. What inspired her, Christie never knew; perhaps it was the year of self-denying service she had rendered for pity's sake; such devotion is its own reward, and now, in herself, she discovered unsuspected powers. "Live for your mother and your brothers, Bella; they need you sorely, and in time I know you will find true consolation in it, although you must relinquish much. Sustain your mother, cheer Augustine, watch over Harry, and be to them what Helen longed to be." "And fail to do it, as she failed!" cried Bella, with a shudder. "Listen, and let me give you this hope, for I sin- cerely do believe it. Since I came here, I have read many books, thought much, and talked often with Dr. Shirley about this sad affliction. He thinks you and Harry may escape it, if you will. You are like your mother in temperament and temper; you have self- control, strong wills, good nerves, and cheerful spirits. COMPANINON. 125 Poor Harry is willfully spoiling all his chances now; but you may save him, and, in the endeavor, save your- self." "Oh, Christie, may I hope it? Give me one chance of escape, and I will suffer any hardship to keep it. Let me see any thing before me but a life and death like Helen's, and I'll bless you for ever!" cried Bella, wel- coming this ray of light as a prisoner welcomes sun- shine in his cell. Christie trembled at the power of her words, yet, honestly believing them, she let them uplift this discon- solate soul, trusting that they might be in time fulfilled through God's mercy and the saving grace of sincere endeavor. Holdling fast to this frail spar, Bella bravely took up arms against her sea of troubles, and rode out the storm. When her lover came to know his fate, she hid her heart and answered "no," finding a bitter satisfac- tion in the end, for Harry was right, and, when the fortune was denied him, young Butler did not mourn the woman long. Pride helped Bella to bear it; but it needed all her courage to look down the coming years so bare of all that makes life sweet to youthful souls, so desolate and dark, with duty alone to cheer the thorny way, and the haunting shadow of her race lurk- ing in the background. Submission and self-sacrifice are stern, sad angels, but in time one learns to know and love them, for when they have chastened, they uplift and bless. Dimly dis- cerning this, poor Bella put her hands in theirs, saying, "Lead me, teach me; I will follow and obey you." All soon felt that they could not stay in a house so 126 WORK. full of heavy memories, and decided to return to their old home. They begged Christie to go with them, using every argument and entreaty their affection could suggest. But Christie needed rest, longed for freedom, and felt that in spite of their regard it would be very hard for her to live among them any longer. Her healthy nature needed brighter influences, stronger comrades, and the memory of Helen weighed so heavily upon her heart that she was eager to forget it for a time in other scenes and other work. So they parted, very sadly, very tenderly, and laden with good gifts Christie went on her way weary, but well satisfied, for she had earned her rest. CHAPTER VI. SEAMSTRESS. FOR some weeks Christie rested and refreshed her- self by making her room gay and comfortable with the gifts lavished on her by the Carrols, and by sharing with others the money which Harry had smuggled into her possession after she had steadily refused to take one penny more than the sum agreed upon when she first went to them. She took infinite satisfaction in sending one hundred dollars to Uncle Enos, for she had accepted what he gave her as a loan, and set her heart on repaying every fraction of it. Another hundred she gave to Hepsey, who found her out and came to report her trials and tribulations. The good soul had ventured South and tried to buy her mother. But "ole missis" would not let her go at any price, and the faithful chattel would not run away. Sorely disappointed, Hepsey had been obliged to submit; but her trip was not a failure, for she liberated several brothers and sent them trium- phantly to Canada. "You must take it, Hepsey, for I could not rest happy if I put it away to lie idle while you can save men and women from torment with it. I'd give it if 128 WORK. it was my last penny, for I can help in no other way; and if I need money, I can always earn it, thank God!" said Christie, as Hepsey hesitated to take so much from a fellow-worker. The thought of that investment lay warm at Chris- tie's heart, and never woke a regret, for well she knew that every dolllar of it would blessed, since shares in the Underground Railroad pay splendid dividends that never fail. Another portion of her fortune, as she called Harry's gift, was bestowed in wedding presents upon Lucy, who at length succeeded in winning the heart of the owner of the "heavenly eyes" and "distracting legs;" and, having gained her point, married him with dra- matic celerity, and went West to follow the fortunes of her lord. The old theatre was to be demolished and the com- pany scattered, so a farewell festival was held, and Christie went to it, feeling more solitary than ever as she bade her old friends a long good-bye. The rest of the money burned in her pocket, but she prudently put it by for a rainy day, and fell to work again when her brief vacation was over. Hearing of a chance for a good needle-woman in a large and well-conducted mantua-making establish- ment, she secured it as a temporary thing, for she wanted to divert her mind from that last sad experi- ence by entirely different employment and surround- ings. She liked to return at night to her own little home, solitary and simple as it was, and felt a great repugnance to accept any place where she would be mixed up with family affairs again. SEAMSTRESSS. 129 So day after day she went to her seat in the work- room where a dozen other young women sat sewing busily on gay garments, with as much lively gossip to beguile the time as Miss Cotton, the forewoman, would allow. For a while it diverted Christie, as she had a femi- nine love for pretty things, and enjoyed seeing delicate silks, costly lace, and all the indescribable fantasies of fashion. But as spring came on, the old desire for something fresh and free began to haunt her, and she had both waking and sleeping dreams of a home in the country somewhere, with cows and flowers, clothes bleaching on green grass, bob-o'-links making rapturous music by the river, and the smell of new-mown hay, all lending their charms to the picture she painted for herself. Most assuredly she would have gone to find these things, led by the instincts of a healthful nature, had not one slender tie held her till it grew into a bond so strong she could not break it. Among her companions was one, and one only, who attracted her. The others were well-meaning girls, but full of the frivolous purposes and pleasures which their tastes prompted and their dull life fostered. Dress, gossip, and wages were the three topics which absorbed them. Christie soon tired of the innumerable changes rung upon these themes, and took refuge in her own thoughts, soon learning to enjoy them undisturbed by the clack of many tongues about her. Her evenings at home were devoted to books, for she had the true New England woman's desire for education, and read or studied for the love of it. Thus she had much to 130 WORK. think of as her needle flew, and was rapidly becoming a sort of sewing-machine when life was brightened for her by the finding of a friend. Among the girls was one quiet, skilful creature, whose black dress, peculiar face, and silent ways attracted Christie. Her evident desire to be let alone amused the new comer at first, and she made no effort to know her. But presently she became aware that Rachel watched her with covert interest, stealing quick, shy glances at her as she sat musing over her work. Christie smiled at her when she caught these glances, as if to reassure the looker of her good-will. But Rachel only colored, kept her eyes fixed on her work, and was more reserved than ever. This interested Christie, and she fell to studying this young woman with some curiosity, for she was different from the others. Though evidently younger than she looked, Rachel's face was that of one who had known some great sorrow, some deep experience; for there were lines on the forehead that contrasted strongly with the bright, abundant hair above it; in repose, the youthfully red, soft lips had a mournful droop, and the eyes were old with that indescribable expression which comes to those who count their lives by emotions, not by years. Strangely haunting eyes to Christie, for they seemed to appeal to her with a mute eloquence she could not resist. In vain did Rachel answer her with quiet cold- ness, nod silently when she wished her a cheery "good morning," and keep resolutely in her own somewhat isolated corner, though invited to share the sunny window where the other sat. Her eyes belied her SEAMSTRESS. 131 words, and those fugitive glances betrayed the longing of a lonely heart that dared not yield itself to the genial companionship so freely offered it. Christie was sure of this, and would not be repulsed; for her own heart was very solitary. She missed Helen, and longed to fill the empty place. She wooed this shy, cold girl as patiently and as gently as a lover might, determined to win her confidence, because all the others had failed to do it. Sometimes she left a flower in Rachel's basket, always smiled and nodded as she entered, and often stopped to admire the work of her tasteful fingers. It was impossible to resist such friendly overtures, and slowly Rachel's coldness melted; into the beseeching eyes came a look of gratitude, the more touching for its wordlessness, and an irrepressible smile broke over her face in answer to the cordial ones that made the sunshine of her day. Emboldened by these demonstrations, Christie changed her seat, and quietly established between them a daily interchange of something beside needles, pins, and spools. Then, as Rachel did not draw back offended, she went a step farther, and, one day when they chanced to be left alone to finish off a delicate bit of work, she spoke out frankly: "Why can't we be friends? I want one sadly, and so do you, unless your looks deceive me. We both seem to be alone in the world, to have had trouble, and to like one another. I won't annoy you by any imper- tinent curiosity, nor burden you with uninteresting confidences; I only want to feel that you like me a little and don't mind my liking you a great deal. Will you be my friend, and let me be yours?" 132 WORK. A great tear rolled down upon the shining silk in Rachel's hands as she looked into Christie's earnest face, and answered with an almost passionate gratitude in her own: "You can never need a friend as much as I do, or know what a blessed thing it is to find such an one as you are." "Then I may love you, and not be afraid of offend- ing?" cried Christie, much touched. "Yes. But remember I didn't ask it first," said Rachel, half dropping the hand she had held in both her own. "You proud creature! I'll remember; and when we quarrel, I'll take all the blame upon myself." Then Christie kissed her warmly, whisked away the tear, and began to paint the delights in store for them in her most enthusiastic way, being much elated with her victory; while Rachel listened with a newly kindled light in her lovely eyes, and a smile that showed how winsome her face had been before many tears washed its bloom away, and much trouble made it old too soon. Christie kept her word, -- asked no questions, volun- teered no confidences, but heartily enjoyed the new friendship, and found that it gave to life the zest which it had lacked before. Now some one cared for her, and, better still, she could make some one happy, and in the act of lavishing the affection of her generous nat- ure on a creature sadder and more solitary than her- self, she found a satisfaction that never lost its charm. There was nothing in her possession that she did not offer Rachel, from the whole of her heart to the larger half of her little room. SEAMSTRESS. 133 "I'm tired of thinking only of myself. It makes me selfish and low-spirited; for I'm not a bit interesting. I must love somebody, and 'love them hard,' as chil- dren say; so why can't you come and stay with me? There's room enough, and we could be so cosy evenings with our books and work. I know you need some one to look after you, and I love dearly to take care of people. Do come," she would say, with most per- suasive hospitality. But Rachel always answered steadily: "Not yet, Christie, not yet. I've got something to do before I can think of doing any thing so beautiful as that. Only love me, dear, and some day I'll show you all my heart, and thank you as I ought." So Christie was content to wait, and, meantime, en- joyed much; for, with Rachel as a friend, she ceased to care for country pleasures, found happiness in the work that gave her better food than mere daily bread, and never thought of change; for love can make a home for itself anywhere. A very bright and happy time was this in Christie's life; but, like most happy times, it was very brief. Only one summer allowed for the blossoming of the friendship that budded so slowly in the spring; then the frost came and killed the flowers; but the root lived long underneath the snows of suffering, doubt, and absence. Coming to her work late one morning, she found the usually orderly room in confusion. Some of the girls were crying; some whispering together, -- all looking excited and dismayed. Mrs. King sat majestically at her table, with an ominous frown upon her face. Miss 134 WORK. Cotton stood beside her, looking unusually soar and stern, for the ancient virgin's temper was not of the best. Alone, before them all, with her face hidden in her hands, and despair in every line of her drooping figure, stood Rachel, -- a meek culprit at the stern bar of justice, where women try a sister woman. "What's the mastter? cried Christie, pausing on the threshold. MRS. KING AND MISS COTTON. SEAMSTRESS. 135 Rachel shivered, as if the sound of that familiar voice was a fresh wound, but she did not lift her head; and Mrs. King answered, with a nervous emphasis that made the bugles of her head-dress rattle dismally: "A very said thing, Miss Devon, -- very sad, indeed; a thing which never occurred in my establishment before, and never shall again. It appears that Rachel, whom we all considered a most respectable and worthy girl, has been quite the reverse. I shudder to think what the consequences of my taking her without a character (a thing I never do, and was only tempted by her su- perior taste as a trimmer) might have been if Miss Cot- ton, having suspicions, had not made strict inquiry and confirmed them." "That was a kind and generous act, and Miss Cotton must feel proud of it," said Christie, with an indignant recollection of Mr. Fletcher's "cautious inquiries" about herseslf. "It was perfectly right and proper, Miss Devon; and I thank her for her care of my interests." And Mrs. King bowed her acknowledgment of the service with a perfect castanet accompaniment, whereat Miss Cot- ton bridled with malicious complacency. "Mrs. King, are you sure of this?" said Christie. Miss Cjotton does not like Rachel because her work is so much praised. May not her jealousy make her un- just, or her zeal for you mislead her?" "I thank you for your polite insinuations, miss," re- turned the irate forewoman. "I never make mistakes; but you will find that you have made a very great one in choosing Rachel for your bosom friend instead of some one who would be a credit to you. Ask the creat- 136 WORK. ure herself if all I've said of her isn't true. She can't deny it." With the same indefinable misgiving which had held her aloof, Christie turned to Rachel, lifted up the hid- den face with gentle force, and looked into it implor- ingly, as she whispered: "Is it true?" The woful countenance she saw made any other answer needless. Involuntarily her hands fell away, and she hid her own face, uttering the one reproach, which, tender and tearful though it was, seemed harder to be borne than the stern condemnation gone before. "Oh, Rachel, I so loved and trusted you!" The grief, affection, and regret that trembled in her voice roused Rachel from her state of passive endurance and gave her courage to plead for herself. But it was Christie whom she addressed, Christie whose pardon she implored, Christie's sorrowful reproach that she most keenly felt. "Yes, it is true," she said, looking only at the woman who had been the first to befriend and now was the last to desert her. "It is true that I once went astray, but God knows I have repented; that for years I've tried to be an honest girl again, and that but for His help I should be a far sadder creature than I am this day. Christie, you can never know how bitter hard it is to outlive a sin like mine, and struggle up again from such a fall. It clings to me; it won't be shaken off or buried out of sight. No sooner do I find a safe place like this, and try to forget the past, than some one reads my secret in my face and hunts me down. It seems very cruel, very hard, yet it is my punishment, so I try to bear it, and begin again. What hurts me now more SEAMSTRESS. 137 than all the rest, what breaks my heart, is that I deceived you. I never meant to do it. I did not seek you, did I? I tried to be cold and stiff; never asked for love, though starving for it, till you came to me, so kind, so generous, so dear, -- how could I help it? Oh, how could I help it then?" Christie had watched Rachel while she spoke, and spoke to her alone; her heart yearned toward this one friend, for she still loved her, and, loving, she believed in her. "I don't reproach you, dear: I don't despise or desert you, and though I'm grieved and disappointed, I'll stand by you still, because you need me more than ever now, and I want to prove that I am a true friend. Mrs. King, please forgive and let poor Rachel stay here, safe among us." "Miss Devon, I'm surprised at you! By no means; it would be the ruin of my establishment; not a girl would remain, and the character of my rooms would be lost for ever," replied Mrs. King, goaded on by the relentless Cotton. "But where will she go if you send her away? Who will employ her if you inform against her? What stranger will believe in her if we, who have known her so long, fail to befriend her now? Mrs. King, think of your own daughters, and be a mother to this poor girl for their sake." That last stroke touched the woman's heart; her cold eye softened, her hard mouth relaxed, and pity was about to win the day, when prudence, in the shape of Miss Cotton, turned the scale, for that spitefull spins- ter suddenly cried out, in a burst of righteous wrath: 138 WORK. "If that hussy stays, I leave this establishment for ever!" and followed up the blow by putting on her bonnet with a flourish. At this spectacle, self-interest got the better of sym- pathy in Mrs. King's worldly mind. To lose Cotton was to lose her right hand, and charity at that price was too expensive a luxury to be indulged in; so she hardened her heart, composed her features, and said, impressively: "Take off your bonnet, Cotton; I have no intention of offending you, or any one else, by such a step. I forgive you, Rachel, and I pity you; but I can't think of allowing you to stay. There are proper institutions for such as you, and I advise you to go to one and re- pent. You were paid Saturday night, so nothing pre- vents your leaving at once. Time is money here, and we are wasting it. Young ladies, take your seats." All but Christie obeyed, yet no one touched a needle, and Mrs. King sat, hurriedly stabbing pins into the fat cushion on her breast, as if testing the hardness of her heart. Rachel's eye went round the room; saw pity, aver- sion, or contempt, on every face, but met no answering glance, for even Christie's eyes were bent thoughtfully on the ground, and Christie's heart seemed closed against her. As she looked her whole manner changed; her tears ceased to fall, her face grew hard, and a reck- less mood seemed to take possession of her, as if find- ing herself deserted by womankind, she would desert her own womanhood. "I might have known it would be so," she said ab- ruptly, with a bitter smile, sadder to see than her most SEAMSTRESS. 139 hopeless tears. "It's no use for such as me to try; bet- ter go back to the old life, for there are kinder hearts among the sinners than among the saints, and no one can live without a bit of love. Your Magdalen Asylums are penitentiaries, not homes; I won't go to any of them. Your piety isn't worth much, for though you read in your Bible how the Lord treated a poor soul like me, yet when I stretch out my hand to you for help, not one of all you virtuous, Christian women dare take it and keep me from a life that's worse than hell." As she spoke Rachel flung out her hand with a half- defiant gesture, and Christie took it. That touch, full of womanly compassion, seemed to exorcise the des- perate spirit that possessed the poor girl in her despair, for, with a stifled exclamation, she sunk down at Chris- tie's feet, and lay there weeping in all the passionate abandonment of love and gratitude, remorse and shame. Never had human voice sounded so heavenly sweet to her as that which broke the silence of the room, as this one friend said, with the earnestness of a true and tender heart: "Mrs. King, if you send her away, I must take her in; for if she does go back to the old life, the sin of it will lie at our door, and God will remember it against us in the end. Some one must trust her, help her, love her, and so save her, as nothing else will. Perhaps I can do this better than you, -- at least, I'll try; for even if I risk the loss of my good name, I could bear that bet- ter than the thought that Rachel had lost the work of these hard years for want of upholding now. She shall come home with me; no one there need know of this discovery, and I will take any work to her that you 140 WORK. will give me, to keep her from want and its tempta- tions. Will you do this, and let me sew for less, if I can pay you for the kindness in no other way?" Poor Mrs. King was "much tumbled up and down in her own mind;" she longed to consent, but Cotton's eye was upon her, and Cotton's departure would be an irreparable loss, so she decided to end the matter in the most summary manner. Plunging a particularly large pin into her cushioned breast, as if it was a relief to inflict that mock torture upon herself, she said sharply: "It is impossible. You can do as you please, Miss Devon, but I prefer to wash my hands of the affair at once and entirely." Christie's eye went from the figure at her feet to the hard-featured woman who had been a kind and just mistress until now, and she asked, anxiously: "Do you mean that you wash your hands of me also, if I stand by Rachel?" "I do. I'm very sorry, but my young ladies must keep respectable company, or leave my service," was the brief reply, for Mrs. King, grew grimmer externally as the mental rebellion increased internally. "Then I will leave it!" cried Christie, with an indig- nant voice and eye. "Come, dear, we'll go together." And without a look or word for any in the room, she raised the prostrate girl, and led her out into the little hall. There she essayed to comfort her, but before many words had passed her lips Rachel looked up, and she was silent with surprise, for the face she saw was neither despairing nor defiant, but beautifully sweet and clear, as the unfallen spirit of the woman shone SEAMSTRESS. 141 through the grateful eyes, and blessed her for her loyalty{no period} "Christie, you have done enough for me," she said. "Go back, and keep the good place you need, for such are hard to find. I can get on alone; I'm used to this, and the pain will soon be over." "I'll not go back!" cried Christie, hotly. I'll do slop-work and starve, before I'll stay with such a nar- row-minded, cold-hearted woman. Come home with me at once, and let us lay our plans together." "No, dear; if I wouldn't go when you first asked me, much less will I go now, for I've done you harm enough already. I never can thank you for your great goodness to me, never tell you what it has been to me. We must part now; but some day I'll come back and show you that I've not forgotten how you loved and helped and trusted me, when all the others cast me off." Vain were Christie's arguments and appeals. Rachel was immovable, and all her friend could win from her was a promise to send word, now and then, how things prospered with her. "And, Rachel, I charge you to come to me in any strait, no matter what it is, no matter where I am; for if any thing could break my heart, it would be to know that you had gone back to the old life, because there was no one to help and hold you up." "I never can go back; you have saved me, Christie, for you love me, you have faith in me, and that will keep me strong and safe when you are gone. Oh, my dear, my dear, God bless you for ever and for ever!" Then Christie, remembering only that they were two 142 WORK. loving women, alone in a world of sin and sorrow, took Rachel in her arms, kissed and cried over her with sisterly affection, and watched her prayerfully, as she went away to begin her hard task anew, with nothing but the touch of innocent lips upon her cheek, the baptism of tender tears upon her forehead to keep her from despair. Still cherishing the hope that Rachel would come back to her, Christie neither returned to Mrs. King nor sought another place of any sort, but took home work from a larger establishment, and sat sewing dili- gently in her little room, waiting, hoping, longing for her friend. But month after month went by, and no word, no sign came to comfort her. She would not doubt, yet she could not help fearing, and in her nightly prayer no petition was more fervently made than that which asked the Father of both saint and sinner to keep poor Rachel safe, and bring her back in his good time. Never had she been so lonely as now, for Christie had a social heart, and, having known the joy of a cordial friendship even for a little while, life seemed very barren to her when she lost it. No new friend took Rachel's place, for none came to her, and a feeling of loyalty kept her from seeking one. But she suf- fered for the want of genial society, for all the ten- derness of her nature seemed to have been roused by that brief but most sincere affection. Her hungry heart clamored for the happiness that was its right, and grew very heavy as she watched friends or lovers walking in the summer twilight when she took her evening stroll. Often her eyes followed some humble SEAMSTRESS. 143 pair, longing to bless and to be blessed by the divine passion whose magic beautifies the little milliner and her lad with the same tender grace as the poet and the mistress whom he makes immortal in a song. But neither friend nor lover came to Chiristic, and she said to herself, with a sad sort of courage: "I shall be solitary all my life, perhaps; so the sooner I make up my mind to it, the easier it will be to bear." At Christmas-tide she made a little festival for her- self, by giving to each of the household drudges the most generous gift she could afford, for no one else thought of them, and having known some of the hard- ships of servitude herself, she had much smpathy with those in like case. Ther, with the pleasant recollection of two plain faces brightened by gratitude, surprise, and joy, she went out into the busy streets to forget the solitude she left behind her. Very gay they were with snow and sleigh-bells, holly- boughs, and garlands, below, and Christmas sunshine in the winter sky above. All faces shone, all voices had cherry ring, and everybody stepped briskly on errands of good-will. Up and down went Christie, making herself happy in the happiness of others. Looking in at the shop-windows, she watched, with interest, the purchases of busy parents, calculating how best to fill the little socks hung up at home, with a childish faith that never must be disappointed, no mat- ter how hard the times might be. She was glad to see so many turkeys on their way to garnish hospitable tables, and hoped that all the dear home circles might 144 WORK. be found unbroken, though she had place in none. No Christmas-tree went by leaving a whiff of piny sweet- ness behind, that she did not wish it all success, and picture to herself the merry little people dancing in its light. And whenever she saw a ragged child eying a window full of goodies, smiling even while it shivered, she could not resist playing Santa Claus till her purse was empty, sending the poor little souls enraptured home with oranges and apples in either hand, and splendid sweeties in their pockets, for the babies. No envy mingled with the melancholy that would not be dispelled even by these gentle acts, for her heart was very tender that night, and if any one had asked what gifts she desired most, she would have answered with a look more pathetic than any shivering child had given her: "I want the sound of a loving voice; the touch of a friendly hand." Going home, at last, to the lonely little room where no Christmas fire burned, no tree shone, no household group awaited her, she climbed the long, dark stairs, with drops on her cheeks, warmer than any melted snow-flakee could have left, and opening her door paused on the threshold, smiling with wonder and delight, for in her absence some gentle spirit had remembered her. A fire burned cheerily upon the hearth, her lamp was lighted, a lovely rose-tree, in full bloom, filled the air with its delicate breath, and in its shadow lay a note from Rachel. "A merry Christmas and a happy New Year, Chris- tie! Long ago you gave me your little rose; I have SEAMSTRESS. 145 watched and tended it for your sake, dear, and now when I want to show my love and thankfulness, I give it back again as my one treaasure. I crept in while you were gone, because I feared I might harm you in some, way if you saw me. I longed to stay and tell you that I am safe and well, and bus, with your good face look- ing into mine, but I don't deserve that yet. Only love me, trust me, pray for me, and some day you shall know what you have done for me. Till then, God bless and keep you, dearest friend, your RACHEL." Never had sweeter tears fallen than those that dropped upon the little tree as Christie took it in her arms, and all the rosy clusters leaned toward her as if eager to deliver tender messages. Surely her wish was granted now, for friendly hands had been at work for her. Warm against her heart lay words as precious as if uttered by a loving voice, and nowhere, on that happy night, stood a fairer Christmas tree than that which bloomed so beautifully from the heart of a Mag- dalen who loved much and was forgiven. CHAPTER V11. THROUGH THE MIST. THE year that followed was the saddest Christie bad ever known, for she suffered a sort of poverty which is more difficult to bear than actual want, since money cannot lighten it, and the rarest charity alone, can minister to it. Her heart was empty and she could not fill it; her soul was hungry and she could not feed it; life was cold and dark and she could not warm and brighten it, for she knew not where to go. She tried to help herself by all the means in her power, and when effort after effort failed she said: "I am not good enough yet to deserve happiness. I think too much of human love, too little of devine. When I have made God my friend perhaps He will let me find and keep one heart to make life happy with. How shall I know God? Who will tell me where to find Him, and help me to love and loan upon Him as I ought?" In all sincerity she asked these questions, in all sin- cerity she began her search, and with pathetic patience waited for an answer. She read many books, some wise, some vague, some full of superstition, all unsatis- factory to one who wanted a living God. She went to THROUGH THE MIST. 147 many churches, studied many creeds, and watched their fruits as well as she could; but still remained unsatisfied. Some were cold and narrow, some seemed theatrical and superficial, some stern and terrible, none simple, sweet, and strong enough for humanity's many needs. There was too much machinery, too many walls, laws, and penalties between the Father and His children. Too much fear, too little love; too many saints and intercessors; too little faith in the instincts of the soul which turns to God as flowers to the sun. Too much idle strife about names and creeds; too little knowledge of the natural religion which has no name but godliness, whose creed is boundless and benignant as the sunshine, whose faith is as the tender trust of little children in their mother's love. Nowhere did Christie find this all-sustaining power this paternal friend, and comforter, and after months of patient searching she gave up her quest, saying, de- spondently: "I'm afraid I never shall get religion, for all that's offered me seems so poor, so narrow, or so hard that I cannot take it for my stay. A God of wrath I cannot love; a God that must be propitiated, adorned, and adored like an idol I cannot respect; and a God who can be blinded to men's iniquities through the week by a little beating of the breast and bowing down on the seventh day, I cannot serve. I want a Father to whom I can go with all my sins and sorrows, all my hopes and joys, as freely and fearessly as I used to go to my human father, sure of help and sympathy and love. Shall I ever find Him?" Alas, poor Christie! she was going through the sor- 148 WORK. rowful perplexity that comes to so many before they learn that religion cannot be given or bought, but must grow as trees grow, needing frost and snow, rain and wind to strengthen it before it is deep-rooted in the soul; that God is in the hearts of all, and they that seek shall surely find Him when they need Him most. So Christie waited for religion to reveal itself to her, and while she waited worked with an almost desperate industry, trying to buy a little happiness for herself by giving a part of her earnings to those whose needs money could supply. She clung to her little room, for there she could live her own life undisturbed, and pre- ferred to stint herself in other ways rather than give up this liberty. Day after day she sat there sewing health of mind and body into the long seams or dianty stitching that passed through her busy hands, and while she sewed she thought sad, bitter, oftentimes rebellious thoughts. It was the worst life she could have led just then, for, deprived of the active, cheerful influences she most needed, her mind preyed on itself, slowly and surely, preparing her for the dark experience to come. She knew that there was fitter work for her somewhere, but how to find it was a probolem which wiser women have often failed to solve. She was no pauper, yet was one of those whom poverty sets at odds with the world, for favors burden and dependence makes the bread bitter unless love brightens the one and sweetens the other. There are many Christies, willing to work, yet unable to bear the contact with coarser natures which makes labor seem degrading, or to endure the hard struggle THROUGH THE MIST. 149 for the bare necessities of life when life has lost all that makes it beautiful. People wonder when such as she say they can find little to do; but to those who know nothing of the pangs of pride, the sacrifices of feeling, the martyrdoms of youth, love, hope, and ambition that go on under the faded cloaks of these poor gentle- women, who tell them to go into factories, or scrub in kitchens, for there is work enough for all, the most con- vincing answer would be, "Try it." Christie kept up bravely till a wearisome low fever broke both strength and spirit, and brought the weight of debt upon her when least fitted to bear or cast it off. For the first time she began to feel that she had nerves which would rebel, and a heart that could not long endure isolation from its kind without losing the cheer- ful courage which hitherto had been her staunchest friend. Perfect rest, kind care, and genial society were the medicines she needed, but there was no one to min- ister to her, and she went blindly on along the road so many women tread. She left her bed too soon, fearing to ask too much of the busy people who had done their best to be neigh- borly. She returned to her work when it felt heavy in her feeble hands, for debt made idleness seem wicked to her conscientious mind. And, worst of all, she fell back into the bitter, brooding mood which had become habitual to her since she lived alone. While the tired hands slowly worked, the weary brain ached and burned with heavy thoughts, vain longings, and feverish fancies, till things about her sometimes seemed as strange and spectral as the phantoms that had haunted her half- delirious sleep. Inexpressibly wretched were the dreary 150 WORK. days, the restless nights, with only pain and labor for companions. The world looked very dark to her, life seemed an utter failure, God a delusion, and the long, lonely years before her too hard to be endured. It is not always want, insanity, or sin that drives women to desperate deaths; often it is a dreadful lone- liness of heart, a hunger for home and friends, worse than starvation, a bitter sense of wrong in being denied the tender ties, the pleasant duties, the sweet rewards that can make the humblest life happy; a rebellious protest against God, who, when they cry for bread, seems to offer them a stone. Some of these impatient souls throw life away, and learn too late how rich it might have been with a stronger faith, a more sub- missive spirit. Others are kept, and slowly taught to stand and wait, till blest with a happiness the sweeter for the doubt that went before. There came a time to Christie when the mist about her was so thick she would have stumbled and fallen had not the little candle, kept alight by her own hand, showed her how far "a good deed shines in a naughty world;" and when God seemed utterly forgetful of her He sent a friend to save and comfort her. March winds were whistling among the house-tops, and the sky was darkening with a rainy twilight as Christie folded up her finished work, stretched her weary limbs, and made ready for her daily walk. Even this was turned to profit, for then she took home her work, went in search of more, and did her own small marketing. As late hours and unhealthy labor de- stroyed appetite, and unpaid debts made each mouthful difficult to swallow with Mrs. Flint's hard eye upon THROUGH THE MIST. 151 her, she had undertaken to supply her own food, and so lessen the obligation that burdened her. An unwise retrenchment, for, busied with the tasks that must be done, she too often neglected or deferred the meals to which no society lent interest, no appetite gave flavor; and when the fuel was withheld the fire began to die out spark by spark. As she stood before the little mirror, smoothing the hair upon her forehead, she watched the face reflected there, wondering if it could be the same she used to see so full of youth and hope and energy. "Yes, I'm growing old; my youth is nearly over, and at thirty I shall be a faded, dreary woman, like so many I see and pity. It's hard to come to this after trying so long to find my place, and do my duty. I 'm a failure after all, and might as well have stayed with Aunt Betsey or married Joe." "Miss Devon, to-day is Saturday, and I'm makin' up my bills, so I'll trouble you for your month's board, and as much on the old account as you can let me have." Mrs. Flint spoke, and her sharp voice rasped the silence like a file, for she had entered without knocking, and her demand was the first intimation of her pres- ence. Christie turned slowly round, for there was no elas- ticity in her motions now; through the melancholy anxiety her face always wore of late, there came the worried look of one driven almost beyond endurance, and her hands began to tremble nervously as she tied on her bonnet. Mrs. Flint was a hard woman, and dunned her debtors relentlessly; Christie dreaded the 152 WORK. sight of her, and would have left the house had she been free of debt. "I am just going to take these things home and get more work. I am sure of being paid, and you shall have all I get. But, for Heaven's sake, give me time." Two days and a night of almost uninterrupted labor had given a severe strain to her nerves, and left her in a dangerous state. Something in her face arrested Mrs. Flint's attention; she observed that Christie was putting on her best cloak and hat, and to her suspicious eye the bundle of work looked unduly large. It had been a hard day for the poor woman, for the cook had gone off in a huff; the chamber girl been detected in petty larceny; two desirable boarders had disappointed her; and the incapable husband had fallen ill, so it was little wonder that her soul was tried, her sharp voice sharper, and her sour temper sourer than ever. "I have heard of folks putting on their best things and going out, but never coming back again, when they owed money. It's a mean trick, but it's some- times done by them you wouldn't think it of," she said, with an aggravating sniff of intelligence. To be suspctedd of dishonesty was the last drop in Christie's full cup. She looked at the woman with a strong desire to do something violent, for every nerve was tingling with irritation and anger. But she con- trolled herself, though her face was colorless and her hands were more tremulous than before. Unfastening her comfortable cloak she replaced it with a shabby shawl; took off her neat bonnet and put on a hood, unfolded six linen shirts, and shook them out before her THROUGH THE MIST. 153 landlady's eyes; then retied the parcel, and, pausing on the threshold of the door, looked back with an expres- sion that haunted the woman long afterward, as she said, with the quiver of strong excitement in her voice: Mrs. Flint, I have always dealt honorably by you; I always mean to do it, and don't deserve to be sus- pected of dishonesty like that. I leave every thing I own behind me, and if I don't come back, you can sell them all and pay yourself, for I feel now as if I never wanted to see you or this room again." Then she went rapidly away, supported by her indig- nation, for she had done her best to pay her debts; had sold the few trinkets she possessed, and several treas- ures given by the Carrols, to settle her doctor's bill, and had been half killing herself to satisfy Mrs. Flint's demands. The consciousness that she had been too lavish in her generosity when fortune smiled upon her, made the present want all the harder to bear. But she would neither beg nor borrow, though she knew Harry would delight to give, and Uncle Enos lend her money, with a lecture on extravagance, gratis. "I'll, paddle my own canoe as long as I can," she said, sternly; "and when I must ask help I'll turn to strangers for it, or scuttle my boat, and go down with- out troubling sny one." When she came to her employer's door, the servant said: "Missis was out;" then seeing Christie's disap- pointed face, she added, confidentially: "If it's any comfort to know it, I can tell you that missis wouldn't have paid you if she had a been to home. There's been three other women here with work, and she's put'em all off. She always does, and 154 WORK. beats 'em down into the bargain, which ain't genteel to my thinkin'." "She promised me I should be well paid for these, because I undertook to get them done without fail. I've worked day and night rather than disappoint her, and felt sure of my money," said Christie, despond- ently. "I'm sorry, but you won't get it. She told me to tell you your prices was too high and she could find folks to work cheaper." "She did not object to the price when I took the work, and I have half-ruined my eyes over the fine stitching. See if it isn't nicely done." And Christie displayed her exquisite needlework with pride. The girl admired it, and, having a grievance of her own, took satisfaction in berating her mistress. "It'sasdiai6! These thin(Ts aire part of' a present the ladies are goiiig to giire the mirlister; but I don't believe lie 711 feel easy in 'eml if poor folks is wlrongedl to get 'em. Missiis won't pay what they are wolrth, I know; fbr, don't you see, the cheaper the wolrk is done, tlle more money she has 'to make a spread l with bler, share of the present? It's my opinion you'd better Iloldl on to these shirts till she pays for 'em handsorne." "No; I'll keep my promise, and I hope site will keep hers. Tell lier I need the money very much, and have worked, very Ilalrc to please lielr. I'll come ,again on Monday, if I'!m able." Christie's lips trembled as she spoke, for she was feeble still, and the thought of thiat hard-earned money had been her sustaiiiing. bope thronggi the weary homes spent over that ill-paid work. Tile girl said 14Good- .. T1II0 UGH THE1 MISST. 155 bye," with a look of mingled pJ ity and reIspnnp t, for in her eyes the seamstress was more of a lady tlhan the -mlistress in thiis tiransaiction. Cliritie liurried to anotlher place, and asked eagerly if tlie youngt ladi 'es had nny worc for her. 11Not a stitcli,", was the reply, and the door closed. Sh-e stood a 11101neil looking downl upon the passers-by wondel?- inar whatt ansmer she would get; if she aeposted azny one;. 'Itlllld had aiiy especinll bencevolent face looked back att Ii· le w-l Ie been tempted to do it, so hearttsick 1 ulta n rloi-n did sllC ficel just their. She knocked at several other doors, to receive the samec reply. She even triedl a slop-shlbp, but it w as fill] and herl paleo flace was -against her. H-er long ill- ness Ilad lost bher nlany patrlons, andl if one step's out fro'm the rankls of needlec-wonion it is very Hard to press ill gani, so clrowded a nic tli ey, Lne1d so desperate the, 11ced of Inoney. Oiie liope remained, and, though the way,?. was lon, JI'I and a foorgy drizzle had set in, site mlindedl neither dlis- taznce nor1 the ebilly.rainil, but burr'liedl away with anxious thoii(,lts still do""i'ng h ler steps. Across a Ion(- bridae ii- ,flirOVIA muddy roads and tip a stately avenue she ANvent, pausing, at last, spent and, breathlless at another door. A servarnt with a wedding-favor in "his button-hole opcened to her, and, Avhile he went to deliver her urgent message, Slie peered in wistfully from the dreary world Witliont, catching glimpses of home-lovee and happiness that made bier heart ache for very pity of its own lone- liness. Aweddina was evidentlyv afoot, for ball and staircase 15G WlrORK. blazedl with light and bloomed with flowers.· Smlilinga mlen and maids ran to and 1iro;, ojpehingg doors showed tatbles beautiful with bridci-l white and silver; savolry odors filled the air;'gay voices echroed above and below; and once she caucylit a briecf glance at the' .bonny bridCe, stallding with lier fathtler's arin about her,· ·wwrile hier another gave soi-e liast, loving touch to hier arrazy; and a (,Yroujl) of young sisters with Aplril facccs ·clusftered 1·ound her. The pretty picture vanished all too soon; the man returned with a. hurrieid "No" for' answer, nnd Ch1·istie went out into the deepening twilight ivith a strange sense of desperation at lier heart. It was not the refusal, not the fear' of want, nor the reac1tiol of ovC1r- taxed nerves alone; it was the sllnlpness of the con- trast between that other woman's fate azcd her ow'n thatt made her wring her hands too-ether,; and cry out-, bitterly t Ohl it isn't fair]-l· it isn't right, that she should lleave so much aznd I so little! WhVat have I ever done to be so desolate and mriseranble, and never to find ainy halpi- ness, however halrd I tlry to do what seems my duty? There was no answer ind she went slowly down the long avenue, feeling that there was no cause for hulrry now, and even nialit and rain and wind were, better than her lonely rooin or Mrs. Flint's) complaints. Afoltr off the city lights' slione falintly through the fog, likee pale lamps seen in dreams; the damp air cooled her feverisb cheeks; the roadld was dazrk and still, and she longed to lie, down and rest ,among the sodden leaves. When she reached the bridge she saw the draw was up, anda spectlral ship was slowly passing througll. TIIROUGH THE II MIST. 157 BWith oo decsilre to mingle in the crowd that waited on eitherel side, -she paused, and, leaning on the Ifailing,· let ber tlloagSlits walnder' whlere they would. As she stood fliere the hetalvy air· seelned to clocr her breath. and wrapn her in its cliffly aims She felt as if' the springs of fife werrrre runiiiiitr doVI1 and presently would stop; for, even when, th e old · question, What shall I do?? caine hatintinglr her, slle no longer cared even to try to answer it, and had no feeling but one of utter weari-' ness. Slie t ried to shake ofr the stiange iood that was stealinu over her; but spent body and spentbraifi were not strong enongll to obey her will, and, inl spite of her efforts to control it, the iiiilpulse that had seized ber grewW more intense each inoment. ii "WlWhy should I worli and suffer any longerP for my. self alone?" she 'thought why wear out my life ,a strwyzlinz for the breae d I have no heart to eat? I am m not wise enoucrh to find my place, nor patient enou h a it until it; colnes to i Better g· rive up1- trying, aind leave rooni for those who have somethings to'live fo Iy asrnr·nn n nnrr .lr Irrrn W-any a strongeVr sou IJ111/rl has known a dark hour when flie, importunate we isb' has risen that it were possible and rPight to Lary down the -burdens that opplress, the Perpllexities that halrass, and hasten tbecoming of the iilong sleep that needs no lullaby. Such an hour was this to Christie, for; as she stood there, that sorrowful bewviilelerrnent which we call despairi cai-n over her, and ruledi her with a own-er slie could not resist. At flight of ,--,tps close by led to a lumberr wbarf, and, scarcely knowing why, site went down there, with a' Vauuodesire to sit stll ' somewIYIere, and think hear wayl 158 WOIIK. out of the mist that seemed to obscure her mind. A single tall lamp shone at the farther end of the plat- form, and presently she fund herself leaning her hlot forehead against the iron pillar, while she watched with curious interest the black water rolling sluggishly below. She knew it was no place for her, yet no one waited for her, no onel would care if' she staid for ever, and, yielding to the perilous fascination that drew her there, she lingered with a heavy tllrobbinlg in her temples, and a troop of wild fancies whirling through her brain. Something white swept by below, - olly a broken oar - but she began to wonder how a human body would look floating through the night. It was an awesome fancy, but it took possession of her, and, as it grew, her eyes dilated, her breath came fast, and her lips fell apart, for she seemed to see the phantom she had con- jured up, and it wore the likeness of herself. With an ominous chill creeping through her blood, and a growing tumult in her mind, she thought, "I muzst go," but still stood motionless, leaning over the wide gulf, eager to see where that dead thing would pass away. So plainly did she see it, so peaceful was the wlite face, so full of rest the folded hands, so strangely like, and yet unlike, herself, that she seemed to lose her identity, and wondered which was the real ^ and which the imaginary Christie. Lower and lower she bent; looser and looser grew her hold upon tile pillar; faster and faster beat the pulses in her temples, and the rush of some blind impulse was swiftly coming on, when a hand seized and caught her back. For an instant every thing grew black before her IB TIJJOUGII TIHE MIST. 159 eyes, and the earth seemed to slip away from under- neath her feet. Then she wa heherself again, and found neath 1. urith her head tlhat she was sitting on a pile of lumber, with her head uncov ed(, and a woman's arm about her. THi REscu E. "Was I going to drown myself?" sle asked, slowly, with a fancy that she had been dreaming frightfully, and some one had' wakened her. , ( 1WORK. "You were most gone; but I came in time, thank God! O Christip! don't you know me?" Ah! no fear of that; for with one bewildered look, one glad cry of recognition, Christie found her friend again, and was gathered close to Rachel's heart. "My dear, my dear, what drove you to it? Tell me all, and let me help you in your trouble, as you helped me in mine," she said, as she tenderly laid the poor, white face upon her breast, and wrapped her shawl about the trembling figure clinging to her with such passionate delight. "I have been ill; I worked too hard; I'm not myself to-night. I owe money. People disappoint an( worry me; and I was so worn out, and weak, and wicked, I think I meant to take my life." "No, dear; it wtas not you that meant to do it, but the weakness and the trouble tlat bewildered you. Forget it all, and rest a little, safe with me; then we 'll talk again." Rachel spoke soothingly, for Christie shivered and sighed as if her own thoughts frightened her. For a moment they sat silent, while the mist trailed its white shroud above them, as if death had paused to beckon a tired child away, but, finding her so gently cradled on a warm, human heart, had relented and passed on, leaving no waif but the broken oar for the river to carry toward the sea. Tell me about yourself, Rachel. Where have you been so long? I've looked and waited for you ever since the second little note you sent me on last Christ- nas; but you never came." "I 've been away, dear heart, hard at work in another THROUGH TIE MIST. 161 city, larger and wickeder than this. I tried to get work Ilhere, that I might be near you; but that cruel Cotton 'i| always found me out; and I was so afraid I should get desperate that I went away where I was not known. There it came into my mind to do for others more i H wretched than I wlat you had done for me. God put !ba: 'the thought into my lacrt, and I-e lelped me in my I , work, for it has prslpered wonderfully. All this year I Have been busy with it, and almost happy; for I felt that yotr love made me strong to do it, and that, in time, I might grow good enough to be your friend." "'See whllt I amn, Rachel, and never say that any 1 , , more! :. "Iush, my poor dearla, and let me talk. You are not ' . able to do any thilng, but rest, and listen. I knew how many poor souls went wrlonll wlen the devil tempted '' them; and I gave all my strength to saving those who clwere going the way I went. I had no fear, no shame ;: to overcome, for I was one of them. They would listen to nme, for I knew what I spoke; 4iey could believe in : saNlvation, for I was saved; they did not feel so outcast and forlorn when I told them you had taken me into your innocent arms, and loved me like a sister. With every one I helped my power increased, and I felt as if I had waslied away a little of my own great sin. 0 Clhristie! never think it's time to die till you are called; :i for tlhe Lord leaves us till we have done our work, and | never sends more sin and sorrow than we can 'bear and be tlhe better fol, if we lold filst by HIim." So beautiful anl( brave slhe looked, so flll of strength and yet of neck submission was her voice, that Chris- tie's heart was thrilled; for it was plain that Rachel K 162 WORK. had learned how to distil balm from the bitterness of life, and, groping in the mire to save lost souls, had found her own salvation there. "Show me how to grow pious, strong, and useful, as you are," she said. "I am all wrong, and feel as if I never could get right again, for I haven't energy enough to care what becomes of me." "I know the state, Christie : I've been through it all! but when I stood where you stand now, there was no hand to pull me back, and I fell into a blacker river than this underneath our feet. Thalnk God, I came in time to save you from either death!" "How did you find me?" asked Christie, when she had echoed in her heart the thanksgiving ththat came with such fervor from the other's lips. "I passed you on the bridge. I did not see your flcc, but you stood leaning there so wearily, and loolkig down into the water, as I used to look, that I wanted to speak, but did not; and I went on to comfort a poor girl who is dying yonder. Something turned me back, however; and when I saw you down here I knew why I was sent. You were almost gone, but I kept you; and when I had you in my arms I knew you, though it nearly broke my heart to find you here. Now, dear, come home. , "Home! ah, Rachel, I've got no home, and for want of one I shall be lost!" The lament that broke from her was more pathetic than the tears that streamed down, hot and heavy, melting from her heart the frost of her despair. Ier friend let her weep, knowing well the worth of tears, and while Christie sobbed herself quiet, Rachel took thought for her as tenderly as any mother. TIHROU G THIE MIST. 163 WllWhen she hadl heard the story of Christie's troubles, she stood up as if inspired with a happy thought, and stretching botl hands to her friend, said, with an air of cheerful assurance most comforting to see: "I 'll take care of you; come with me, my poor Chris- tie, and I 11 give you a home, very humble, but honest and happy." "With you, Rachel?" "No, dear, I must go back to my work, and you are not fit for that. Neither must you go again to your own roon, because for you it is haunted, and the worst place you could be in. You want change, and I'll give you one. It will seem queer at first, but it is a whole- some place, and just what you need." "I 'll do any thing you tell me. I 'm past thinking for. myself to-night, and only want to be taken care of 1 till I find strength and courage enough to stand alone," said Christie, rising slowly and looking about her with an aspect as helpless and hopeless as if the cloud of mist was a wall of iron. Rachell put on her bonnet for her and wrapped her shawl about her, saying, in a tender voice, that warmed the other's heart: "("Close by lives a dear, good woman who often be- firiends such as you andlI. She will take you in with- out a question, and love to do it, for she is the most hospitable soul I know. Just tell her you want work, that I sent you, and there will be no trouble. Then, when you know her a little, confide in her, and you will never come to such a pass as this again. Keep up your hearty dear; I 'll not leave you till you are safe." So cheerily she spoke, so confident she looked, that 164WOK the lost expression passed from Christie's, face, and hand in hand ttley went away-together,, - two types of the sad sisterllood standing oil either shore of thle dark river that is spanned by a Br·idgee of Sighs. Rachlel led her friend toward the cit3;, and, comint-r to thee-meehanics' quazrter, stopped before the door of a small, old house. Jutst knock, say R achel sent me,' and you'll find youlrself at home." Stay with me,- or let me go with you. I can't lose ; you again, for I need you very muolh," pleaded Christie, clinlging to her, friend. E "Not so much as that poor girl dying all .alone,* Site's waiting for me, and I must go. Biat I'll Wlrite soon; and remember-, Cllristie, I shelfl feel as if I llad only paid a very little of my debt if you go back to the, sad old life, and lose youzr faith and hope agaiti. God bless and keep you, and whlen we meet next time let me find a happier face than this." Rachel kissed it with her heart on her lips, smiled hecr brave sweet smile, and vanished in the mist.' Pausing7 a moment to collect herself, Chrlistie recol. lected that shie hazd not askeltd the nan-lle of the new friend whose help she was about to ask. A little sign on the door 'Caught her eye, and, bending' down,, she' managed to read by the dim light of the street lamp these words: "C. WQILTCNSj· Clear-Stareber. "LLaces drone up in the best style." Too tired to care, whether a laulndress or a lady took her in, she knocked timidly, and, while she waited for THRIOUGH THIE .31IST. 165 ,an answer to her summons, stood listening to the noises Within . A swashing sound as of water was audiblelhll- likewise a selifflincr asnRof flyincr felet; sonl e oile, clapped hands a znd a voice saidl, warlninuly, 11Into your beds this instant niinute or I'll conic to you! Andrew JAcSOD, give Gusty a boost; Ann Lizy, don't you tech Wash's feet to tickle, 'ein Set pretty in the tub, Victoi-y, dear, whlile ina, sees whlo's r·appin'," "LC. WILKINS, CLUAR STARCHEIR.") Then heavy footsteps zqpproacbed,, the door opened wide, and a large woman apL nlpeared, with fuzzy red ]fairl', no front teeth annd. -If plump, clean face, brialitly illuminated by the lanip she carried. 44If you please, Rwachel sent me. She, thought you might be 'able"- Cliristic got no further-l, f'or C. Wilkins plxt out a, strongu bare arm, still danip, and gently drew her in,, 166' WORK.frnIC saying, with the same motherly tone as when addlress- big her children, 11 Come rioglit ill, dlear, and don't mindd the clutter things is in. I'm gi 0Vill the children thelir Sat'day scrubbsin', and they will slop and kite arouldd 110 matter ef I do spank 'ein." Talking all the way in such an easy, comfortable voice that Chlristie felt as if she must have lleard it before, Mrs. Wilktins led her unexpected ignest into a small kitchen, smelling suggestively of soazp-sudls and warm flalt-irons. In the middle of thlis apartment was a large tub ; ill the tubaa chubby cliild sat, sticking a sponge and staring calmly' at the new-comner with a pair of big blue eyes, while little drops slione in the yellow curls and on the rosy. shoulders. 11How pretty!") cried Chr·istie, seeing nothing else and stopping short to admire this innocent little Venus rising ftom the sea. "So she is! Ma's darlin' lamb! and ketchlin' her death a cold this blessed minnit;. Set rigllt down ilmy dear, and tuck yourP wet feet into the oven. I'll have Ia disli o' tea for you. in less'n no tinie; and while it Is drawin', I'll clap Victory Adelaidle inlto lier bed,' Christie sank into a shabby but' most hospitable old chair,'dropped bler bonnet on the floor, put her feet in the oven, and, leaning back, watched Mr-S. Wilkins wipe the baby as if slle had come f6'r that especial pur- pose.. As Rachel predicted, sic found herself at home at once, and presently was ,startled to hear a laugh from her own lips when several children in red and yellow flannel night-gowns darted like nieteors across the open doorway of an adljoining room, with whoops and howls, burkts of laughlter, and antics of all sorts, THROUGH THE'H MIST. 167 I-low pleasant it was; that plain room, with no orna-' nients but the happy faces, no elegance, but ,cleanliness, no wealth, but hospitality and lots of love. This lat- ter blessing gave the place its charm, fott though Mrs. NV41kins threatened to take her infants' noses of 'if they rot out of bed again, or 1 put 'ein in the kettle and bile 'em " they evidently knew no fear, but aiambolled all thec nearer to her for the threjat and she beamed ipon" them with such maternal tenderlness and pride that lier homely face grew beautiful in Chhristie's eyes. When the baby was bundled up in, a blanket and about to be set down before the stove to sinimer a trifle before being put to bed, Christie held out her arms, saying with an irresistible loncring in her eyes and1 voice: LIet me hold hler! I love babies dearly, and it seems cisif it would do me more good than quarts of tea to cudtlle her, if she'll let me.)) T Terle now, that's real sensible ; and motber's bird 'll set -along with you as good as a kitten'. Toast her tootsies wazl,' for she's croupy, and I have to be, extra chloice of her·." I-low good it feels!i " singled Christie, half devouring the wnarii and rosy little bunch in her lap, white baby lay back luxuriously, spreadin '_ her pink toes to the pleasant warmth and smiling sleepily up in the hungry' face that hung over her.' Mrs. Wilkins's quick eyes saw it all, and she said to hclrself, in the closet, as she cut bread and rattled down.· a cup and saucer: 44 Tbt's ·wwhat sbe wants, poor crecter ; I'll let ber blave a rigllt nice time, and warm. and feed and chirk 168 .·WORKrr · her up, and then 1`11 see what's to be done for he'r. She I n't one of thel common sort, and goodness on Olly knowsV whlat Racbel sent hier here for·. She 's poor and sick, but she ain't bad. I call tell thatt by her facec, and she 's Lhe sort I like to help. It's at mercy I ain't oat mny sulp- per, so she can have that bit of meat and the pie." Puttin" a tray on the little tiable, the good soul set Forth all site bad to give, andt offered it witll such. bos- pitable warmth,h thazt Chlristie ate and drank writl un-1 accustomed aplpctite, iiiilling 'Off deliciously withi a kiss from baby bsefolre she was bolrne away by her mother to the back bcddroom, wllcre peace soon reigned. "Now let me tell you who I am, and bow I came to year in such an unceremlonious wany," began Chrlistie, when her Hostess retainedc and found lier wazlrnied, refreshedl and composed by a. Niromanl's three best coin- rorters, - kind wordds, a baby, anld aI cup of tea. cc'PearsS to me, dear·, I wouldn't r·ile myself up by belting any werryments to-nichtbt but git riivllt warm Inter bed, and have a good Ion" sleep," staid Mrls. Wil- kins, without a ray of curiosit i her wholesome Ircd race. LLBut; you don't know any tliing about me afnd I may be the worst womaln in the worldd" cried Christie, anxious to provO Herself worthy of stichl confidence. "I know that you want takin' caree of, child, or R achel wouldn't a sent you. Ef' I can help any one, I don't want no intlroduction; and ef you be the W'ust woman in the world (which you ain't), I Wouldn't shctt my door on you, for then you'll need a lift more 'n you do now.", THR 0U G THE MI ST. 169 Christie could only put out her hand, and mutely thanrk her new frienlltl witi full eyes. "You're fuiirly tuckelred out, you poor soul, so yolx jest come right up chalarber and let me tuxck you up, else you'll be down sick. It ain't a mite of incon- venience; the room is k(--,,I for company,1Y and it's all recady, even to a clean night-cap. F-m goin' to clap tlris warm. hat to youl· feet when you're fixed; it's ainanzin' conifortin' and keeps your head cool." Up thely went to a tidy little chanlber, and Christie fbundl Helrslf laid d'own to. rest none too so-on, for she wals quite worn out. Sleep began to steal over her the moment lier head touched the pillow, in spite of the much beruffiedi cap which Mrs. Wilktins put on with visible pride in its stiffly crimped horders. She was darily conscious of a kind hand tucking her up, a coin- fbrtable voice purrin'c over ber, andc, best of all, at mot lerly good-night kriss, then the weary world faded quite away and shle was at rest, CHAPTER VIII. A CURE FOR DESPAIR. \, ' , Iv ' LISHA WILKINS. IHEN Christie opened the eyes that had closed so wearily, afternoon sunshine streamed across the room, and seemed the herald of happier days. Refieshed by sleep, and comforted by grateful recollec- tions of her kindly welcome, she lay tranquilly enjoy- ing the friendly atmosphere about her, with so strong a feeling that a skilful hand had taken the rudder, that she felt very little anxiety odr curiosity about the haven which was to receive her boat after this narrow escape from shipwreck. A 'CURE FOR DESPAIR. 171 Her eye wandered to and fro, and brightened as it went; for though a poor, plain room it was as neat as lands could make it, and so glorified with sunshine that she thought it a lovely place, in spite of the yellow paper with green cabbage roses on it, the gorgeous plaster statuary on the mantel-piece, and the fragrance of dough-nuts which pervaded the air. Every thing suggested home life, humble but happy, and Christie's solitary heart warmed at the sights and sounds about her. A half open closet-door gave her glimpses of little frocks and jackets, stubby little shoes, and go-to-meet- ing hats all in a row. From below came up the sound of childish voices chattering, childish feet trotting to and fro, and childish laughter sounding sweetly through the Sabbath stillness of the place. From a room near by, came the soothing creak of a rocking-chair, the rustle of a newspaper, and now and then a scrap of conversation common-place enough, but pleasant to hear, because so full of domestic love and confidence; and, as she listened, Christie pictured Mrs. Wilkins and her husband taking their rest together after the week's hard work was done. "I wish I could stay here; it's so comfortable and honme-like. I wonder if they wouldn't let me have this room, and help me to find some better work than sew- ing? I'll get up and ask them," thought Christie, feeling an irresistible desire to stay, and strong repug- nance to returning to the rooin she had left, for, as Rachel truly said, it was haunted for her. When she opened the door to go down, Mrs. Wilkins ht 172 W ORk., bounced out of ber rocking-ebair and buried to ineet her vvith a smiling face, saying all in one breath:: "Good mornin', dear! Rested well, I hope? 1 'm proper gladzc to hear it., Now come ricylit down and have your di nner. I kep it hot, for I couldn't bear to wake you up, you was sleepin' so beautifull" "I was so worn. out I slept like a baby, and feel like new creature. It was so kind of ayut hk eil and I 'i so grateful I don't know how to show it, said Christie, warmly, as her hostess ponderously descendedc thec complainingc stair·s alnd ushered hier into the fidyy kitchen from which tubs afi'd -flat-irons were banished one day in the week. "Lawful sakes, the' ain't nothing to, be grateful for, Child, and you're heartily welcome to the little I done, -We are country folks in our ways, though we be livin' in the city, and we have a regular country dinner Sun'- days. HoIpe -you'll relish it; my vittles is clean ef they ain't rich." As she spoke, Mrs. Wilkins dished up baked beans, Indian-puddin and brown bread enough for half a dw,,en. Christie was hungry now, and ate with an appetite' that dlelighted the good lady who vibratedi betweefi her guest and her children, sllut up in tile Lsettin'-rooril.)) "LNow please let me tell you all about myself, for I am afraid you think: me sometlring better than I am. If I ask help from you, it is righlt that you, shouldl know whom you are helpingr" said Christie, when thel table wias cleared and her hostess cme and sat down beside her, ' es) my dear, free your mind, '=and then, we'll flx A CURll70E OR DEPAIR.17 tbinas np riaht smart. Notbin' I like better, and Lisba says I have considerable of a knack that way," replied Mr8. Willcins, with a smije, a nod, and an air of interest most reassuring. So Christie told hel· store y, lion to entire confidence by the sympatheticc face opposite, and tble' motherly' P.-A goO gently given by the big, rougbrh liand that often met bier own. When all1 was told, Chistic said very ear- nestly : I ani ready to go to work to-morrow, and will do any thlincr I can find, but I' should love, to stay here a little \Twliijel if I could; I do so dlread to be alone. Iss it possible? I mean to pay my board of course, and help youi besides if you'll let me." Mrs.,`Wilkins glowcd with pleassnre at this compi-. ment) and leanin(Y toward Chr·istie, looked into her fafce a nioment in silence, as if to test the sincerity of the wish. In that moment Christie saw what steady, saga- i cious eyes the woman had ;; so 'clear, so honest that shle looked thrlouah them into the grecat, warm heartt below, and looking forcrgot the frlzzy, red hair, the pau- city of teetll, the -faded gown, andl felt only the attrac- tion of a -nature genuine and. genial as the sunshline dancinr on thc kitcllen toor. Beeautiffil souls often giot put into plain bodies, but they cannot be hidden, and have a power all1 their own, the, glreater for the unconsciousness or the humility whic givs i glce. Clhristie saw and felt this then, and when the homely woman spoke, listened to her with implicit confidence. "My dear, I'd no more send you away now than I would my Adelaide, for you need looking after for a 174: WORK. spell, most as much as she doos. You 've been tiiii'ln' and broodlin' too mucli and sewin' yourself' to dealth. We'll stop all that, and keep you so busy tliei-e won't be no time for the liypo. You're once of them A·tiat can't live alonle without starvinll) solehow\, so 17111 e'St goi 't urn you in among thm paentopster, so to speak. That's wholesome and filfiii' for yoit, tindl goodness knows it will be a puffect Clarity to mze, for I'm goin' to, be dreadful drove with gettin' tip curtins, and all manner of things, as springl coni'es on. So it ain't no favor on my parlt, irnd you ean take out 'your. board in tendin' baby and Putterin' over them, little tykes2' "I should like it so much! BIut I forgot; my debt to Mrs. Flint; perblaps she won't let me go," said Cliristie,, with an anxious cloud coming over hier brioS-litening faice. 11 Merciful, suz! don't you be werried about her. I'll see to her, and ef sbe acts ucrly Lisba'll f'etc'h her round; men can always settle such thimrs better'n we can, and be's a dreadful smart man Lislia is. We'll go to-morrer and get your belongings, andc then settle rigbt down for a spell; and by-an'-by wben you git a trifle more chipper we 'D1 find a nice place in the country Homers. Tbat's wbat you want; notbin' like green grass and woodsy smells to right folks up. When I was a gal, ef I go t low in my mind, or riled in my temper, I jest went out and grubbed in the gardin, or made bay, or walked a good piece, and it fetebed me Toulxnd beautiful. Never failed; so I come to see thatt 'good fresh dirt is fusi: rate physic for Uik's spirits as it is for wounds, as they tell on." p A CURE FOR0 DESPAIR11. 175 "That sounds sensible and pleasant, and I like it. O11 it'is so beautiful to feel that soinebody cares f'or you a little bit, and you ain't one too many in, the world " si(Thed. Christie. "Doll't you never feecl that a(Yin, my dear. What's the Lordd for ef H-e ain't to llold on to in tirnes of trouble. Faith ain't wuth much. ei1 f it's 'Only lively in fair weatllcr; you've aot to believe hearty andi stan' by the Lord tllroughl thick and thin, and He'll stan' by you asI no one else begins17 to. I Ircmcmber of havin' tllis bore-in upon me by somethlin' that hlappenedc to a mall I know. I-le got bloowed up 'in a powder-mill, and whlen folks asked him wliat lie thought when the bust coine be said, real sober and impressive: I Wal, it come tlirouah nie like a flasli, that I'd served the Lord as faithlful as I knew how for a number a years, and I guessed T-Te'd fetch me tllrough someliow , and. He did.' Sure enouxrh the man wari-A killed; I 'm bound to confess lie was shook dreadful, but Iris faith warn't.'' Ch1·istie could not help smiling at the story, but she liked it;, and sincerely wished she could imitate the bero of' it in his piet' Y not ills Powder. She was about to say so when the sound of app'roazching steps an. trouncedl the advent of her bost. She had been rather ilnpressed2 with the ccsmartness " of Li'sha by his wife's praises, but when a small' sallow, sickly looking man c(,ime in she chanulyed lie j·mind; for not even an im. mensely stiff collar, nor a pair of boots that seemed composed entirely of what the boys call 11 creak leather; could inspire her with confidence. Without a palrticle of expression in his yellow'face, Mir. Wilkins nodded to the stranuerr over the picket 176 WORK. feltce of his collar, lighted hris pipe, and eltimpedl away to enjoy his afternoon plromenadle without compromnis- ingr himself by a single word. H-is wife looked after hint with. an adlmirin" gaze as she said: cThem boots is' as good as an advertisements for lie inade every -stitch, on 'em. himself;" then. she, added, laughing like a girl: 11 It-'s recdick;'his my bein' so proud of Lisha, but ef a woman ain't a right to think watl of her own husbancl, I should like to know who li, . " Chr'istie was afraid that Mrrs. Wilkins hadr seen Iler clisalppointrnent in her face, and triee&, -with wifely zeal, to defend her lord ffiome even a disparaging thought.. Wishing to atone for thlis transgression she was about to sing the praises of' the wooden-faced Elisha, but was spared aiiy polite fibs by the applearalnce of a small girl who delivered an urgent mzessagee to the effet, that? "Mis Plumly wazs down sick and wanted Mis Wilktins to run over' and set a spelilll As the good lady hesitnatedl with an involuntary glasnce at her guestsr Christie said quickly 11Don't mind me ; I'll talce care of the house for yonz if you want to go. YTou may be sulre I won't run off with the children or steal the spoons." .I ain't a mite afi·aidl of anybody wantin' to steal them little toads ; an d as for spoons, I ain't got a silver one to bless myself with,"L-m liled MSI1s. Wilktins. II guess I will go, then, ef you don't mind, as it's only acrost the street. Like's not setting It will be better for Sou )n talkin', for' I'm. a dreadful l Ilxd to afb when I git started. Tell Mis Plumly I'm a comnin'." T'hen, as the child ran off, the stout lady began to A CURE FOR DESPAIRPIL. 177 rummage in her closet, sayingS, as slie ralttlecl and slamniedc I'll est take her a drawin' of tea, and a couple of nut-eakecs: inebby she'll relish 'cm, for I shouldn't wonder ef slle 1 11dn' had a mouthful this blessed day. ShQ's dreadfulfi slack ait the best of times, but no one can mud! ivonder, seeiI1 slic's got nine Children, and is ("St up, from. az rhteumatic fever. I'm sure I never, grudge (a ineail of -N-ittles or a hand's turn tQ such as site is, though she does 'beat tall for decpendin' on her Deigyblbors I'ln a hous-and times oblee ed. You nleedln't worr1y about tire chlildl-CD, Only don't let 'cm git lost, or buriitf, or pitC1h out a, windler; and when it's- done give lern the patty-cakee that's bakinu' for With Mrhich maternal orders Mrs. Wilkiias assumed a sky-blue bonnet, nacd went beamnin" awarn with -s'ev- eral dishes genteelly hIidden under her purulple sbawl. Being ilrresistibly attracted towardl the children Chr·is- tic opened the door and took a survey of her resp'onsi- bilities.. Six lively infafnts were congrecratedl in the 11 sttin'- room and chaos seemed to bmsvc come again, for ccv1ry sort of destructive amusement w,,,s in full operation. Geolgge Wanshingnton, tthe eldest boloss'om, wass shearing a resigned, kittetn Gusty ar 4d Ann Eliza were concoct-?/1 ing mud pies in the: ashes; Adelazide Victoria was stncdying the structure of lamp-wickss, while Daniel Wecbster and Andr1ew Jazckson were' draggingr one another in a clotbes-balsket, to the great detriment of the old carpet and As'ill older chariot. Thinking that some employment more suited to the 8*t L 178 WORK. day might be introduced, Christie soon made friends with these young persons, and, having rescued tlhe kitten, banished tlie basket, lured tle elder girls fioln their mud-piety, and quenched the curiosity of the Pickwickian Adelaide, she proposed teaching theli some little hymns. The idea was graciously received, and the class deco- rously seated in a row. But before a single verse was given out, Gusty, being of a house-wifely turn of mind, suggested that the patty-cake might burn. Instant alarm pervaded the party,. and a precipitate rush was made for the cooking-stove, where Christie proved by ocular demonstration that the cake showed no signs of baking, much less of burning. The family pronounced themselves satisfied, after each member had poked a grimy little finger into the doughy delicacy, whereon one large raisin reposed in proud pre-eminence over the vulgar herd of caraways. Order being with difficulty restored, Christie taught her flock an appropriate hymn, and-was flattering her- self that their youthful minds were receiving a devo- tional bent, when they volunteered a song, and incited thereunto by the irreverent Wash, burst forth with a gem from Mother Goose, closing with a smart skirmish of arms and legs that set all law and order at defiance. Hoping to quell the insurrection Christie invited the breathless rioters to calm themselves by looking at the pictures in the big Bible. But, unfortunately, her expla- nations were so vivid that her audience were fired with a desire to enact some of the scenes portrayed, and no persuasions could keep them from playing Ark on the spot. The clothes-basket was elevated upon two 'I A CURE FOR DESPAIR. 179 chairs, and into it marched the birds of the air and the beasts of the field, to judge by the noise, and all set sail, with Washington at the helm, Jackson and Web- ster plying the clothes and pudding-sticks for oars, while the young ladies rescued their dolls from the flood, and waved their hands to imaginary friends who were not unmindful of the courtesies of life even in the act of drowning. i i4 N,'j . j I ii' · / i. MRS. WILKINS SIX LIVFLY INFANTS. Finding her authority defied Christie left the rebels to their own devices, and sitting in a corner, began to 180 WORK. think about her own affairs. But before she had time to get anxious or perplexed the children diverted her mind, as if the little flibberty-gibbets knew that their pranks and perils were, far wholesomer f'or her just then than brooding. The much-enduring kitten being sent forth as a dove upon the waters failed to return with the olive-branch; of which peaceful emblem there was soon great need, for mutiny broke out, and spread with disastrous ra- pidity. Ann Eliza slapped Gusty because she had the biggest bandbox ; Andrew threatened to " chuck "Daniel over- board if he continued to trample on the fraternal toes, and in the -midst of the firay, by some unguarded motion, Washington capsized the ship and lprecipitated the patriarchal family into the bosom of the deep. Christie flew to the rescue, and, hydropathically treated, the anguish of bumps and bruises was soon assuaged. Then appeared the appropriate moment for a story, and gathering the dilapidated party about her she soon enraptured them by a recital of the immortal history of "Frank and the little dog Trusty."Charmed with her success she was about to tell another moral tale, but no sooner had she announced the name, "The Three Cakes," when, like an electric flash a sudden recollection seized the young Wilkinses, and with one voice they demanded their lawful prize, sure that now it must be done. Christie had forgotten all about it, and was harassed with secret misgivings as she headed the investigating committee. With skipping of feet and clapping of hands the eager tribe surrounded the stove, and with A CURE FOR DESPAIR. 181 fear and trembling Christie drew forth a melancholy cinder, where, like Casabianca, the lofty raisin still remained, blackened, but undaunted, at its post. Then were six little vials of wrath poured out upon her devoted head, and sounds of lamentation filled the 'air, for the irate Wilkinses refused to be comforted till the rash vow to present each member of the outraged family with a private cake produced a lull, during which tlle younger ones were decoyed into the back yard, and the three elders solaced themselves with mischief. Mounted on mettlesome broomsticks Andre and Daniel were riding merrily away to the Banbumy Cross, of blessed memory, and little Vie was erecting pagoda of oyster-shells, under Christie's supe.rintendence, when a shrill scream from within sent horsemen and archi- tects flying to the rescue. Gusty's pinafore was in a blaze; Ann Eliza was dancing frantically about her sister as if bent on making a suttee of herself; while George Washington hung out of window, roaring, "Fire!" "water!" "engine!" "pa!" with a presence of mind worthy of his sex. A speedy application of the hearth-rug quenched the conflagration, and when a minute burn had been envel- oped in cotton-wool, like a gem, a coroner sat upon the pinafore and investigated the case. It appeared that the ladies were " only playing paper dolls," when Wash, sighing for the enlightenment of his race, proposed to make a bonfire, hnd did so with an old book; but Gusty, with a firm belief in future pun- ishment, tried to save it, and fell a victim to her prin- ciples, as the virtuous are very apt to do. SI 182 WORK. The book was brought into court, and proved to be an ancient volume,'of ballads, cut, torn, and half con- sumed. Several peculiarly developed paper dolls, branded here and there with large letters, like g:alley- slaves, were then produced by the accused, and the judge could with difficulty preserve her gravity when she found "John Gilpin" converted into a painted petticoat, "The Bay of Biscay, 0," situated in the crown of a hat, and "Chevy Chase " issuing from tle mouth of a triangular gentleman, who, like Dickens's cherub, probably sung it by ear, having no lungs to speak of. It was further apparent fiom the agricultural appear- ance of the room that beans had been sowed broadcast by means of tle apple-corer, which Wash had con- verted into a pop-gun with a mechanical ingenuity worthy of more general appreciation. I-e felt this deeply, and when Christie reproved him for leading Ihis sisters astray, he resented the liberty she took, and retired in high dudgeon to the cellar, where he appeared to set up a menagerie, - for bears, lions, and unknown animals, endowed with great vocal powers, were heard to solicit patronage from below. Somewhat exhausted by her labors, Christie rested, after clearing up the room, while the children found a solace for all afflictions in the consumption of relays of bread and molasses, which infantile restorative occurred like an inspiration to the mind of their guardian. Peace reigned for fifteen minutes; then came a loud crash from the cellar, followed by a violent splashing, and wild cries of, "Oh, oh, oh, I've fell into the pork barrel! I 'm drownin', I 'm drownin'!" A CURE FOR DESPAIR. 183 Down rushed Christie, and the sticky innocents ran screaming after, to behold their pickled brother fished up fiom tlle briny deep). A spectacle well calculated to impress upon their infant ninds the awful conse- quences of straying fiom the paths of virtue. At this crisis Mi's. Wilkins providentially appeared, breathless, but brisk and beaming, and in no wise dis- mayed by the plight of her luckless son, fbr a ten years' acquaintance with Wash's dauntless nature had inured his mother to " didoes " that would have appalled most women. "Go right up chamber, and change every rag on you, and don't come down agin till I rap on the ceilin'; you dreadful boy, disgracin' your family by sech actions. I 'm sorry I was kep' so long, but Mis Plumly got tellin' her werryments, and peeredd to take so much comfort in it I couldn't bear to stop her. Then I jest run round to your place and told that woman that you was safe and well, along'r friends, and would call in to- morrer to get your things. She'd ben so scart by your not comin' home that she was as mild as milk, so you won't have no trouble with her, I expect." "Thank you very mmich! How kind you are, and how tired you must be Sit down and let me take your things," cried Christie, more relieved than she could express. "Lor', no, I'm fond of walkin, but bein' ruther hefty it takes my breath away some to hurry. I'm afraid these children have tuckered you out though. They are proper good gen'lly, but when they do take to trainen they 're a sight of care," said Mrs. Wilkins, as she surveyed her imposing bonnet with calm satisfac- tion. 184 wou·' WOBI I Ive enjoyed it very Ynuch, and it's done -lie good) forol I haven't lauglied so i-nuo for six months as I have this afternoon answeredl'ei Clir'istie, and it; was qtiitee true,' for she Iraq been too busy to tbilnk of Ilcrself or· here woes. 44 Wl, I thoucylit likely it wouldt chirk you up some, or' I shouldn't haLve went,," laild Mi-s. Wilkins plut away a contented senile witlh her herisheecl bonnet, for Cliris- tie's face badl grown so much brio-liter since she salw'it last, that the good woman felt sure lieiT treCatnienlt was1 the riglit one. At supper"' Lislia ieappeared, and whrlilo Iiis wife n an. cllildren talked incessantly, lie ate I'Our slicles of breadi and buttcl·, three pieces of pie, five doucylil-nuts, tindi drank- a small ocean of tea out of Iris saluccl· Thenn evidently feeliul flitat lie had dcone Iris duty like a man, lie gave Christie another nod, andnc disalppearedc a,(--Y, IWI'thout a word. When slie Ilad done up bier dlishecs Mirs. Wilkins broucrli out a fcmw book-s alid r-)apens, andi said to Chris-t tic, who sat aparlt by the window', with then old shadow creepiiig over her free: "Now don't feel lonesome, my dear·, beat jest lop right down on the softy aznd ha la sociable kind of' a time. Lisha's gSone down street for the evenin'. I'll keecp the' children tas qiiiect as -one woman ca Cll, alld you Illay read or' rest, or1 talik. jest as you'll-, A ryind." "Thank you; I'll sit here alld rock little Vic to sleep f'or you. I don't care to readl, but I'd like to bave you, talk to ine, for it seems as if I'dl known you tl longs time and it does ine goodl,'' said Christie, as she settled herself and baby on the old settee which bad A CURB FOR DESP)SAIR. 185 served as a cradle for -six young WVilkinses, and now reeceived the honorable name of sofa in. its old acre. Mrs. Wilkins looked cri-atified, as she settled her brood round the table with a pile of pictorial papers to amnuse' them.n Then bavinu laid herself out to be agreeable, she sat thoughtfully rubbing the b1·idge of lier nose, at a loss how to begin. Presently Christie telped her by an 'involuntary si(1i. Whiat'lts the, malttel·, dearr? Is there any thing I can do to make you comfortable?", asked the kind soul) alert at once, and ready to offer s mpatthq. "Im very cosy, thank you, and I: don't know why I slylied. It's a way I've got illto when I think of niy worries," explalined Onllistiei, ill haste. 44 Wal, dlear, I wouldn't ef I was you. Don't licep till-nill, your troubles ovel·. Git at-op of 'em somehow, anld stay tllere ef you can," said Mirs. Wilkins, very earnestly. BaGn that;'s j)"st wha1t I can't ao. I've lost all my spirits and countige, and got into a dismal state of mind., You seem to be very ciseeirfil, and yet you must bave a good deal to try you sometimes. I wish you'di tell mhow you do it;" and Cbrisfie looked witffllly izlto' that otlier face, so plalin, yet so placid, wondering to see how little, povelrty, hard work, and many cares bad sonared or saddened it. 14Really I'dcon't know, unless it's jest dloin' whatever comes alon', and dloin' of it hearty sure that things is all rigllt, though very often I don't see it at fust." 'CDo you see it at last?3 Gen'nlly I do; and if I don't -I takle it on trust, same as children do what older foll.cs tell 'em; and bsyme-by 186 WORK. when I'm grown up in spiritual things I'll understan' as the dears do, when tlley git to be men and women." That suited Christie, and she thought hopefully within herself: "This woman has got the sort of religion I want, if it makes her what she is. Some day I'll get her to tell me where she found it." Then aloud she said: "But it's so hard to be patient and contented when nothing happens as you want it to, and you don't get youVshare of happiness, no matter how much you try to deserve it." "It ain't easy to bear, I know, but having tried my own way and made a dreadful mess on 't, I con- cluded that the Lord knows what's best for us, and things go better when I-Te manages than when we go scratchin' round and can't wait." "Tried your own way? I-ow do you mean?" asked Christie, curiously; for she liked to hear her hostess talk, and found something besides amusement in the conversation, which seemed to possess a fresh country flavor as well as country phrases. Mrs. Wilkins smiled all over her plump face, as if she liked to tell her experience, and having hunched sleepy little Andy more comfortably into her lap, and given a preparatory hem or two, she began with great good-will. "It happened a, number a years ago and ain't much of a storyany way. But you're welcome to it, as some of it is rather humorsome, the laugh may do you good ef the story don't. We was livin' down to the east'ard at the time. It was a real pretty place; the house stood under a couple of maples and a gret brook come A CURE FOR DJ SPAIR. 187 foamin' down the rayvine and away through the med- ders to the river. l)ear sakes, seems as ef I see it now, jest as I used to settin' on the doorsteps with the lay- locks all il blow, the squirrels jabberin' on the wall, and the saw-mill screekin' way off by the dam." Pausing a moment, Mrs. Wilkins looked riusingly at tlhe steam of the tea-kettle, as if through its silvery haze she saw her early home again. Wash promptly roused her from this reverie by tumbling off the boiler with a crash. His mother picked him up and placidly went on, falling more and more into the country dia- lect which city life had not yet polished. "I oughter hev been the contentedest woman alive, but I warn't, for you see I'd worked at millineryin' before I was married, and had an easy time on't, Afterwards the children come along pretty fast, there was' sights of work to do, and no time for pleasurin', so I got wore out, and used to hanker after old times in a dreadful wicked way. "Finally I got acquainted with a Mis Bascum, and slhe done me a sight of harm. You see, haVin' few pies of her own to bake, she was fond of puttin' her fingers into her neighborses, but she done it so neat that no one mistrusted she was takin' all the sarce and leavin' all the crust to them, as you may say. Wal, I told her my werrymcnts and she sympathized real hearty, and said I didn't ought to stan' it, but have things to suit me, and enjoy myself, as other folks did. So when she put it into my head I thought it amazin' good advice, and jest went and done as} she told me. "Lisha was the kindest man you ever see, so when I up and said I warn't goin' to drudge round no more, '188 VORwoK. but must hev a girl, he got one, and goodness knows what a trial· she was. After she came I '6t dlreadful island left the,-house and thle cllildrlen to H-en'retta, and went plealsurin'freqtienlt all in m3y becst. I always scras a dlressy woman in fliemn davs, and Lishla (rive Inc his earnin's real lavishl, bless llis heart! and I went and .spent 'em. oiin 's inftil gowns and bunn11ets." Here Mrs. Wilkrins stopped to give a remorseful groan and stroke ber faded dress, as if she found great com- ,fort in its dinuiness. It ain't no 'Use tellin' all I'done, but I had full swhig,, and at fast I: thought luck was in my dish sulre. But it walrn't, seein'lI didn't deserve it, and I Ilad to take iny mess of trouble, which was needful and nourishin, ef I 'd had the grace to see it so. 11Lisba got into debt, and no wonder, with me a wastin' of his substance; He'n'r'letta went off suddin',' with whatever she could lay lier bandls on, and every- thing was at sixes and sevens. islia's patience give out at last, for I was dlleatdful fi-actious, knowin' it was all my fault. The children seemedc to g·it out of sports, too, and acted lilke time in the primer, with croup and pins, and whoopin'-coucrh and tempecr. I declare I used to think the pots d n-d kettles biled over to spite each other and me too in them days. "All this was nuts -to Miis Bascum, and sbe kep' advisin' and encouraging' of me, and I di dn't see through her a irite, or guess that settin' folks by the cars was as relishin' to her as bitters is to some. Merciful, rSuz.! wahat a piece a work we did make betwixt us! I scolded and moped 'cause I couldn't have my Iway; Lisha swore and threatened to'takte to drinkin' bf L,· A CURIE FOR DESSPA1RZ. 189 didn't, make c home -mnore comfortable;e the children run Nivild3, and the Ilouse was grittin' too hot to, hold us, wlien we was broturlit up with airound turn, and I see ttle redicklousness of i-y doinl's in time. One - day Lisha coinle home tirod and cross, for bills Wfis D'ressin', work.i slack, and folks talktin' about us as ef tlle 'd nothiin' else to do. I wn's dishin' up dinner, feelin' as nervous as a witeli, folr a, whole batch of bre'ad had burnt to a cinder while I was trimmin'az new btinnet, Wash had scarlt me most to death swazllerin' a cent, aiid the steak Iad been on the floor more'n once, owin' to my bavin' babies, do-gs, cats, or h,.-ns under my feet tb e whole blessed tire'. 64.1islia looke(cd as black as thiinler tbrowed his bhqt iao az corner a:lnd cane a once to the sink where I wasi Ahminin' pertatecrs. As' lie washed his hands, I asked what the matter was; rSt'it lie only mattclred and slopped, a7nd I couldn't git notbhin' out of him, fox be- aiii't talkative at the best of tinies as you see, and wiie U, he's werried corksclrews wouldn't draw a wordt fro'M BL ein' riled myself didpl't mend maltters, and so we fcell to hectorin' one - another right smart. I-le 'Said, somehin'tha drefie my last drop of patience; I grivr a sbaarp answer, 'I"i fast thing I knew be up with his hand and slazppecide It warn't a hard blow by no means, only a no a wet spat side of the bead; but I thought I shoqj-4 have, flewv, and was as mad as ef, I'd been knocked down., Yoii never see a man look soo 'shamed as Lisba did) and ef I'di been wise I should have made up the qu"-,irrel then. But I was a fool. I Jjest flung fork, disb, pertaters and all into thle pot, and says, as ferce as youl please: · 190 WORKj. "'Lisha Wilktins, when you. can threat me decent you may come alnd fitch me back; you w·on't se(--, ine till then, and so 11 tell you.' "Then I made a bee-line for Alis Balscam's; told ber· the whlole. sto.1% , had a goodl cryy, and wals all1 i-eady to go home in half an ]four-, but Lishaz didn't colnc. "Wal, that night passed, and what 4;1 loI1g one it was to be sure!i and me writhlout a winkr of sleep,, thllinks of Wash and the cent, mly emptins and the baby. Necxt day comec, but no Lisha, no message, no nuthin', and I began to thiink I'd ot, my Iatchl through I had a sialit of grit in them days. I sewed-, and Aliis Rinscum. slle clockred; but I dlidii't say much, and jesit wolrked I i 1l: Sixty to pay for my keep,, for I warnn't groi11 to be beholden to her for notbinii. "The day draggedec on terrible slow, and at last I begged her to go and git Ine a clean di-ess, for I 9d come off jest as- I was, and folkis kep' dlroppinl ,in, for the% story was all round, thatllks to IMis Basetim.'s lng topice WMal, she went, and ef you'll believe me Lisha ,wouldn't let her in! IlEe handed my best things out a winder and1 told ber io tell me they were g'ittin' along fust rate with Ilorinudy Wlch. to do the work. I-le hoped I'dl have a good time, and not expect him for a considerable spel-1, for -be liked.a quiet house, and now he'd got, it. 11When I heard that, I knew be must be provoked the wust kind, for be ain't a bash man by nater.. I could have crep' in at the winder ef lie wouldn't open thte door, I was so took down by that message., But Mis Bascuin wouldn't bear of it, and kep' stirrin' of A CURE FOR DESPAIRxra. '191 me tip till I was ashamed to eat 'umble pie fust; so I waited tt o see how soon h I1'd comlle round. B[ut he had then best; on't you see, l'or hIe'd got the babies -Ind lost a elloss Nrif Li, while I'dl lost every thiigl buit M1is Bascuin, who gre, w hantefuler to me ever ' hour·, for I be(,un' to rnistrust she, wlts a mischief-malkei-, - widders most always is, - seein' how slie panillcered up my pride and pearedc to like the quularrel. tb toucylt I S11o11ld have died mblre n once, for sure as- you live it went o11 three Inortal days, and of all miserable creoeters I was the Illisel·'blest. Then ]I see howmicked and uungrateful I'd been; Ilow I'd sbirkled my bounden duty and scornecd my best blessins. There w4,irn't.:a hard job that ever I'd ]rated but what grew ealsy wllcn I remembered whlo it wfis done for;; there warn't a trouble or a care that I wouldn't hatve welcomed hearty, nor one hour of them, dear fractious babies , -tret didcll't seem precious when I'd gSone and left 'con I'dc got thyie to rest enoucph now, and niigbt go pleasuring all day lojicr; but I couldn't do it, and would leave gSiven a dozin bunnets trimmed to kill ef I could only have been back moilin' in my old kitchen with tile cllildren bangin' round Ine and Li'shat a comin' in clheccrful from his work as he used to 'fore I spoilt bi§ Ilome for Ilim. I-low sing'lar' it is folks never do know when' they are wal off! 1I know it now," slid Cbristie, rockina Laizil to and fro, with a face almost as tranquil as little Vic's, lying half asleep in her lap. "Glad to be-ar it, my dear. As I was goin' on to say, when - Saturday come, a - tremenjus storml set in, and it rained guns all daxy. I never shazll forgit it, for I: was 192 WORK. hankerin' after baby, and dreadful worried about the others, all bein' croupy, and Florindy with no more idee of nussin' than a baa lamb. The rain come down like a reg'lar deluge, but I didn't seem to have no ark to run to. As night come on things got wuss and wuss, for the vyind blowed the roof off Mis Bascmun's barn and stove in the butt'ry window; the brook riz and went ragin' every which way, and you never did see such a piece of work. "My heart)was most broke by that time, and I knew I should givelin 'fore Monday. But I set and sewed and listened to the tinkle tankle of the drops in the pans set round to ketch 'erm, for the house leaked like a sieve. Mis Bascum was down sullcr putterin' about, for every kag and sarce jar was afloat. Moses, her brother, was lookin' after his stock and tryin' to stop the dnamage. All of a sudden he bust in lookin' kinder wild, and settin' down the lantern, he sez, sez he: 'You're ruthern an unfortinate woman to-night, Mis Wilkins.' 'How so?' sez I, as ef nuthin' was the matter already. "' Why,' sez he,' the spilins have give way up in the rayvine, and the brook's come down like a river, upsot your lean-to, washed the mellion patch slap into the road, and while your husband was tryin' to git the pig out of the pen, the water took a turn and swep him away.' ' Drownded?' sez I, with only breath enough for that one word. 'Shouldn't wonder,' sez Moses, nothing ' ever did come up alive after goin' over them falls.' "'It come over me like a streak of lightenin'; every thin' kinder slewed round, and I dropped in the first faint I ever had in my life. Next I knew Lisha was A CURE FOR DESPAIR. 193 holding' of me and cryin' fit to kill himself. I thought I was dreamin', and only had wits enough to give a sort of permiscuous grab at him and call out: "'(O, Lisha! ain't you drownded?' He give a gret start at that, swallered down his sobbin', and sez as lovin' as ever a man did in this world: "'Bless your dear heart, Cynthy, it warn't me it was the pig ;' and then fell to kissin' of me, till betwixt laughing' and cryin' I was. most clloked. Deary me, it all comes back so livin' real it kinder takes my breath away." And well it might, for the good soul entered so hearltily into her story that she unconsciously embel- lisled it witl dramatic illustrations. At tle slapping episode she flung an invisible "fork, dish, ,and perta- ter s" into an imaginary kettle, and glared; when the catastrophe arrived, she fell back upon her chair to ex- press fainting; gave Christie's arm tlhe "permiscuous grab " at the proper moment, and uttered the repentant Lisha's explanation with an incoherent pathos that forbid a laugh at the sudden introduction of the por- cine martyr. "What did you do then?" asked 'Christie in a most flattering state of interest. "Oh, law! I went right home and hugged them children for a couple of hours stiddy," answered Mrs. 'Wilkins, as if but one conclusion was possible. "Did all your troubles go down with the pig?" asked Christie, presently. "Massy, no, we're all poor, feeble worms, and the best meanin' of us fails too often," sighed Mrso Wilkins, as she tenderly adjusted the sleepy head of the young 9 I 194 WORK./ worm in her lap. "After that scrape I done my best; Lisha was as meek as a whole flock of sheep, and we give Mis Bascum a wide berth. Things went lovely for ever so lon,, and though, after a spell, we had our ups and downs, as is but natural to human creeters, we never come to such a pass agin. Both on us tried real hard; whenever I felt my temper risin' or discon- tent comin' on I remembered them days and kep' a taut rein; and as for Lisha he never said a raspin' word, or got sulky, but what he'd bust out laughin' after it and say: 'Bless you, Cynthy, it warn't me, it was the pig."' Mrs. Wilkins' hearty laugh fired a long train of lesser ones, for the cllildren recognized a household word. Christie enjoyed the joke, and even the tea-kettle boiled over as if carried away by the fun. "Tell some more, please," said Christie, wlien the merriment subsided, for she felt her spirits rising. "There 's nothin' more to tell, except one thing that prevented my ever forgittin' the lesson I got then. My little Almiry took cold that week and pined away rapid. She'd always been so ailin' I never expected to raise her, and more'n once in them sinful tempers of mine I'd thoughtit would be a mercy ef she was took out of her pain. But when I laid away that patient, suffering' little creeter I found she was the dearest of 'em all. I most broke my heart to hev her back, and never, never forgive myself for leavin' her that time." With trembling lips and full eyes 'Mrs. Wilkins stopped to wipe: her features generally on Andrew Jackson's pinafore, and heave a remorseful sigh. "And this is how you came to be the cheerful, con- A CURE FOR DESPAIR. 195 tented woman you are?" said Christie, hoping to divert the mother's mind fiom that too tender memory. ' Yes," she answered, thoughtfully, "I told you Lisha wars a smart man; he give nie a good lesson, and it set me to thinkin' serious. 'Pears to me trouble is a kind | of mcllerin' process, and cf you take it kindly it doos )you good, and you learn to be glad of it. I 'n sure Lislla : tld me is twice as fond of one another, twice as N willin' to work, and twice as patient with our trials sense dear little Almiry died, and times was hard. I ain't what I oughllt to be, not by a long chalk, but I try to live up to my light, do my duty cheerful, love my neigllbors, and fetch up my family in the fear of God. Ef I do this the best way I know how, I'm sure I'll get my rest some day, and the good Lord won't forgit Cynthy Wilkins. He ain't so fil, for I keep my health wonderfie, Lisha is kind and stiddy, the children flourishin', and I 'm a happy woman though I be a humly O11." There she was mistaken, for as her eye roved round the narrow rooin from the old hat on the wall to the curly heads bobbing here and there, contentment, piety, and mother-love made her plain face beautiful. "That story has done me ever so much good, and I shall not forget it. Now, good-night, for I must be up early to-morrow, anlcld don't want to drive Mr. Wilkins away entirely," said Christie, after she had helped put the little folk to bed, during which process she had heard her host creaking about the kitchen as if afraid to enter the sitting-room. She laughed as she spoke, and ran up stairs, wonder- ing if she could be the same forlorn creature who had crept so wearily up only the night before. 196 WORK. It was a very humble little sermon that Mrs. Wilkins had preached to her, but she took it to heart and profited by it; for shle was a pupil in the great charity school where the best teachers are often unknown, un- honored here, but who surely will receive commendation and reward from the head master when their long vaca- tion comes. CHAPTER IX. MRS. WILKINS S MINISTER. · N MR. PowER. N EXT day Christie braved the lion in his den, I-N otherwise the flinty Flint, in her second-class boarding-house, and found that alarm and remorse had produced a softening effect upon her. Slle was unfeign- edIy glad to see her lost lodger safe, and finding that tile new friends were likely to put her in the way of paying her debts, this much harassed matron permitted her to pack up her possessions, leaving one trunk as a sort of hostage. Then, with promises to redeem it as -198 TVl ORK.. soon as possible, Chlristie said good-bye to the little --roorii Nvherc shle bad h Iopedl and suffered, lived ,tie laborerl so loncr anld wVC1t jo fully backl to the, hunible, honine site h:-ad foundd witll thle good laulldrless. All thle followrill(T week Chr1istic c ebored round," as MrI1s. Wilkilis colllel thle mliscellalneous 1i(,ht woil-k site let hier do. Much washing, co mbinlg, and c le: in pi I n I forin(V of children fell to her shllre, and she elnjoyecl it amazin(4y; then, wheni the elder ones weire packed 6,ff to schocsl site lent a hand to any of the nuulbelrlss ss tasks housevives finld. to do from.i morning till flight. In the afternoon, wihen other work was done, anld little Vic asleep or happy with her planytiingTs, Cliristie clapped lae81 s rinkled, mnslins, and picked out ed"- inus at the ()reat table A\Lhhre MSrs. WTilkins stood ilromn(,g fluting, andi claipi n till the kiitcheii bristled all over with iiiiii-aculate fiills and flounces. It was pretty delicate Nvorks, and Christie liked it, for Mrsy. Wilkins nlas an adept Iat lier trade and took as inuch pridec and pJleasure in it as ally Froncllh blanzchis- seus-e tripping tllrougll tie streets, of' Paris with a tree ftill of cocyuettish caps, capes, a:nd petticoats borne, before 1jer by a, half invisible boy. Being women, of cou'rse they talked ans industriously as they worked ; fingicrs flew andi tongues clocked witll equal profit auld plcnssuPe, anod, by SaLturdaxy, Christie had mnade up her raind' that Mrs. WSilkiiis was the most sensible woman she ever knew. I-Ter· grammarzl was an otitrge upon the meeinoy of /indllcy Mnrrray, but the goodness of her heart would bave doose honor to any saint'in the calendlar. She was --very plain, and her manners' were by no means elegant, but good temper MR S. WIL KIATS'SS MINIS TE,'R. 199 inade dhlt 1101nely 111le Most Io\rable, and natural refine- 111(icjt of soul. madce mere external polish of' small ,jecolint I.. Her, shrewd ider,Is and oddr sayings1 amused Cliristie very n-itch, ivhile her goodl sense atud briofitC ilN,r ay of lookincr att tllil30s did tle youliger wonmal n a N%-ovld of o-ood.. Mi-*' A ilkinus tevotedc hilnself' to the makingiu of shoes andi the consunlptio n of lbood, ivith the s rilent reo-ularlllity of a plalcid a:Ininal. H-is one dissipation wvas tobacco, and in a fracyrant cloud of smoke li lived and rloved and had his bein(Y so Ontirelyi.;l·1· t..lat h? 7lie rii(t haveC been described as a pipe N %'ith aL nian somewhere behind it. C111-istic once Laucyllollillly Spok1e of tllis habit andl de- clared. she would try ir·rt herself lf if she thoumght it would inake her as quiet and undel-nolistrartixe as Itlr. Wilkins, wlio, to tell the truth, zniade lio more impression on her tlian a fly., "I don't approive on't, but be niight do wuxss. We all haveTe to hatve our comfolrt somellow, so I let 'Lisha snliokic as nitich as lie likes, and'. he lets) ne gab, so it's about facir I r1eckon, answered Mr]1s. WVilkins, from tbee Suds. Shec lau(Iied. as she, spoke, blut soniethincy in heir free inside Chr1istie suspect; thatt at some period of his Jife Lisba bIad done " wuss; " aud subsequent observations confirmed this suspicion and a another oii( t, lso, - thatC hris good wife hand saved Min, and was gently easillg hiiii. back: to, self-control and self-reslpect. B3ut, as' old F uller quaintlyy sarys,' Site so gentry folded tip bris ftults inl silence that few "nessedl tbeni1: and loyally palid him thant resypect which she de'sired others to bestow. It was always "Lirsha and me, I'll ask my 200 WORK. husband" or "Lisha 'll know; he don't say much, but lie's a dreadful smart man," and she kept up the fiction so dear to her wifely soul by endowing him with her own virtues, and giving him the credit of her bwn intelligence. Christie loved her all the better for this devotion, and for her sake treated Mr. Wilkins as if he possessed the strength of Samson and the wisdom of Solomon. He received her respect as if it was his due, and now and then graciously accorded her a few words beyond the usual scanty allowance of morning and evening greetings. At his shop all day, slhe only saw him at meals and sometimes of an evening, for Mrs. Wilkins tried to keep him at home safe fiomn temptation, and, Christie helped her by reading, talking, and frolicking with the children, so that he night find home attrac- tive. IHe loved. his babies and would even relinquish his precious pipe for a time to ride the little chaps on his foot, or amuse Vic with shadow rabbits on the wall. At such times tte entire content in Mrs. Wilkins's face made tobacco fumes endurable, and the burden of a dull man's presence less oppressive to'Christie, who loved to pay her debts in something besides money. As they sat together finishing off some delicate laces that Saturday afternoon, Mrs. Wilkins said, "Ef it's fair to-moTow I want you to go to my mcetin' and hear my minister. It 'll do you good." Who is he? "Mr. Power." Christie looked rather startled, fo. she had heard of Thomas Power as a rampant radical and infidel of the M;S, MRS. WILKINS'S MINIS TER. 201 r deepest dye, and been warned never to visit that den of iniquity called his free church. ' Why, Mrs. Wilkins, you don't mean it!" she said, leaving her lace to dry at the most critical stage. "Yes, I do!" answered Mrs. Wilkins, setting down her flat-iron with emphasis, and evidently preparing to figllt valiantly for her minister, as most women will. "I beg your pardon ; I \vas a little surprised, for I'd heard all sorts of things about him,"Christie hastened to say. "Did you ever hear him, or read any of his writ- ins?" demanded Mrs. Wilkins, with a calmer air. "Never." "Then don't judge. You go hear and see that blessed man, and ef you don't say he 's the shadder of a great rock in a desert land, I'll give up," cried the good woman, waxing poetical in her warmth. ' I will to please you, if nothing else. I did go once Just because I was told not to; but he did not preach that day and every thing was so peculiar, I didn't know whether to like it or be shocked." "It is kind of sing'lar at fust, I'm fiee to confess, and not as churchy as some folks like. But there I in't no place but that big enough to hold the crowds that want to go, for the more he's abused the more folks flock to see him. They git their money's wuth I do believe, for though there ain't no pulpits and pews, there's a sight of brotherly love round in them seats, and pious practice, as well as powerful preaching, in that shabby desk. IHe don't need no commandments painted up behind him to read on Sunday, for he keeps 9* 202 WORK. 'eni in his heart and life all the week as honest 'as man There MrTs. Wilkins -paused, fluslled and -breatllless with lier defene'e, alld7 Chrlistie slid, candidly: : I did likte the freedoin ,find good-wtill there, f'or people sat where they liked, and no oii(, filoowneed over shut peiv-r doors, at ine a strano'er. An old blackli woman sat necst Blec, and sSaid inriuen' wlcn ,she liked \\hat she heai-d, and a very shabjby younce nian was onl the other,; listen- nice as if Iris soul was as hunolry as his body. People read books, laughed and cried, cllIpped \\hen pleased, and hissed when an(Try; thatf I did not like." ('No niore does MRI1. Power; lie don't mind the cryin' and the smilin' Ifs it's nat'ranl, but; noise and dlislrespect of no kin2d aiill't Pleasinl' to bimll. Hisu own folks believe becomin', but strainers go and act as tlley like, thlink- in' that there aiii't no bounds to the word fi-ee. Then we are picked at for their doin's, tand n11r. Power has to carry other folktses' sins on his shoulders. B3nt, dear Suz, it flin't niuch niatter after all, ef the souls is well- meanin'. Children always makre a noise a stlrivin' after what they want most, and I silouldn't wonder ef the Lord forgriveall our short-'comin's of that sort, sense, we are blankerin' anld reaehclin' forl the truttlh." 44I wish I had heard Mr·. Power that day, for I was StI-iViD(Y after peace with a1 ll y beart, and Ile Mlight bave given it to nie," sftid Chr·istie, interested. and im-l pressed with what she, heard. Watl, 110, dear, I gliess not;. Peace ain't give to no one all of a suddin, it gcu'lly comes throu h much tribulation, and the sort that conies hardest is best; wuth havin'. Mr. Power would a' ploughed and bar- ,I8 WILKINS'S MIINISTER. 203 rered, you, so to speak, and sowed good -seed liberal'; thecn ef you warnl't barr1en (rroundl thingss would have thrl1ove, and the Lord give yoii a harvest accordlin' to yourl tabor1. Whodidyoulicar?"a? asked Mrs. Wilkins, 1),_Itslll( to starcch and eltip vi(olorously. 44 A1 vory youn= nian irio seemedc to be airin" his- ideals and belie&b in thle fraallktst mlanner. HI-e belaboroed eel'3'rybody and every tliincr, upset church and state, called nanies, arr1anged heaven and earth. to suit him- solf, andc evlidently ineant every word lie said. Much of it would have been 1-i'diculous if Ole boy had not been so ,thorouglly in ealrnest; sincerity always com- Inaznds 1·espect;, andc thouo-h people siniled,,. they liked hris couranye ,:lnd seenied to think lie would make a nian wllen his' spilrituall wild oats were sown,"' 44I aiiu't!"I doubt on't. Wle oftcn ]zave such, and they ain't atll enipty talk, neither; sonie of 'em are sur- prisingly bright, and all mean so well I don't never r·eluct; to llear 'emn. They mustl blowi off their steam. soniewherecs, else tbey'dl bust withl the big idees a swellin' in 'em.; Ml·. Power knows it and gives 'en the chance they, can't find nowheres'C else. Tearls to nie,"' added nlrs. Wilktins, ironing rapidly as she spoke, 11that folks is very like- clotlles, and aL sight has to be done to keep 'em. clean and wholec. All on us blas to lend a band in this dreadful mixed-upll masli, and eacht do our part, same as you and me is noixr. There's scrubbin'l and bilin', wrecnchin' and bluc1uin', dryin'll and f'oldlin', ironinl) and polishin', before anly of us iis fit for wear a Sunday mornin'." "What part does M1·. Power do0?" -asked Christie, much aniused at tliis peculiarly atppropriate simile, 204 WORK. "The scrubbin' and the bilin'; that's always the .hardest and the hottest part. He starts the dirt and gits the stains out, and leaves 'ema ready for other folks to finish off. It ain't such pleasant work as hanging' out, or such pretty work as doin' up, but some one's got to do it, and them that's strongest does it best, though they don't git half so much credit as them as polishes and crimps. That's showy work, but it wouldn't be no use ef the things wasn't well washed fust," and Mrs. Wilkins thoughtfully surveyed the snowy muslin cap, with its border fluted like the petals of a prim white daisy,that hung on her hand. "I'd like to be a washerwoman of that sort; but as I'm not one of the strong, I'll be a laundress, and try to make purity as attractive as you do," said Christie, soberly. "Ah, my dear, it's warm and wearin' work I do assure you, and hard to give satisfaction, try as you may. Crowns of glory ain't wore in this world, but it's my 'pinion that them that does the hard jobs here will stand a good chance of havin' extra bright ones when they git through." "I know you will," said Christie, warmly. "Land alive, child! I warn't thinking of Cynthy Wilkins, but Mr. Power. I'll be satisfied ef I can set low down somewheres and see him git the meddle. IHe won't in this world, but I know there ' rewards savin' up for him byme-by." "I 'll go to-morrow if it pours!" said Christie, with decision. "Do, and I'll lend you my buninit," cried Mrs. Wil- kins, passing, with comical rapidity, from crowns of glory to her own cherished head-gear. .MRS. TWILKINS'S MINISTER. 205 "Thank you, but I can't wear blue, I look as yellow as a dandelion in it. Mrs. Flint let me have my best things though I offered to leave them, so I shall be respectable and by-and-by blossom out." On the morrow Christie went early, got a good seat, and for half an hour watched the gathering of the motley congregation that filled the great hall. Some came in timidly, as if doubtful of their welcome; some noisily, as if, as Mrs. Wilkins said, they had not learned thle wide difference between liberty and license; many as if eager and curious; and a large number with the look of children gathering round a family table ready to be fed, and sure that wholesome food would be bountifully provided for them. Chlristie was struck by tlhe large proportion of young people in the place, of all classes, both sexes, and, strongly contrasting faces. Delicate girls looking with the sweet wistfulness of maidenly hearts for something strong to lean upon and love; sad-eyed women turning to heaven for the consolations or the satisfactions earth could not give them; anxious mothers perplexed with many cares, trying to find light and strength; young men with ardent faces, restless, aspiring, and impetuous, longing to do and dare; tired-looking students, with perplexed wrinkles on their foreheads, evidently come to see if this man had discovered the great secrets they were delving after; and soul-sick people trying this new, and perhaps dangerous medicine, when others failed to cure. Many earnest, thoughtful men and women were there, some on the anxious seat, and some already at peace, having found the clew that leads ,afely ' through the labyrinth of life. Here and there a white I 206 WORK. head, a placid old face, or one of those fine counte- nances that tell, unconsciously, the beautiful story of a victorious soul. Some read, some talked, some had flowers in their hands, and all sat at ease, rich and poor, black and white, young and old, waiting for the coming of the man who had power to attract and hold so many of his kind. Christie was so intent on watching those about her that she did not see him enter, and only knew it by the silence which began just in fiont of her, and seemed to flow backward like a wave, leaving a sea of expec- tant faces turning to one point. That point was a gray head, just visible above the little desk which stood in the middle of a great platform. A vase of lovely flowers was on the little shelf at one side, a great Bible reposed on the other, and a manuscript lay on the red slope between. In a moment Christie forgot every thing else, and waited with a curious anxiety to see what manner of man this was. Presently he got up with an open book in his hand, saying, in a strong, cheerful voice: "Let us sing," and having read a hymn as if he had com- posed it, he sat down again. Then everybody did sing; not harmoniously, but heartily, led by an organ, which the voices followed at their own sweet will. At first, Christie wanted to smile, for some shouted and some hummed, some sat silent, and others sung sweetly; but before the hymn ended she liked it, and thought that the natural praise of each individual soul was perhaps more grateful to the ear of God than masses by great masters, or psalms warbled tunefully by hired opera singers. MRS. WILKINS'S MINISTER. 207 Then Mr. Power rose again, and laying his hands together, with a peculiarly soft and reverent gesture, lifted up his face and prayed. Christie had never heard a prayer like that before; so devout, so comprehensive, and so brief. A quiet talk with God, asking nothing but more love and duty toward Him and our fellow- men; thanking Him for many mercies, and confiding all things trustfully to the "dear father and mother of soilss" The sermon which followed was as peculiar as the prayer, and as effective. -"One of Power's judgment- day sermons," as she heard one man say to another, when it was over. Christie certainly felt at first as if kingdoms and thrones were going down, and each man being sent to his own place. A poeverful and popular wrong was arrested, tried, and sentenced then and there, with a courage and fidelity that made plain words eloquent, and stern justice beautiful HIe did not take David of old for his text, but the strong, sinful, splendid Davids of our day, who had not fulfilled the promise of their youth, and whose seeming success was a delusion -and a snare to themselves and others, 'sure to be followed by sorrowful abandonment, defeat, and shameq, The ashes of the ancient hypocrites and Pharisees was left in peace, but those now living were heartily denounced; modern money-changerl scourged out of the temple, and the everlasting truth set up therein. As he spoke, not loudly nor vehemently, but with the indescribable effect of inward force and true inspi- ration, a curious stir went through the crowd at times, as a great wind sweeps over a corn field, lifting the 208, WORK.lil broad leaves to the light and testing the stren th of root and stem. People looked at one anotller w ith a roused expression; eyes khidle,(, leads nodded invol- untary apprPoval, and aii emphatic, 1 that's so!i " dropped from the lip's of men who saw their own vacrue insatincts and silent opinions strongly collfirmedl and nobly uttered. Consciences seemed to lave been prickecd to duty, eyes cleared to see that their golden idols had feet of clay, and - wavering wills strengthened .by the salutary courage and integrity of one indomitable man. Another h mn, and a benediction that seemed like a fit grace after meat, aind then the crowd poured out; not yawnin , thinking of best clothes, or 10Dging for dinner, but waked up, full. of talk, and eager to do something to redeem the eountr and the world. Christie went rapidly home because she could not help it;, and burst in upon Mr·s. Wilkins with aflaceL full of enthusiasm, exclaiming, while she calst off her bonnet as if her head had outgrown it since sile left: 11It was splendid! I never bearlld such a sermon before, and I'll never go to church anywhere else." 11I knew it! ain't it, fillin'?, don't it give you a kind of spiritual h'ist,.. and make things wuth more some- how?" cried Mrs. Wilkins, I gesticulating with the ,pepper-pot in a way which did not improve the steakk she was cooking, and caused great dnauish to, the noses of her offspring, who were watching the op-eration. Quite deaf 'to the chorus of sneezes which accom- panied her words, Christie answered, brushing back her hair, as if to get a better ,out-look at creation gen- erally: "Oh, yes, indeed! At first it was rather terrible, MRS. WJTLKIINS'S MINISTIER. 209 and yet so true I wouldn't,,change a· word. of it. B1ut I don't wonder he is misunderstood,, belied, and abused. 1-e tells the truth so plainly, and lets in the light so eh-larly, that hypocrites alld3 sinners must felarl and hate liin. I think lie wacs a little hardt and unsparing, some- times, tllough I don't know enou Itl to iuddge the men aiid Inesulres hecondeinned. I admire himt very much, but I should be:, afi-id of him if I ever· sakrr llimnearer." 44No, Youx wouldn't; loot a -grain. You hear himu Preach :agin and Y0o1'll find hinili as gentle as a lamb. S tron folIls 'is " l'It; to be ruthler ha'sh at; times; they can't; help it, no inore than this stove, can help scorchin' the vittles when it; gits red l aot. Dinner's recady, so set ri(-lt tip and tell me all about it," said ICrs. Wilkrins, S1',1J)PiD,(r t.le steak o nr to the platter, and beginning to (real out fi-ied potatoes all round with abrent-minded lavvishneicss. Chr1istie talkee , and the gorod soul enjoyed that flar nioie tlian her dlinner, for s11e mea21t to ask Mr. Power- to lielp bei find the right sort of liome for the s'trangaer wwiose unfitnesss for her present place w,7s every day nniade more apparnent to the mind of her hostess. 11 Wli-at tookr you there first?" asked Christie, still wonderingS; at M'rs. W6ilktins's choice of a minister, ThTie Lord, my dear," answered the good woman, in a to-ne of calm conviction. I'j d heard of him, and I always liave a leanin' towards them Ohat's reviled; so onec Sabbath I felt; to go, and did. I That's the gospel for me, says I 'my old church ain't bicy enough now, and 1 nin't gone.' to set and nlod there any longer,' and I didn'tt" HRadn't you any doubts -about it, any fears of going 210 WORK. wrong or being sorry afterwards?" asked Cllristie, who believed, as many do, that religion could not be attained without much tribulation of some kind. "In some things folks is led; I be frequent, and when then leading's cotlm I don't ask no questions but jest fuller, and it always turns out rilghlt." "I wish I could be led." "You be, lly dear, every day of your life only you don't see it. When you are doubtful, set still till the call comes, then git up and walk whichever way it says, and you won't fall. You 've had bread alnd water long enough, now you want meat and wine a spell; take it, and when it's time for milk and honey some one will fetch 'em ef you keep your table ready. Tlle Lord feeds us right; it's we that quarrel with our vittles." "I will," said Christie, and began at once to prepare her little board for the solid food of which she had had a taste that day. That afternoon Mrs. Wilkins took her turn at church- going, saw Mr. Power, told Christie's story in her best style, and ended by saying': "She's true grit, I do assure you, sir. t Willin' tc work, but she's seen the hard. side of things and gol kind of discouraged. Soul and body both wants tink. erin' up, and I don't know anybody who can do th( job better'n you can." "Very well, I'll come and see her," answered Mi Power, and Mrs. Wilkins went home well satisfied. He kept his word, and about the middle of the wee] came walking in upon them as they were at work. "Don't let the irons cool," he said, and sitting dowi |aMRS. WILKINS'S MINISTER. 211 in the kitchen began to talk as comfortably as if in the best parlor; more so, perhaps, for best parlors are apt to have a depressing effect upon the spirits, while the mere sight of labor is exhilarating to energetic minds. I lie greeted Christie kindly, and then addressed him- self to Mrs. Wilkins on various charitable matters, for hle was a minister at large, and slle one of his almoners. Christie could really see him now, for when he preached she forgot the man in the sermon, and thought of him only as a visible conscience. A sturdy man of fifty, with a keen, brave face, pene- trating eyes, and mouth a little grim; but a voice so resonant and sweet it reminded one of silver trumpets, and stirred and won the hearer with irresistible power. Rough gray hair, and all the features rather rugged, as if the Great Sculptor had blocked out a grand statue, and left the man's own soul to finish it. I-lad Christie known tlat lie came to see her she would have been ill at ease; but Mrs. Wilkins had kept her own counsel, so when Mr. Power turned to Christie, saying: "My friend here tells me you want something to do. Would you like to help a Quaker lady with her house- worok, just out of town?" She answered readily: "Yes, sir, any thing that is honest." "Not as a servant, exactly, but companion and helper. Mrs. Sterling is a dear old lady, and the place a pleasant little nest. It is good to be there, and I think you 'll say so if you go." "It sounds pleasant. When shall I go?" 212 WORKr'T Mr. Power smiled at her'alacritv, but the longing, look in her eyes ex lained it, for he saw at a glance that her place wwas not here. 1 N vill, write ati once and let you know how matters are settled. Then you hallll try it;, and if it is not what you want, we wi;1 fll fi d you soniethligo else. There's plenty to .,do, and nothing pleasailter thanl to Put the Aglit pair ol. f Ihands to tlhr right task. C-rood.11by; con'i and see me if tire spirit moves, and don't let go of Mrs. Wilkins till you lay hold of' a better firicnd, if you can find one." Then he shook hands cordiailly, and went mralk- ing out ,·f.again into the wild March weatlier as if fie liked it. ((Were you ,afraidc of him?) asked MSirls. Wilkins. (LI forgot all .about it;: he. looked so kind and friendly. But I'shouldn't like to Ilave tllose piercing eyes of his fixed on me long-g if I bad ally secret on mIly conscience,"CIj answered Christie. "You ain't nlothin' to fear. I-le liked your way of speakin' fust ratec; I see that' and you'll be all right now lie's took liold.1)" 16 Do you know MIrs. Sterling?" '"Only by sight, but sbe 's a sweet appearing ) woman, and I wouldn't ask notblin' better'n. to see molre of her, saidl Mrs. Wilkins, warmly, fearing Christie's healrt miglilt misgive lier. But it; did not, anld when a note came'saying Mrs. Sterlinlg would. be ready for her the next week, she seemed quite content with every\:(-11· tblingr) for tbo'ugh the wages wer·e not high she felt that country air and quiet were worth more to her just then than money, and that Wilkinses were better ta-ken bomeopathicall'y. MRS. WILKINS'S'S MINIS TE R.. 213 The spirit did move her to goannd slee Mlr. Power, but she could not make -up. Iier mind. to pass that invisible barrier which stands between so manny who could give one another "enuine help if they onfy daredclto ask it. But when Sundany came slle went to church, eager foi- more, and thanlkfnl that shoe knew mrliere to 'go fol it This was a very different sermon from the other, and Christie felt as if be plreached it for ler alone. "Keep .innocency andl take beecd to the, things thhnt is right, for this will brinff a man p'eaee' at the'last," might bavo been the text, and Mr.I1· Power treated it as if lie had known all1 the trials and teniptations, that made it hard to live up to. Justice and righteous wrath possessed hinil before, nowv mercy and tenderest sympathy for those who fatlteredl in well-doiac ar d the stern judge seemed changed to a pitiful f titecIt better than the pity was the wise counsel, the 6"heerisg ords, andi the de- vout surrender of tbo sotit! to its est instincts; its close communion with its' Makrneiledbyfer untrammelledl by the narrowness of sect or supersti-, ·tion, but ffull and free and naturally as the breath of As she listened Christie felt as if she was climlaing -up fi-on- a solitary valley, through mist and shadowto-ward a mountain top, where, though the way migllt be rough and stronggwinds blow, she would get a wider outlook over the broad earth, alnd, be nearecr the serene blue klky. For the first time in her life religion seemed a visible and vital thing; a power that slic could grasp.rrnnv and fee-l, take into her-life and make her daily bread. 214 ' WORKC. Not a vague, vast idea' floating before her, now beauti- ful, now- terrible, always undefined and far away. She was strangely and powerfullll moved1 thlat day, forr the ploughing lll e ad begun;rl and whehrn the rest stood upIl- for the last hymn, Christie could only bow her bead and let; the uncoiltrollable tears ·flowy down like summer rain, while ber bleart saing with new aspiratioon: "Nearer, my God, to tbee, E'en tliough a cross it be Tllat ratiseth me, -I'Still all my song shall be, Nearer, my God, to thee. Nearer to thee i ·Sitting Wvith her hanrd before her eyes, she never stirred till the sound of many feet told her that service was done. Then she wipedc7 lier eyes, dropped her Veil, and wals about to rise when sh-e saw a little bunch of flowersx between the lea-vesa of the hymn book lying open in her lap. Only a knot of violets seat in their own broad leaves, but blue,, as friendly eyes looking into hers, and sweet as kind words whlispered in her ear. She looked about her hoping to detect and tank the giver; but all faces were turned the other way, and all feet departing rapidly. Chrisxtie followed with a 'very grateful thought in her heart for this little kindness from some unknown friends;; and, ,anxious to recover herself entirely before she faced Mrs. Wilkins, she took a turn in the park.. The snow was gone,· high winds had dried the walk, and a clear sky overhead made one forget sodden turf and chilly air. March wa's going olxt like a lamb, and Cbistie enjoyed an occasional -vernal whiff from far-off IMR.S. WILKINS'SS -MINIISTER. 215 fields and vakening woods, as she walked down the broad mall watching the buds on the boughs, and lis- tenin": to the twitter of the sparrows,. evidently discus-s- ing the pasrers-by as they sat at the doors of their little aiisions. P1·esently she, turned to walk back again and saw' Mrl. Power coming toward her. She was glad, for all her fear had vanished now, and she wanted to thank 11im for the sermon that had moved her so deeply. I-le shookr hands in his cordial way, and, turning, 'balked with her, beginning at once' to talk; of her affairs as if interestedd in them. Are you ready for· the new experiment? b e asked. QL uite ready, sir; very glad to go, and very much oblicred to you for your kindness in providing for That is whatw'e were put into the world for, to help one another. You can pass on the kindness by serving my good friends who, in return, will do their best for YOUS) 'That's so pleasant! 1 always knew there were plenty of good, friendly people in the world, only I did not seem to find 6em often, or be able to keep them Iona when I did. Is Mr. Sterling an agreeable old man?3 11 Vry agreeable, but not old. David is about tbirty-onee or two, I think. I-le is the, son of ipyy friend, the husband died some years ago. I thought I mentioned it." 44 You said in your note that Mr. Sterling was a florist, and might like me to help in the green-house, if I was willing. It must be lovely work, and I should like it very much." 216 WORK. "Yes, David devotes himself to his flowers, and leads a very quiet life. You may think him rather grave and blunt at first, but you'll soon find him out and get on comfortably, for he is a truly excellent fellow, and my right-hand man in good workss" A curious little change had passed over Christie's face during these last questions and answers, unconscious, but quite observable to keen eyes like Mr. Power's. Surprise and interest appeared first, then a shadow of reserve as if the young woman dropped a thin veil be- tween herself and the young man, and at the last words a half smile and a slight raising of the brows seemed to express the queer mixture of pity and indifference with which we are all apt to regard "excellent fellows" and "amiable girls." Mr. Power understood the look, and went on more confidentially than he had at first in- tended, for he did not want Christie to go off with a prejudice in her mind which might do both David and herself injustice. "People sometimes misjudge him, for he is rather old-fashioned in manner and plain in spe-ehand may seem unsocial, because he does not seek society. But those who know the cause of this forgive any little short-comings for the sake of the genuine goodness of the man. David had a great trouble some years ago and suffered much. Ite is learning to bear it bravely, and is the better for it, though the memory of it is still bitter, and the cross hard to bear even with pride to help him hide it, and principle to keep hipi from despair." Mr. Power glanced at Christie as he paused, and was satisfied with the effect of his words, for interest, pity MRS. WILKINS'S MINISTER. 217 and respect shone in her face, and proved that he had touched the right string. She seemed to feel that this little confidence was given for a purpose, and showed that she accepted it as a sort of gage for her own fidelity to her new employers. "Thank you, sir, I shall remember," she said, with her frank eyes lifted gravely to his own. "I like to 1 work for people whom I can respect," she added, " and will bear with any peculiarities of Mr. Sterling's with- out a thought of complaint. When a man has suffered through one woman, all women should be kind and patient with him, and try to atone for the vrong which lessens his respect and faith in them." I"There you are right; and in this case all women should be kind, for David pities and protects woman- Ikind as the only retaliation for the life-long grief one woman brought upon him. That's not a common re- venge, is it?" "It 's beautiful!" cried Christie, and instantly David was a hero. "At one time it was an even chance whether that trouble sent David to 'the devil,' as he expressed it, or made a man of him. That little saint of a mother kept him safe till the first desperation was over, and now he lives for her, as lie ought. Not so romantic an ending as a pistol or Byronic scorn for the world in general and women in particular, but dutiful and brave, since it often takes more coura-ge to live than to die." "Yes, sir," said Christie, heartily, though her eyes fell, remembering how she' had failed with far less cause for despair than David. 10 l O l I . 218 WORK. They were at the gate now, and Mr. Power left her, saying, with a vigorous hand-shakee "Best wishes for a happy summer. I shall come Sometimes- to see how you prosper; and remember-, if you tire of it and want to change, let nie "know, for, I take great satisfaction in putting the right people in the right places. Good-bX,, and God be with you." CH1APTER X.2rZ BEGIXNNING AGAINO, MVRS. STERLING. PT was an April day when Christie went to her new home. WVarm rains had melted the last trace of snow, and every bank was full of prickting grass-blades, brave little pioneers and heralds of the Spring. The budidingrgelm. bougnhs swung in the wind; blue-Jays screamed 'among the apple-trees; and robins chirped shrilly, as if rejoicing over winter hardships safely passed. VTernal freshness was in the air despite its Chill, and lovely hil ts of summerP tirae were ever - where. 220 WORK.il These welcome sights and sounds met Christie, as she walked down the lane, and, coming to a gate, paursed there to look about her. An old-falshioned cottage stood in the midst of a garden just awakening fi-om its winter sleep. One elinl hiing protectincrly over tile low roof, sunshine lazy warnnly on it, and at evelry window r flowers' brijlit faces smiled at the 'passer-by inv'itingrly. On one side glittered a long green-house., and on tile other stood a barn, with a sleek cow ruminating . in the yard,1 and an inquiring horse poking his head out of his stall to view the world.' Many comfortable gray bens were cluckring and scratlf;hing abo17t thte hay-strewn floor, and a flockr of droves sat cooing on the roof. 'A quiet, friendly place it looked; for nothing marred its peace, and the hopefuls healthful spirit of the season seemed to haunt the spot. Snow-drodps and crocuses were up in one secluded nook; 'a plump maltese cat sat purring in the porchl; and a dlignifiedi old dog came marching down the walk to escort the stranger, in. W7ith a brightening face Christie, went up the path, and tapped at the quaint knocker, hoping that the faee she was about to see would be in, keeping with the pleasant place. She was not dlisappohlted, for the dearest of little Quakter ladies opened to her, with such an Air of peace and good-will that the veriest. ruffian, coming to molest or make afraid, would bave found it impossible to mar the tranquillity of that; benign old face, or disturb one fold of the soft muslin crossed upon her breast. "I come from M/r. Power, and I have a note for Mrs. Sterling," began Christie in her gentlest tone, as J81,'GIATAUNG AG..aIN. 221 lier last fear vanished ait siaht of that inild internal figme. 11I am she ; come in, friend; I am glad to see thee," said the old lady, smilin" plalcidly, as she led the way into a room wllose principal furnture seemed to ,O books, flowers, andnc sunsbhin.6 Tile look, the tone, the gentle 11 thee," went straight to Chrlistie's hecart; and, while Mrs. Sterlingr put on lier slpectacles andl slowly read the note, she strokled the cat and said to Ilclaelf': 1 Surely, I have fallen among a set of anolels. I thought Mrs. Wilkins a sort of saint, Mr. Powerr was an imnprovenient even upon that good soul, and if' I am not inistaken this sweet little lady is the best (,tied dealrest of all. I do hope she will like me.") ltL is qunite rifflt, my dear., and I azm most glad to see thee ; for -we need help at tlhis season of the year, and have had noiie for several weeks. Step up to the room at the head of the stairs, and -lay oi' f tly things. Then) if' them. is, not tired, I will give thee a little jolj ivithl nie inl the kitcllen, said the old ladywith a kindly directness which left no r·ooin for awkwardness on the necw-comer l9S Fart.; Up -Avent Ch1·istie, and ,after a ]Iasty look round a rooni as plain and white andlstill as a nun's cell, she whisked oil a workting-apron and ran down again, feelings as sI1C fancieid the cllildlren did in the tiny tale, when they first alrrived at the llouse of the little old- IN 7' oun wboo lived in the wood.C Mrrls. Wilktins's kiitchlen w,-qas as neat as a roomz could be, wvherein -six ebildren came and went, but, this kitchen was tidy with the ininiaculate order of which Sliakers and Quakoars alone seem to possess the secret, 222 WC)wKf. a fragrant, shining cleanliness, that made even black kettles ornamental and dish-pans objects of interest. Nothing burned or boiled over, though the stove was full of dinner-pots and skillets. There was no litter or hurry, though the baking of cake and pies was going on, and when Mrs. Sterling put a pan of apples, and a knife into her new assistant's hands, saying in a tone that made the request a favor, "Will thee kindly pare these for me?"Christie wondered what would happen if she dropped a seed upon the floor, or did not cut the apples into four exact quarters. "I never shall suit this dear prim soul," she thought, as her eye went from Puss, sedately perched on one small mat, to the dog dozing upon another, and neither offering to stir from their own dominions. This dainty nicety amused her at first, but she liked it, and very soon her thoughts went back to the old times when she worked with Aunt Betsey, and learned the good old-fashioned arts which now were to prove her fitness for this pleasant place. Mrs. Sterling saw the shadow that crept into Chris- tie's face, and led the chat to cheerful things, not saying much herself, but beguiling the other to talk, and listen- ing with an interest that made it easy to go on. Mr. Power and the Wilkinses made them friends very soon; and in an hour or two Christie was moving about the kitchen as if she had already taken posses- sion of her new kingdom. "Thee likes housework I think," said Mrs. Sterling, as she watched her hang up a towel to dry, and rinse her dish-cloth when the cleaning up was done. "Oh, yes! if I need not do it with a shiftless Irish girl J IUINN}IVNN VC A UAIN L. A to drive me distracted by pretending to help. I have lived out, and did not find it hard while I had my good Hepsey. I was second girls and can set a table in style. Shlall I try now?" she asked, as the old lady went into a little dining-room with fresh napkins in her hand. "Yes, but we have no style here. I will show thee once, and hereafter it will be thy work, as thy feet are younger than mine." A nice old-fashioned table was soon spread, and Christie kept smiling at the contrast between this and Mrs. Stuart's. Chubby little pitchers appeared, delicate old glass, queer china, and tiny tea-spoons; linen as smooth as satin, and a quaint tankard that might have come over in the "May-flower." "Now, will thee take that pitcher of water to David's room? It is at the tovp of the house, and may need a little dusting. I have not been able to attend to it as I would like since I have been alone," said Mrs. Sterling. Rooms usually betray something of the character and tastes of their occupants, and Christie paused a moment as she entered David's, to look about her with feminine interest. It was the attic, and extended the whole length of the house. One end was curtained off as a bedroom, and she sailed at its austere simplicity. A gable in the middle made a sunny recess, where were stored bags and boxes of seed, bunches of herbs, and shelves full of those tiny pots in which baby plants are born and nursed till they can grow alone. The west end was evidently the study, and here Christie took a good look as she dusted tidily. The furniture was nothing, only an old sofa, with the horse- hair sticking out in tufts here and there; an antique secretary; and a table covered with books. As she whisked the duster down the front of the ancient piece of furniture, one of the doors in the upper half swung open, and Christie saw three objects that irresistibly riveted her eyes for a moment. A broken fan, a bundle of letters tied up with a black ribbon, and a little work- basket in which lay a fanciful needle-book with "Letty" embroidered on it in faded silk. "Poor David, that is his little shrine, and I have no right to see it," thought Christie, shutting the door with self-reproachful haste. At the table she paused again, for books always at- tracted her, and here she saw a goodly array whose names were like the faces of old friends, because she remem- bered-them in her father's library. Faust was full of ferns, Shakspeare, of rough sketches of the men and women whom he has made immor- tal. Saintly Herbert lay side by side with Saint Augustine's confessions. Milton and Montaigne stood socially together, and Andersen's lovely "Mirchen " flut- tered its pictured leaves in the middle of an open Plato; while several books in unknown tongues were half- hidden by volumes of Browning, IKeats, and Coleridge. In the middle of this fine society, slender and trans- parent as the spirit of a shape, stood a little vase hold- ing one half-opened rose, fresh and fragrant as if just gathered. Christie smiles as she saw it, and wondered if the dear, dead, or false woman had been fond of roses. Then her eye went to the mantel-piece, just above the table, and she laughed; for, on it stood three busts, idols evidently, but very shabby ones; for Gothe's nose was broken, Schiller's head cracked visibly, and the dust of ages seemed to have'settled upon Linneus in the middle. On the wall above them hung a curious old picture of a monk kneeling in a devout ecstasy, while the face of an angel is dimly seen through the radiance that floods the cell with divine light. Por- traits of Mr. Power and Martin Luther stared thought- filly at one another from either side, as if making up their minds to shake hands in spite of time and space. "Melancholy, learned, and sentimental," said Christie to herself as she settled David's character after these discoveries. The sound of a bell made her hasten down, more curious than ever to see if this belief was true. "Perhaps thee had better step out and call my son. Sometimes he does not hear the bell when he is busy. Thee will find my garden-hood and shawl behind the door," said Mrs. Sterling, presently; for punctuality was a great virtue in the old lady's eyes. Christie demurely tied on the little pumpkin-hood, wrapped the gray shawl about her, and set out to find ler " master," as she had a fancy to call this unknown J)avid. ,From the hints dropped by Mr. Power, and her late discoveries, she had made a hero for herself; a sort of melancholy Jaques; sad and pale and stern; retired fiom the world to nurse his wounds in solitude. She rather liked this picture; for romance dies hard in a woman, and, spite of her experiences, Christie still in- dulged in dreams and fancies. "It will be so interest- 10* o 226 WORK. ing to see how he bears his secret sorrow. I am fond of woe; but I do hope lhewon't be too lackadaisical, for I never could abide that sort of blighted being." Thinking thus, she peeped here and there, but saw no one in yard or barn, except a workman scraping the mould off his boots near the conservatory. "This David is among the flowers, I fancy; I will just ask, and not bolt in, as he does not know me. "Where is Mr. Sterling?" added Christie aloud, as she approached. ( The man looked up, and a smile came into his eyes, as he glanced from the old hood to the young face in- side. Then he took off his hat, and held out his hand, saying with just his mother's simple directness: "I am David; and this is Christie Devon, I know. How do you do?" "Yes; dinner's ready," was all she could reply, for the discovery that this was the "master," nearly tool her breath away. Not the faintest trace of the melan. choly Jaques about him; nothing interesting, romantic pensive, or even stern. Only a broad-shouldered, brown bearded man, with an old hat and coat, trousers tucke( into his boots, fresh mould on the hand he had give her to shake, and the cheeriest voice she had eve heard. What a blow it was to be sure! Christie actually; felt vexed with him for disappointing her so, and coul4 not recover herself, but stood red and awkward, till with a last scrape of his boots, David said with placid brevity: "Well, shall we go in?" Christie walked rapidly into the house, and by th BEGINNING AGAIN. 227 time she got there the absurdity of her fancy struck her, and she stifled a laugh in the depths of the little pumpkin-hood, as she hung it up. Then, assuming her gravest air, she went to give the finishing touches to dinner. Ten minutes later she received another surprise; for David appeared washed, brushed, and in a suit of gray, -a personable gentleman, quite unlike the workman in the yard. Christie gave one look, met a pair of keen yet kind eyes with a suppressed laugh in them, and dropped her own, to be no more lifted up till dinner was done. It was a very quiet meal, for no one said much; and it was evidently the custom of the house to eat silently, only now and then saying a few friendly words, to show that the hearts were social if the tongues were not. On the present occasion this suited Christie; and she ate her dinner without making any more discoveries, except that the earth-stained hands were very clean now, and skilfully supplied her wants before she could make them known. As they rose from table, Mrs. Sterling said: "Davy, does thee want any help this afternoon?" "I shall be very glad of some in about an hour if thee can spare it, mother." "I can, dear." "Do you care for flowers?" asked David, turning to Christie, "because if you do not, this will be a very trying place for you." "I used to love them dearly; but I have not had any for so long I hardly remember how, they look," an- swered Christie with a sigh, as she recalled Rachel's i ' ' 228 WORK. roses, dead long= ago. Shy, sick, find sad; poor soul, we must lend a hand and cheer her up a bit " thoucrli David, as he Watched her eyes turn toward the cri-een things in the windows with a briulit, soft look, lie liked tosee. '(Come to the conselrvatolry in an hours- and I'll show you the best part ofja c Gerniln," ' lie said, with a nod and a smile, as he went away, beginning to whistle like If boy when the door was shut behind bini. Whlat did he Mean? thought Christie, as aile helped cleal· the table, andl put every thino- in Pinifico, order.. She was curious to know, find when MS1rs. Sterlin" said: 11Nowu, my dear·, I flm going to takle my nap, and thee can help David if thee likes," she was quite ready to try the new work. She would have been moi'e than woman if she had ,.-not first slipped 'upstairs to smooth her liair,, put on a fresh cellar, and a black silk Capron with certain effective frills and pockets, while a scarlet rigolette Ireplazcedl the t hlood, and lent a little color to her pale checks. ' am, a poor ghosit of what I was," she tbouht; "but that's no mattlcl·: few can be pretty, any one can' be neat, and that is more than ever necessary here." Then she went away to the conservatory, feelinfi rather oppressed 'With the pity and sympathy, for wbich there was no call, and fervently Wisbing that Davidl would not be so comfortable;, for he ate a healrty din- ner, laughed four th 'ies, and whistled as no heazrt.-brokren man would dream of doing. No one was visible as she went in, and walking slow- ly down the green aisle, she gave herself up to the en- 'BEGIATVNIN G A GAIN. 229' joyment of the lovely place. The damp', sweet air made summn-er there, and a 'gSroup of slender, oriental tr1ees whlispered In the breath of wind that blew in from, an open sash. stran'"ev'ines and flowers hung overhead;; banks 'of azaleas, ruddy, white, and purple, bloomed in one place; roses of every hue turned their lovely Etces to the sun; ranks of delicate ferns, and heaths with their waxen bells, were close by; Growing gerani- unis and stately lilies side by side ; savage-looking scarlet flowers with purple hearts, or orange spikes rising from leaves mottled with strange· colors; dusty passion-flow-\.r MISg, and gazy nalsturtiums climbing to the roof. All inanner of beautiful and curious plants were there; and Christie walked among them, as happy as a Phild who finds its playmates anralin. Coming to a bed of pansies sbe sat down on a rustic chair, and, leaning forwnlrd, feasted her eyes on these her favorites. H-er face Lyrew young as she looked, jler hands touched them wvith a lino',eringr tenderness as, if to her they were ha:lf human, and her own eyes were so busy eilj'oyf'nnr the gold and purple s' read before, her, that sjie dicd not see- another pair peering at her over an unneigliborly old cactus, all Prickles, atnd- queer knobs. Presently a voice said at her elbow: YPou look as if you saw something beside pansies therel,". Datvid spoke so quietly that it did not startle her, and Shle answered before she had time to feel ashamed of her fancy. "I do; for, ever since I was a child, I always see a little facec when I look at this flower. . Sometimes it is a sad one, sometimes it's merry, often roguish,!but al. 23O! WOrK. ways a dear little face; and when I see so many tc gether, it 's like a flock of children, all nodding and smile ing at me at once." "So it is!" and David nodded, and smiled himsel as he handed her two or three of the finest, as if it wa as natural a thing as to put a sprig of mignonette i his own button-hole. Christie thanked him, and then jumped up, remen bering that she came there to work, not to dream. ' I seemed to understand, and went into a little room nea by, saying, as he pointed to a heap of gay flowers o the table: "These are to be made into little bouquets for 'German' to-night. It is pretty work, and better fitte for a woman's fingers than a man's. This is all yo have to do, and you can use your taste as to colors." While he spoke David laid a red and white carnm tion on a bit of smilax, tied them together, twisted morsel of silver foil about the stems, and laid it befor Christie as a sample. "Yes, I can do that, and shall like it very much," sh said, burying her nose in the mass of sweetness befor her, and feeling as if her new situation grew pleasant every minute. H "Iiere is the apron my mother uses, that bit of sil vill soon be spoilt, for the flowers are wet," and Davi gravely offered her a large checked pinafore. Christie could not help laughing as she put it on all this was so different from the imaginary picture sh had made. She was disappointed, and yet she bega: to feel as if the simple truth was better than the senti mental fiction; and glanced up at David involuntaril (231 BEGINNING AGAIN. 23 to see if there were any traces of interesting woe about him. But he was looking at her with the steady, straight- forward look which she liked so much, yet could not meet just yet; and all she saw was that he was smiling also with an indulgent expression as if she was a little girl whom he was trying to amuse. P iMake a few, and I'll be back directly when I have attended to another order," and he went away thinking Christie's face was very like the pansies they had been talking about,- one of the sombre ones with a bright touch of gold deep down in the heart, for thin and pale as the face was, it lighted up at a kind word, and all the sadness vanished out of the anxious eyes when the frank laugh came. Christie fell to work with a woman's interest in such a pleasant task, and soon tied and twisted skilfully, exercising all her taste in contrasts, and the pretty little conceits flowei-lovers can produce. She was so interested that presently she began to hum half un- consciously, as she was apt to do when happily em- ployed: l "Welcome, maids of honor, You do bring In the spring, And wait upon her. She has virgins many, Fresh and fair, Yet you are More sweet than any. There she stopped, for David's step drew near, and she remembered where she was. '"The last verse is the best in that little poem. Have ..j 232 WI'i youU forgotten it?" he said, pleased and surpj od to find the new-comner singing HeIrrick's lines To Violets*' "Almost; my father· used to say thlat when we went lookinglg for early violets, and these lovely ones reminded Inc of it, explained Christic, rather abashecd. 1----r;7----- 1 14 DAVD NDCHISIEINTH GEEHOSE BEGINNING AGAINnrr. 283 As if to put her at ease David added, as'he laid an- other handful of double-violets on the fable: VaIIIre, the maidenn posies, And so grraced, T'o be placed 'Fore dainask roses. Yet, thlough thus, respected, By'andni by Ye do lie, Poor girls, neglected.' "I lwas hink of them as pretty, modest maid after that, and can't bear to throw them away, even wlieln far-'led." Chlrisitic hoped he did not tlhinkr her sentimental, and changed tlie conversation by pointing to her work, and ,Saying, in a business-likte way: ((Will these do? , I have varied the posies as much as possible, so that they may suit all sorts of tastes and Whims. I never went to a 4Gernian' myself:; but I have- looked on, and remeniber- hearing the young people say,· the little bouquets didn't mean any thing, so I tried to make'-these expressive." c(Well, I should think you had succeeded excellently, and it is a very pretty fancy. Tell me what Odme of, them mean : will youz? cc You should know better than I, bein , a florist," saidi Christ'ie, glad to see be ,approved of her work. "Ican grow the flowers, but not read tbem," and David looked ratlhcr depressed by his awn ignorance of those delicate matters. Still with th'e business-like air) Christie held up one '234 WORK. after. another of the little knots, saying soberly, though ber eyes smiled: 44This white one miopht be given to a newly engaged girl, as suggestive of the coninn bridal. TIhat half- blown bud would saly a great deal 'from a lover to his idol; and this heliotrope be most encournging, to a timid swain. Here isar rosy daisy .ror some merry little dam'sel; there is a scarlet posy for a soldier; tbis dell' cate aLzalea, and fern for some lovely creature just out; 'and there, is 'a bunch of sober pansies for a spinster, if spinsters go to I Germans.' Heath, seentless but pretty, would do for many; these Parma violets for one with a sorrow; and this curious purple flower with arrow- shaped stamens would just suit ta handso-me, sharp- tongued woman, if aiiy partner dared give it' to her." David laughed, as bis eye went. from tlhe flowers' to Christie's face, and when she laid down the last breast- knot, lookin - as if she would like the chance 'of present- ing it to some one she knew, lie seemed much amused. 11If the beatux and belles at tlhis party have the wit to read your posies, my fortune will be made, 4nd you will have 'our bands full supplying complimelits, dee- laratiolns, rebukes, and criticisms, for the fashionable butterflies. I wish 'I could'put consolation, hope, and submission into m workc as easil , but I am afraid I can't," be added a moment afterward with a changed face, as he began to lay the loveliest wbite flowers into, a box. "Those are not for a wedding, then V' For a dead baby; and I can't seem to find any wbite and sweet enough:" 14 You know the people?" asked Cbristie, pith the sympathetic tone in her -voice. GISNINGi2TNN AGAIBN. 3 "Never saw or heard of them till to-day. Isn't it enough to know that 4 baby 's dead, as the poor man said' to make one feel for them?" "Of course it is; only' you seemed so interested in arranging the flowers, I naturally thought it was for some friend,"Christie answered hastily, for David looked half indignant at her question.I tt I want them to look lovely and comforting when the mother opens the box, and I don't seem to have the eight flowers. Will you give it a touch? women have a tender way of doing siuch things that, we can never learn-77 -Idon't think I can improve 'it, unles d nte sort of flower that seems, appropriate: may I?" "Any thing you can find." Christie waited for no more, but ran out of the green. house to David's great surprise, and presently came hurrying back with a handful of snow-drops. "Those are just what I wanted, but I didn't know the little dears were up yet! You shall, put.them ini and I know they will suggest what you hope, to these poor people," he isaid'approvingly, as he placed the box before, her, and stood by watching her adjust the little sheaf of pale flowers tied up with a blade of, grass, She added a frail fern or two, and did give just the graceful touch here and there which would speak to the motheA' sore heart of the tender thought some one had taken for her dead dwrlinl5 The box was sent away, and Christie went on with her work, but, that little task performed togetb er" seemed to have made them friends; and, while David tied up several grand bouquets at the same table' they talked 286 · WORK, as if the strangeness was fast melting away from their short acquaintance. Christie's own manners were so simple that simplicity in others always put her at her ease: kindness soon banished her reserve, and the desilre to show that slie was grateful for it helped her to please. Davidt's blunt- ness was of such a gentle sort that she soon got used to it, and found it a pleasant contrast to the polite insincerity so common. H-e was as frank and friendly as a ·boy, yet had,-a certain paternal way with him which rather annoyed her at first, and nlade her feel as 'if he thought her a mere girl, while sbe Was Yery sure he could not be but a year or two older than. herself. 11I'd rather he'd be in terful, and order. me about," ,she thought, still Irather r betting the 11 blighted being she had not found. In spite of this she spent a pleasant afternoon, sitting' in that sunny place, handlingr flowersn asking questions 'about them, and getting the sort of answers she liked; not dry botanical names and facts, but'all the delicate traits, curious habits, and poetical romances of the sweet things,'.as if the speaker knew and loved them as friends, niet merely valued them as merchandise. They had just finished when the g1·eat dog came bouncing in 'with a basket in his mouth. "Mothet;'wants eggs - will you come to the barn and get them? H-ay is, wholesome, and you can feed the doves if you like," said David, leading- the way with Bran rioting about him, . 1Why dori't he offer to put iip a swing for me, or, get me a doll? It's the pinalfore that deceives him. Never mind: I rather lik,, e it ater ll, thought Christie; BEGINNING AGABIN.- 237 but she left the apron behind her, and followed with the niost dignified air. It did not last long, however-, for the sights and sounds thart greetedd her, carried her back to the days of egg-lhun-ting in Uncle Enkos's big barn;; and, before shle knew it, she was rustling through the hay inows, tnllking, to the cow and receiving the attentions of B3ran with a satisfaction it was impossible to conceal. The hens gathered about her feet cocking their expectant eyecs at her; the doves came circling round her, Ilcead; the cow stared placidly, and the inquisitive liorse responded affably. when she offered. him a handful- of Ilay. "HI-ow tanie they all are·c I like animals, they are so contented and intellio-ent," she saidc, as a plump dove lit on her shoulder with an21 im'p tient coo. "That was Kitty's pet, she always fe d the fowls. Would you like to do it?" and Dalvid offered a little ineasure of oatts. 11 Very niuch; " and Christie began to scatter tho grain, wondering who 11 Kitty") was. As if lie saw the wish in her face, David added,' While he shelled corn for the hens: "She was the little girl who was with us 1rust.- ' H-er father kept her in a factory, and took all her wages, barecly giving her clothes and food enough to keep ber aIlivo. The poor child rpan awa , and was trying to Mide wlhen Mr..·. Power found and sent; her here to be cared for." Ans he didi me?" said Christie quickly, YPes, that's a way bhe has." "An very kind and Ch1·istian way. Why didn't she stay? 238 \ WORK. "Well, it was rather quiet for the lively little thing, and rather too near the city, so we got a good place up in the country where she could go to school and learn housework. The mill had left her no time for these things, and at fifteen she was as ignorant as a child." "You must miss her." "I do very much." (Was she pretty?" "She looked like a little rose sometimes," and David smiled to himself as he fed the gray hens. Christie immediately made a picture of the "lively little thing" with a face "like a rose," and was uncom- fortably conscious that she did not look half as well feeding doves as Kitty must have done. Just then David handed her the basket, saying in the paternal way that half amused, half piqued her: "It is getting too chilly for you here: take these in please, and I'll bring the milk directly." In spite of herself she smiled, as a sudden vision of the elegant Mr. Fletcher, devotedly carrying her book or beach-basket, passed through her mind; then hastened to explain the smile, for David lifted his brows inquir- ingly, and glanced about him to see what amused her. "I beg your pardon: I've lived alone so much that it seems a little odd to be told to do things, even if they are as easy and pleasant as this." "I am so used to taking care of people, and direct- ing, that I do so without thinking. I won't if you don't like it," and he put out his hand to take back the basket with a grave, apologetic air. "But I do like it; only it amused me to be treated like a little girl again, when I am nearly thirty, and * BEGJIN^ING AGAIN. 239 feel seventy at least, life has been so hard to me lately." Her face sobered at the last words, and David's in- stantly grew so pitiful she could not keep her eyes on it lest they should fill, so suddenly did the memory of past troubles overcome her. "I know," he said in)a tone that warmed her heart, ' I know, but we are going to try, and make life easier for you now, and you must feel that this is home and we are friends." "I do!" and. Christie flushed with grateful feeling and a little shame, as she went in, thinking to her- self: "How silly I was to say that! I may have spoiled the simple friendliness that was so pleasant, and have made him think me a foolish stuck-up old creature." Whatever he might have thought, David's manner was unchanged when he came in and found her busy with the table. "It 's pleasant to see thee resting, mother, and every thing going on so well," he said, glancing about the room, where the old lady sat, and nodding toward the kitchen, where Christie was toasting bread in her neatest manner. "Yes, Davy, it was about time I had a helper for thy sake, at least; and this is a great improvement upon heedless Kitty, I am inclined to think." Mrs. Sterling dropped her voice over that last sen- tence; but Christie heard it, and was pleased. A mo- ment or two later, David came toward her with a glass in his hand, saying as if rather doubtful of his recep- tion: "New milk is part of the cure: will you try it?" J I Ir - ------- --- - - - --· , - -- - - 1 __ I 240 WIORK. Fior the flrst time, Christie looked Straigllt up in the bonest eye's that seemed to demantd honesty in others, and took the ass nswering heax'lltily "Ye s, thank you; I drink good health to you, andl better· manners to me.)) The newly lighted lamp shlone.full in her face, -tied though it was neither young nor bloomihig, it showed something better than youth and bloom to one whio could read the subtle language of character as Dalvidl could. He noddedd as he took the glass, and went away saying quietly: W Ve are plain people here, and 'you won't find it bardc to get on with us, I think." But lie liked the candid look, and thougllt about it, asn he cehoppled kindlings, whistling with a vigvor wbieli caused Christie to smile as she strained tbe milkk' Afteti tea a spidernl-legcr ed table was drawn out toward the hearth, where azn open fire burned cheerily,, and puss purr'ed on the rig, with Br·an near by. David unfolded his newspapers, Mrs. Sterling pinned on lier knitting-sheath, and Cliristie sat a moment enjoying the comfortable little scene. She sighed without krnow- ing it, and Mrs. Sterling asked quickly: "LIs thee tired, my dear?" ccOh, no! only: happy." ccI am glad 'of that: I was afrazid thee would flnd it; dull." IC It's beautiful .1 " ilen Christie checked. herself, feel- iing that these outbursts would not suit such quiet people; and, half ashamed of showing how mncEh slie felt, sh-e added soberly, "If you will give me something to do I shall, be quite contented." BtEGLINNING A GAIA7. 241 Cc SOWiDg is not good for theee. If theee likes to knit III sett up a sock for them t rrowO\ l) said the old laldy well pleased at the indus JC us turn of ber newy lilandynaid.d 1I like to darln, -end I see. sonie to be done in tbis basket.;. May'l do it *9" andi Chri·stie Laidi hold of the weekly job Which even the best housewives are apt to set aside for pleasasnter taslts. 4c-As the(% li],Cess niy dear. Aly eyes will not let nie sew inuebl in the evenhilg, else I Shlouldl have finished that babtc1 to-n4-flit. Thee'will finji the yarn and needlesc in th6,: little bag." So Chi-istiee fell to wol'k on gnany sockts, and neat lavender-colored? hose, while the old ladyr knit swiftly aiid David readLc aloud. Chr1istie thought; site was listen- nice to the report of a fine lectuurc; but ]ler ear only Caulllt the words, for· her mind wandered away into a recrion of -its ind,:n lived there till li'r task a oe Then, stle Laid 'the tidy pile in tlle, basket, drlew her chair to a- corner of the hearth, and quietly enjoyed Tile cat, feelin" 8n40e of a welcome, got tip into her lal):, and went to slee ' in a cosy bunch; Brann laid his .nose across her feet, and blinked atohecr with sleepy, goo0d-will, while her eyes wandered round the rooin, fron'i its quanint fnlrniture and th·e dreaming flowers in thle windows, to the faLces of its occupants, and lingered tliere.c The plain bortler of a Quaker cap encircled that inild old face7 with -bands of silver hair parted on a forellead marked with many finies. But the eyes were' Clear and sweet; winter roses blooji-ied in the checks, 242 WORIK. and an exquisite neatness pervaded the small figu from the trim feet on the stool, to the soft shawl fold about the shoulders, as only a Quakeress can fold ol In Mrs. Sterling, piety and peace made old age lovely and the mere presence of this traliquil soul seemed fill the room with a reposeful charm none could resist. The other face possessed no striking comeliness shape or color; but'the brown, becoming beard mlna it manly, and the broad arch of a benevolent brc added nobility to features otherwise not l)eautifil, - face plainly expressing icesolution and rectitude, i spiring respect as naturally as a certain protecti' kindliness of manner won confidence. Even in repo wearing a vigilant look as if some hidden pain passion lay in wait to surprise and conquer the sob cheerfulness that softened the lines of the firm-set lil and warmed the glance of the thoughtful eyes. Christie fancied sho possessed the key to this, al longed to know all the story of the cross which 2 Power said David had learned to bear so well. Th she began to wonder if they could like and keep h1 to hope so, and to feel that here at last she was home with friends. But the old sadness crept over hb as she remembered how often she had thought tt before, and how soon the dream ended, the ties we broken, and she adrift again. "Ah well," she said within herself, "I won't thil of the morrow, but take the good that comes and enjf it while I may. I must not disappoint Rachel, sin she kept her word so noblyto me. Dear soul, whb shall I see her again?" The thought of Rachel always touched her heai BEGINNING AGAIN. 243 more now than ever; and, as she leaned back in her cllair with closed eyes and idle hands, these tender memories made her unconscious fiLce most eloquent. The eyes peering over tlle spectacles telegraphed a meaning message to the other eyes glancing over the paper now and then; and both these friends in deed as well as name felt assured that this woman needed all the comfort they could give her. But the busy needles never stopped their click, and the sonorous voice read on without a pause, so Christie never knew what mute confidences passed between mother and son, or what helpful confessions her traitorous face hlad made for her. The clock struck nine, and these primitive people prepared for rest; for their day began at dawn, and much wholesome work made sleep a luxury. "Davy will tap at thy door as he goes down in the morning, and I will soon follow to show tiee about matters. Good-night, and good rest, my child." So speaking, the little lady gave Christie a maternal kiss; David shook hands; and then she went away, wondering why service was so liglhtened by such little kindnesses. As she lay in her narrow white bed, witl the "pale light of stars" filling the quiet, cell-like room, and some one playing softly on a flute overhead, she felt as if she had left the troublous world behind her, and shutting out want, solitude, and despair, had come into some safe, secluded spot full of flowers and sunshine, kind hearts, and charitable deeds. CHA-IPTERn XI. IN THE-I STRAWBERRY BED.ID ROM tha·t day a new life be' an for Cliristi'e, a happy, quiet, useful lif'e, Utterly unlike any of the brilliant futures she hadc planned fbor herself; yet indescribably pleasant to. her now, for past ex' ericiiee bad taught her its wort'tl, and made her ready to e, 'oy it. Never had spring seemed so arzlly or so fail-, never had such a crop of' hopeful thought and Ilappy feel- ings spi-ting up in here heart as now; and nowhere wass there a brighlter fflce, a blither voice, or more willimy bands than Chrlistie's whell the apple blossoms came. Trhis was what she needed, the protection of a home, wholesome cares and duties; and, best of all, friends to live and labor for, loving and beloved. Herc whole soul was in her wolrk now, and as health returned, much of the old energy and cheerfulness came with it, a little sobered, but more sweet and earnest'lian ever. No task was too bard. or humble; no day long enough to do all she longyed to do; and no sacrifice would have seemed too great for those whom she regarded with steadily increasing love and gratitude. 'Up at daWD, the dewy freshness of the hour, the IN THE1 STRAWBERRYBED. uu 245 Inorning ra-Dture of tlhe birds, the daily miracle of sun- rise, set her heart in tune, and gave her Ntature(?s most heainu- balin She kept; the little housee in order with Mi-s. Sterling to, direct and s alrare then labl\l so pleasaintly, that I1istress andl mazid soon felt lilac mother andl ddaticyliter and Christie often said, slie did not care for anly other wages. Tho house-workk of this small fam- ily was soon done, and then Chriistie went to tasks thatt she likedd better. Altich out-of-door life, was good for her·, Cand in garden and grecllhouse the re was -plenty of' light I-abor she could do. So she grubbed colltentedly in the whole- some earth, weeding and pottincr, leaningii to prune and bud, and &dincr Mrs. Wilkins was quite right in' her opinion of the sanitary virtties of dirlt. Trips to town, to see the good wonian and carry country gifts to the little! folks; afternoon dr1ives with Mrs. Sterlincr in the old-fashioned chaise, drawn by the, Romaii-nosed horse, andl Sunday pilgrimages to church to be r1ighted up " by one of Mir. Power's stirrFing ser-- mons, were ainong her new 'plelssrrss Bzt, on the whole, the eveniiilrs were her happiest tinies: for then .Dazvid read aloud while sllc worke d; slie surlie to the old -piano -tuned for ber use; or·, better still, as spring came on, -tbey sat in the poreb, and talked as people only do talk when twilight, veiling the, outer world, seenis to lift the curtains of tthlat inner. world where ininds go exploringr, hearts learn to know One alnotber,, and souls watlk together in the cool of the day. At such times Christie seeined to cateli glimpses of another David' than the busy, cheerful man appar- ently contented with the bun-druin duties of an ob- 246 WORK. scure, laborious life, and the few unexciting pleasnu afforded by books, music, and much silent though She sometimes felt with a woman's instinct that und this composed, commonplace existence another li went on; for, now and then, in the interest of convey sation, or tlle involuntary yielding to a confidenti impulse, a word, a look, a gesture, betrayed an une pected power and passion, a secret unrest,, a bitt memory that would not be ignored. Only at rare inoments did she catch these glimpse and so brief, so indistinct, were they that she hal believed her own lively fancy created them. She long to know more; but "Dalvid's trouble " made him sacre in her eyes from any prying curiosity, and always after one of these twilight betrayals Christie found him s like his unromantic self next day, that she laughed an said: "I never shall outgrow my foolish way of trying t{ make people other than they are. Gods are gone heroes hard to find, and one should be contented witl good men, even if they do wear old clothes, lead prosaic lives, and have no accomplishments but gardening playing the flute, and keeping their temper." She felt the influences of that friendly place at once; but for a time she wondered at the natural way in which kind things were done, the protective care ex- tended over her, and the confiding air with which these people treated her. They 'asked no questions, demanded no explanations, seemed unconscious of conferring favors, and took her into their life so readily that sle marvelled, even while she rejoiced, at the good fortune which led her there. : IN THE STIRAWBERRY BED. 247 She understood this better when she discovered, what Mr. Power had not mentioned, that the little cottage was a sort of refuge for many women like herself; a half-way house where they could rest and recover them- selves after the wrongs, defeats, and weariness that come to such in the battle of life. With a chivalry older and finer than any Spenser sung, Mr. Power befriended these forlorn souls, and David was his faithful squire. Whoever knocked at that low door was welcomed, warmed, and fed; com- forted, and set on their way, cheered and strengthened by the sweet good-will that made charity no burden, and restored to the more desperate and despairing their faith in human nature and God's love. There are many such green spots in this world of ours, which often seems so bad that a second Deluge could hardly wash it clean again; and these beneficent, unostentatious asylums are the salvation of more troubled souls than many a great institution gilded all over with the rich bequests of men who find themselves too heavily laden to enter in at the narrow gate of heaven. Happy the foot-sore, heart-weary traveller who turns from the crowded, dusty highway down the green lane that leads to these humble inns, where the sign of the Good Samaritan is written on the face of whomsoever opens to the stranger, and refreshment for soul and body is freely given in the name of I-im who loved the poor. Mr. Power came now and then, for his large parish left him but little time to visit any but the needy. Christie enjoyed these brief visits heartily, for her new 248 WORI'. friends soon felt that she was one of them, and cor- dially took her into the large circle of workers and believers to which they belonged. Mr. Power's heart was truly an orphan asylum, and every lonely creature found a welcome there. IIe could?rebuke sin sternly, yet comfort and uplift the sinner with fatherly compassion; righteous wrath would flash from his eyes at illjustice, and contempt sharpen his voice as he denounced hypocrisy: yet the eyes that lightened would dim with pity for a woman's wrong, a child's small sorrow; and the voice that thundered would whisper consolation like a mother, or give counsel with a wisdom books cannot teach. He was a Moses in his day and generation, born to lead his people out of the bondage of dead supersti- tions, and go before them through a Red Sea of perse- cution into the larger liberty and love all souls hunger for, and many are just beginning to find as they come doubting, yet desiring, into the goodly land such pio- neers as he have planted in the wilderness. He was like a tonic to weak natures and wavering wills; and Christie felt a general revival going on within herself as her knowledge, honor, and affection for him grew. His strength seemed to uphold her; his integ- rity to rebuke all unworthiness in her own life; and the magic of his generous, genial spirit to make the hard places'smooth, the bitter things sweet, and the world seem a happier, honester place than she had ever thought it since her father died. Mr. Power had been interested in her from the first; had watched her through other eyes, and tried her by various unsuspected tests. She stood them well; IN THE STRAWBERRY BED. 249 showed her faults, as frankly as her virtues, and tried to deserve their esteem by copying the excellencies she admired in them. "She is made of the right stuff, and we must keep her among us; for she must not be lost orQwasted by being left to drift, about the world with no ties to make her safe and happy. She is doing so well here, let her stay till the restless spirit begins to stir again; thepn she shall come to me and learn contentment by seeing greater troubles than her own." Mr. Power said this one day as he rose to go, after ,sitting an hour with Mrs. Sterling, and hearing from her a good report of his new protegee. The young people were out at work, and had not been called in to see him, for the interview had been a confidential one. But as he stood at the gate he saw Christie in the strawberry bed, and went toward her, glad to see how well and happy she looked. Her hat was hanging on her shoulders, and the sun giving her cheeks a healthy color; she was humming to herself like a bee as her fingers flew, and once she paused, shaded her eyes with her hand, and took a long look at a figure down in the meadow; then she worked on silent and smiling, - a pleasant creature to see, though her hair was ruffled by the wind; her gingham gown pinned up; and her fingers deeply stained with the blood of many berries. "I wonder if that means any thing?" thought Mr. Power, with a keen glance from the distant man to the busy woman close at hand. "It might be a helpful, happy thing for both, if poor David only could forget.' He had time for no more castle-building, for a startled 11* '250 OR robina flew away with a shrill chirp, and Christie looked up. "OhI-'m so glad!"s" siesaid, rising quickly. "I1was pickling a special box for you, and now you can have a feast, beside, just as you like it, firesll fi-omH the vines. Sit here, please, and I'll bull. faf:ster than you. can' eat.5) 11 This is luxury! 1 anc Mr.. Power sat down on the three-legged stool offered him, With a hubarlb leaf on his knee which Christie kept supplying with delicious moutthfils. it- i- MR. POWER AD CHRISTIE N THE STRAWERRY BILID IAT "THE S TRA WBERR Y B E Do' 251 94 Well, and how goes it? Anre we still happy'and con- tented here?" he asked. c"l feel as if I had been born again ; as if this was a new heaven and a new earth, and ever .tb i n wa s as it should be·^ answered Chlristie, with a look of per- feetstatisf:2aCtion in her face. "'l That's a pleasantt hearin Mrs. Sterlinct has been praisingc you, but I wanted to be sulre you 'welre as satis- fied as shlO . And how does Davidnwear w ell, I bope.. p (i O01 es hIe is very good to ine, and is teaching me to be a gardener, so that; I -needn't kill myself with sew- ingy any inore. Much of this is- fine work for woi-en, and11( so healthy. Don't I look a iifferent creature froin the ghost that catne helre three or four mouths ago V) and she turned berl faree for insTpection like a child. Yecs, David is :a good crardener.l I often send my sort of plants bere, ,and lie always maktes them grow and -blossom, sooner or htiter), answelred MrI. Power re- wirnling her like a beneficent genie on a three-legged stool. ('You are the flesh air·, and Mr41s. Sterling isi the quiet sunshine that does the wolrk, I Incy. David only digs ,,about thec roots:" 44 Th,'ID I you for my share of the compliment ; but 171i)l say 4 only digs'5 That i s a most important part of the W'ork : I 'm afraid you don't appreciate -David." Ofi9 yesq I do ; but be rather aggravates mtFn Ie sorne- times, said Cbristie, laughing, as sbe put a particularly 'big berry in the green plate to atone for· her frankness. Ho I-? 57 asked Mr. Power) interested 'in these little revel7,ati ons. Well') he woi2't be ambitious. I try to stir bim up, 25-2 WORK. for he has talents; I've found that out: but he won't seem. to ioare for any thing but watelling over his another, reading his old books, and linking flowers bloom double when they ought to be single." .11Thelre are worse ambitious than those, Christie. I: know many a man who would 'be far better employed 'in cherishing a sweet old wornan, studyirig Plato,- and doubling the · beauty of a flower; than in selling princi- ples, for mon ey, building Ixp a cheazp reputation thazt dies with him, or chasinct pleasure`S that turn to ashes in Iris mouth."' "Yes, Sir; but isn't it natural for a you17g man to have some personall airn or aspiration to live for? If· Dazvid was a weaks or dull man I'could understand it,; but I seem to feel a power, a possibility for something higher and better than any thinly I see, and Ithis frets mme. He is so good, I want him to be'great also in some way." 'LA wise man says, I The essence of glreatness is the perception that virtune is enougli. _ ltbink Daivid one of the most ambitious men I ever knew, because at .thirty he has discovered this truth, and -taken it to heart. Many men can be what the world calls great: very few -men are what Godl calls good. This is the Harder tasls to choose,- yet the only success that sqtis. fies) the only honor that outlives death. These faith- ful fives; whether seen of men or hidden in corners, are the salvation of the world, alnd few of us falil to ae- knowledge it in the hours when we are bro'ugbht close to the heart of things and see a little as Godl sees." Christie did. not; speak for aa'moment: Mr. Power's voice bad been so rave, and ]lis words so earnest that IN THE S TRAWBERR Y BE D. 253 sbe could not a nnswer ligfltly, but sat turning over the new thonalits in her inind. Presently she said, in a penitent but not quite, satisfied tone: 44 Of' course, you are ri' I'zbt-, sir. I'll1 tq' not to care for tile outwYard and visible signs of these hidden virtues; Nit I'm afraid I stict-ll shasll havo a hlanker·ing for, this worldly honors that aire so valued by most people" ('Success and glolry alre the, children of hard work and God's favor·, according to XA sebcylus, and you will find lie was rialit. David got a heavy blow some years ago as I told -you, I think,; and he tooki it hard, but it; did not spoil liim: it made a man of him; and, if I. am. iiot finish mistaken, he will yet do - something to be Pro0ud of, though the world may never hear of' it." "I hope so!i " and Chzristie's face brightened at the thomylit. i'Nevertheless you look as if you doubted it, O you of little faith. Every one has tiyo sides to his nature: Daiiid Ias shown you the least!interesting one, and you judge accordingly. I think he will show you the other side S'onie day, - for you are- one -of the WODICM who wi71,; confidence withoutnnf trying, -a-nd then you w ill know thho real David. Don't expect too mucli, or qua-rre with th e imperfections Ithat make him human;; but take him for whazt lie is worth, andl help him if you can. to make bi§i life a brave and good one." 44 I will, sil- " answered Chlrist' -1so meekly that M1·. Power laughed; for this confessio al in the strawbserr"-Y bed amused himt very much. 41 You alre a bero-worshipper, my dear; and if people don't come up to the mark you, are so disappointed that you fail to see the fine realityy which remains when the 2i54 WORK. pretty romance ends. Saints walk about the world to, day as much as ever, but instead of haircloth and halos they now wear" "Broadcloth and wide-brimlned hats," added Chris- tie, looking up as if she had already found a better St. Thomas than any the church ever canonized. He thanked her with a smile, and went on with a -glance toward the meadow. "And knights go crusading as gallantly' as ever against the giants and the dragons, though you don't discover it, because, instead of banner, lance, and shield they carry " "Bushel-baskets, spades, and sweet-flag for their mothers," put in Christie again, as David came up the path with the loam ile had been digging. Both began to laugh, and he joined in the merriment without knowing why, as he put down his load, took off his hat, and shook hands with his honored guest. "What's the joke?" he asked, refieshing himself with the handful of berries Christie offered him. "Don't tell," she whispered, looking dismayed at the idea of letting him know what she had said of him. But Mr. Power answered tranquilly: "We were talking about coins, and Christie was ex- pressing her opinion of one I showed her. The face and date she understands; but the motto puzzles her, and she has not seen the reverse side yet, so does not know its value. She will some day; and then she will agree with me, I think, that it is sterling gold." The emphasis on the last words enlightened David: his sunburnt cheek reddened, but he only shook his head, saying: ; She will find a brass farthing I'm afraid, IN THE STRAWBERRY BED. 255 sir," and began to crumble a handful of loam about the roots of a carnation that seemed to have sprung up by chance at the foot of the :pple-tree, "Iow did that get there?" asked Christie, with sud- den interest in the flower. "s u It dropped when I was setting out the others, took root, and looked so pretty arid comfortable that I left it. These waifs sometimes do better than the most carefully tended ones: I only dig round them a bit and leave them to sun and air," MIr. Power looked at Chlistie with so much meaning in his face that it was her turn to color now. But with feminine perversity she would not own herself mistaken, and answered with eyes as full of meaning as his own: "I like the single ones best: double-carnations are so untidy, all bursting out of the calyx as if the petals had quarrelled and could not live together'" "The single ones are seldom perfect, and look poor and incomplete with little scent or beauty," said un- conscious David proppling up the thin-leaved flower, that looked like a pale solitary maiden, beside the great crimson and white carnations near by, filling the air with spicy odor. "I suspect you, will change your mind by and by, Cllristie, as your taste improves, and you will learn to tlink the double ones the handsomest," added Mr. Power, wondering in his benevolent heart if he would ever be the gardener to mix the colors of the two hu- man plants before him. "I must go," and David shouldered his basket as if he felt he might be in the way. "So must I, or they will be waiting for me at the ; WORK. " hospital. Give me a handful of flowers, David: they often do the poor souls more good than my prayers or preaching." Then they went away, and left Christie sitting in the strawberry bed, thinking that David looked less than ver like a hero with his blue shirt, rough straw hat, and big boots; also wondering if he would ever show her his best side, and if she would like it when she saw it. CHAPTER XTI. CHRISTIE'S GALA. ON the fourth of September, Christie woke up, say- ing to herself: "It is my birthday, but no one knows it, so I shall get no presents. Ah, well, I'm too old for that now, I suppose;" but she sighed as she said it, for well she knew one never is too old to be, remembered and beloved. Just then the door opened, and Mrs. Sterling entered,. carrying what looked very like a pile of snow-flakes in her arms. Laying this upon the bed, she kissed Chris- tie, saying with a tone and gesture that made the words, a benediction: "A happy birthday, and God bless thee, my daughter!" Before Christie could do more than hug both gift and giver, a great bouquet came flying in at the open win- dow, aimed with such skill that it fell upon the bed, while David's voice called out from below: "A happy birthday, Christie, and many of them!" "How sweet, how kind of you, this is! I didn't dream you knew about to-day, and never thought of such a beautiful surprise," cried Christie, touched and charmed by this unexpected celebration. Q CHRISTIE'S GALA. Thee mentioned it once long ago, and we remem- bered. They are very humble gifts, my dear; but we could not let the day pass without some token of the thanks we owe thee for these months of faithful service. and affectionate companionship." Christie had no answer to this little address, and was about to cry as the only adequate expression of her feelings, when a hearty "IHear! Iear!" from below made her laugh, and call out: "You conspirators! how dare you lay plots, and then exult over me when I can't find words to thank you? I always did think you were a set of angels, and now I 'm quite sure of it." "Thee may be right about Davy, but Iam only a prudent old woman, and have taken much pleasure in privately knitting this light wrap to wear when thee sits in the porch, for the evenings will soon grow chilly. My son did not know what to get, and finally decided that flowers would suit thee best; so he made a bunch of those thee loves, and would toss it in as if he was a boy." ^':5 a "I like that way, and both my presents suit me ex- aactly," said Christie, wrapping the fleecy shawl about i, her, and admiring the nosegay in which her quick eye saw all her favorites, even to a plumy spray of the little wild asters which she loved so much. "Now, child, I will step down, and see about break- fast. Take thy time; for this is to be a holiday, and we s. mean to make it a happy one if we can." With that the old lady went away, and Christie soon followed, looking very fresh and blithe as she ran down smiling behind her great bouquet. David was in the i.--. - --., .r. I. I. --, .-. ·- -- .· -. ··--L-*.ul*· 'f\ II II I; , I e..£ ;F 1, I I .. ., a porch, training up the morning-glories that bloomed late and lovely in that sheltered spot. He turned as she approached, held out his hand, and bent a little as if he was moved to add a tenderer greeting. But he did not, only held the hand she gave him for a moment, as he said with the paternal expression unusually visible: "I wished you many happy birthdays; and, if you go on getting younger every year like this, you will surely have them." It was the first compliment he had ever paid her, and she liked it, though she shook her head as if disclaim- ing it, and answered brightly: "I used to think many years would be burdensome, and just before I came here I felt as if I could not bear another one. But now I like to live, and hope I shall a long, long time." "I'm glad of that; and how do you mean to spend these long years of yours?" asked David, brushing back the lock of hair that was always falling into his eyes, as if he wanted to see more clearly the hopeful face before him. "In doing what your morning-glories do, - climb up as far and as fast as I can before the frost comes," an- swered Christie, looking at the pretty symbols she had chosen. You have got on a good way already then," began avid, smiling at her fancy. ?"Oh no, I haven't!" she said quickly. "I'm only about half way up. See here: I 'll tell how it is;" and, pointing to the different parts of the flowery wall, she added in her earnest way: "I 'e watched these grow, . . 258 WORK. 259 WORK. CHRISTIE'S GALA. and had many thoughts about them, as I sit sewing in the porch. These variegated ones down low are my childish fancies; most of them gone to seed you see. These lovely blue ones of all shades are my girlish dreams and hopes and plans. Poor things! some are dead, some torn by the wind, and only a few pale ones left quite perfect. Here you observe they grow somblre with a tinge of purple; that means pain and gloom, and there is where I was when I came here. Now they turn from those sad colors to crimson, rose, and soft pink. That's the happiness and health I found here. You and your dear mother planted them, and you see how strong and bright they are." She lifted up her hand, and gathering one of the great rosy cups offered it to him, as if it were brimful of the thanks she could not utter. Ie comprehended, took it with a quiet "Thank you," and, stood looking at it for a moment, as if her little compliment pleased him very much. "And these?" he said presently, pointing to the delicate violet bells that grew next the crimson ones. The color deepened a shade in Christie's cheek, but she went on with no other sign of shyness; for witll David she always spoke out frankly, because she could not help it. "Those mean love to me, not passion: the deep red ones half hidden under the leaves mean that. My violet flowers are the best and purest love we can know: the sort that makes life beautiful and lasts for ever. The white ones that come next are tinged with that soft color here and there, and they mean holiness. I know there will be love in heaven; so, whether I ever find it here or not, I am sure I shall not miss it wholly.'" Theh, as if glad to leave the theme that never can be touched without reverent emotion by a true woman, she added, looking up to where a few spotless blossoms shone like silver in the light: "Far away there in the sunshine are my highest .aspirations. I cannot reach them: but I can look upA and see their beauty; believe in them, and try to follow where they lead; remember that frost comes latest to those that bloom thb highest; and keep my beautiful white flowers as long as I can."' "The mush is ready; come to breakfast, children," called Mrs. Sterling, as she crossed the hall with a tea- pot in her hand. Christie's face fell, then she exclaimed laughing: "That's always the way; I never take a poetic flight but in comes the mush, and spoils it all." "Not a bit; and that 's where women are mistaken. Souls and bodies should go on together; and you will find that a hearty breakfast won't spoil the little hymn the morning-glories sung;" and David set her a good example by eating two bowls of hasty-pudding and milk, with the lovely flower in his button-hole. "Now, what are we to do next?" asked Christie, when the usual morning work was finished. "In about ten, minutes thee' will see, I think," an- swered Mrs. Sterling, glancing at the clock, and smiling at the bright expectant look in the younger woman's eyes. She did see; for in less than ten minutes the rumble of an omnibus was heard, a sound of many voices, and 262 WORK. CHRISTIE'S GALA. 263 then the whole Wilkins brood came whooping down the lane. It was good to see Ma Wilkins jog ponder- ously after in full state and festival array; her bonnet trembling with bows, red roses all over her gown, and a parasol of uncommon brilliancy brandished joyfully in her hand. It was better still to see her hug Christie, when the latter emerged, flushed and breathless, from the chaos of arms, legs, and chubby faces in which she was lost for several tumultuous moments; and it was best of all to see the good woman place her cherished "bunnit" in the middle of' the parlor table as a choice and lovely ornament, administer the family pocket- handkerchief all round, and then settle down with a hearty: "Wal, now, Mis Sterlin', you've no idee how tickled we all was when Mr. David came, and told us you was goin' to have a galy here to-day. It was so kind of providential, for 'Lisha was invited out to a day's pleasurin', so I could leave jest as wal as not. The childern's ben hankerin' to come the wust kind, and go plummin' as they did last month, though I told 'em ber- ries was gone weeks ago. I really thought I'd never get 'em here whole, they trained so in that bus. Wash would go on the step, and kep fallin' off; Gusty's hat blew out a winder; them two bad boys tumbled round loose; and dear little Victory set like a lady, only I found she'd got both feet in the basket right atop of the birthday cake, I made a puppose for Christie." "It hasn't hurt it a bit; there was a cloth over it, and I like it all the better for the marks of Totty's little feet, bless 'em!" and Christie cuddled the cul- prit with one hand while she revealed the damaged delicacy with the other, wondering inwardly what evil star was always in the ascendant when Mrs. Wilkins made cake. "Now, my dear, you jest go and have a good frolic with them childern, I'm a goin' to git dinner, and you a goin' to play; so we don't want to see no more of you till the bell rings," said Mrs. Wilkins pinning up her gown, and " shooing" her brood out of the room, which they entirely filled. Catching up her hat Christie obeyed, feeling as much like a child as any of the excited six. The revels that followed no pen can justly record, for Goths and Vandals on the rampage but feebly describes the youth- ful Wilkinses when their spirits effervesced after a month's bottling up in close home quarters. David locked the greenhouse door the instant he saw them; and pervaded the premises generally like a most affable but very watchful policeman, for the rav- ages those innocents committed much afflicted him. Yet he never had the heart to say a word of reproof, when he saw their raptures over dandelions, the relish with which they devoured fruit, and the good it did the little souls and bodies to enjoy unlimited liberty, green grass, and country air, even for a day. Chiistie usually got them into the big meadow as soon as possible, and there let them gambol at will; while she sat on the broken bough of an apple-tree, and watched her flock like an old-fashioned shepherdess. To-day she did so; and when the children were happily sailing boats, tearing to and fro like wild colts, or dis- covering the rustic treasures Nurse Nature lays ready to gladden little hearts and hands, Christie sat idly 264 WORiK. CIIRISTIE'S GALA. 265 making a garland of green brakes, and ruddy sumach leaves ripened before the early frosts had come. David saw her there, and, feeling that he night come off guard for a time, went strolling down to lean upon the wall, and chat in the friendly fhshlion that lhad natu- rally grown up between these fellow-workers. She was waiting for the new supply of ferns little Adelaide was getting for :her by the wall ; and while she waited she sat resting her cheek upon her hand, and smiling to herself, as if she saw some pleasant picture in the green grass at her feet. "Now I wonder what she's thinking about," said David's voice close by, and Christie straightway an- swered: "Philip Fletcher." "And who is he?" asked David, settling his elbow in a comfortable niche between the mossy stones, so that lie could " lean and loaf" at his ease. "The brother of the lady whose children I took care of;" and Christie wished she had thought before she answered that first question, for in telling her adven- tures at different times she had omitted all mention of this gentleman. 6"Tell about him, as the children say: your experi- ences are always interesting, and you look as if this man was uncommonly entertaining in some way," said David, indolently inclined to be amused. s "Qli, dear no, not at all entertaining! invalids seldom are, and he was sick and lazy, conceited and very cross sometimes."Christie's heart rather smote her as she said this, remembering the last look poor Fletcher gave her. A nice man to be sure; but I don't see any thing to smile about," persisted David, who liked reasons for things; a masculine trait often very trying to feminine minds. "I was thinking of a little quarrel we once had. He found out that I had been an actress; for I basely did not mention that fact when I took the place, and so got properly punished for my deceit. I thought he'd tell his sister of course, so I did it myself, and retired from 12 , 266, WORK. the situation as much disgusted with Christie Devon as .you are," 46 Perhaps I ought to be, but I don't find that I am. Do you know I think; that old FClletcher w as a2 sneak?" and Da,%rid looked -as if lie would ratrtler likre to nlention .his opinion to 9htgnlmn I-le probably thoualit he was doing his duty to the children': few people would approve of an actress for a teacher'you know. I-le had seen me play, and reniem-i betied it all of a sudden, and told me of it : that was the' way it; came about, said Christie hastily, feeling that she must get out of the scrape as soon as possible, or she would be driven to tell every thin in justice to Mr. FletcherO "I should like to see you act." "LYou a Quaker, and express such a worldly and dreadful wish?2 " cried Christie, much aniused, and very ,grateful that his, thoughts had taken a new direction. 61 I'm not, and never have been. Mother married out of the sect, and, though she keeps many of her oldi wayJs, always left me free to believe what I ebose. I wear drab because I like it,,and say Ithee' to her because she likes it, andL it is pleasant to bave a little world all our own. I've'been to theatres, but I don't care mile for them. Perhaps I should if I 'd had Fleteber's luck illseeing youeplay." 14 You didn't lose much: I was not a good actress; ,though now and then when. I liked my part I did pretty well they said," answered Christie, modestly. ILWhy didn't you go back after the accident" asked David, who bad heard thAt part of the story. "I felt that it waRI bad for me, and so retired to pri- vate U62'. Cl-RISTI E. S GAL4. 267 'Do you ever regret 'it? ccSometimes when the? restless -fit is on me: but not so often now as I used to do; for on the whole I Id rather be a woman than act a queen." ccGood!i " siaid David, and then added persuasively: Bc1ut you will play for me some time: won't you? I Ive a curl'ious desire to see you do it."I 4C Perhaps I'll try," replied Christie, flatterecd by hit; interest, and not unwilling to 'isplay her little talent. 64Who are you making that for? it's -very pettyy" asked David, who seemed to be in an inquiringg frame of mind that day. cc Any one who wants it. I only do it for the pleasure: always liked pretty thlin s; but, since I have lived among flowers and natural people, I seem to care more than ever for beauty of all kinds, and love to make it if I can without stopping for any reason but the satisfaction." "Tell them, dear, thant if eyes were made for seeing, "Then beauty is its own excuse for being,"'" observed David, wbo bad, a weariness for poetry, and, finding slle liked his sort, quoted to Christie'alm'ost as freely as to himself. 44 Exactly, so look at that and enjoy it," and she. pointed to the child standing knee-deep in graceful ferns, looking as if she grew there, a living buttercup, with her buff frock: off at one pluinp shoulder and her bright hair shining in the sun. Before David could express his admiration, the little picture was spoilt; ior Christie called out, 11 Come, Vic, bring me some more pretties 1. " startling baby so.that sbe lost her balance, and disappeared with a mufnea 268 WORK.. cry, leaving nothing to be seen! but a pair of small con- vulsive shoes, soles uppermost, among the brakes. Da- vid tooks A leap, reversed Vic, and then let her compose ber little feelings by sticking bits of green in all the button-holes of his coat, as be sat on the wall while she stood beside bim in thle safef shelter of his arm. Ypou are very like an Englishmann," said Christie, after watching the pair for a few minutes. I-lowO do you know?" asked David, lookinggsurprised. "T'4here were several in our company, anid I found them- very much alike. Bl1unt; and honest, domestic and kind; hard to get at, but true as steel when once -won; not so brilliazat and, original as Americans, perhaps, but more solid and steadfast. On t'he whole, I think them the manliest men in the'world," answered Ch1·istie, in the decided way young people have of expressing their opinions. 11 You speak as if you had known and studied a great variety of men," said David, feeling that lie need not resent the comparison she had made. 11I have, and it has done me, good. WComen who stand alone in the -world, and have -their own way to make, have a better chance to know men truly than those, who sit safe at home and only see one side of mankind. We lose something; but I think wle gain a great deal that is more valuable than admiration, flat- tery, and the superficial service most men give to our sex. Some one says, I Companionship teaches men and women to know, judge, and treat 'one another justly.' I bBelieve it; for we who are compelled to be follow- workers with men understand and value them more truly than many a belle who' has a dozen lovers sigh- CHRIS TTIE IS GALA. 2699 ing at her fee·t. I see their faults aind follies; but I also see, so much to honor, love, and trust, that I feel as if the world was full of brothers, Yes, as a general rule, inch have been kinder to me tlhal women; and if I wanted a staunch friend I'd choose a man, for they wear better than women, who ask too mucli, and cannot see that friendship -lasts longer if a little respect and reserve go with the love and confidence' Christie had spoken soberly, witi·;h no thougltht of flat. tery or effectt; fbor the memory of many kindnesses bestowed on her by many inch, from roughS1 Joe Butter- field to Mr. Power, gave warmth and emphasis to her words. Tho man sitting oil the wall appreciated the compli- anent to his sex, and proved that be deserved his share of it by taking it exactly as she meant it, and saying heartily : I( like that, Christie, and wish more women thought and spoke as you do." i( f they' had bad my experience they would, and not be ashamed'of it. I am so old now I can say these things and not be misjudgbred; for even some sensible people think this honest sort of fellowship impossible if not irri- proper. I don't, and I never shall, so if I can ever do any thing for you, David, forget that I am a woman and tell me as frecely as if i was a yunerbrthrs "I wish you -*uere!" ('So do I - you'd make a splendid elder brother." '(No, a very bad one. There was,,a sudden sharpness in David's voice that jarred on Christie's ear and3 made her look up quickly, She only caught a, glimpse of his face, and Fiaw that it' 270' WORK. was strangely troubled, as be swung himself over the wall with. little Vi c on - his arm alnd went toward the bouse, saying abruptly - "Baby's sleepy: she must go in." C1·1ristie sat some time· longer, wondering what she had said to disturb bim, and when the bell rang went in still perplexed'. But David looked as usual, and the only trace of disquiet was an occasional basty shakin(Y back of the troublesome lock, and a slight knitting of the brows; two tokens, as she had learned to know, of impatience or pa'in, She was soon so absorbed in feeding the children, hungry and clamorous as young birds for their food, that she foraot every tv ring else. W Mhen dinner was done and cleared away, she devoted herself to Mrs. Wilkin s for an hour or two, while Mrs. Sterling took her nap, -the infants played riotously in the lane, and David was busy with orders, The arrival of 'Mr. Power drew every one to the porch to welcoi-ne him. As he banded Christie a book, he asked with a significantt smile: H ave you found him yet?" She glanced at the title of the new gift, read "H-eroes and Hero-worship," and answered merrily . "No, sir, but I'm looking hard.17 46 Success to your searcb an) ,d Mr. Power turned to greet David, who approached. Now, what shall we play?" asked Christie, as the children gathered about her demanding to be amused. George Washington suggested leap-frogs and the others added equally impracticable requests; but Mrs. Wilkins settled the matter by saying: CHRISTIE IS GAl3' CTLA. 7 (Let 9s have some play-actin9, Christie. That used to tickleo the children amazin'ly, and I was never tired of hearin' them pieces, specially the solemn ones." cc Yes9' yes!i do, the frtnny gilrl with the baby, and thee old woman and the lady that took pison and had fits!i shouted the children, charmed with the idea. Christie@ felt ready for any thing just then, und gave theni Tilly Slowboy, Miss Miggs, and Mrs. Gurnmage, in her best style, while the young folks rolled on the grass in? ecstasies, and Mrs. Wilktins laughed till she cried . ((Now a touch of tragedy!i " saRd Mr. Power, -who -sat under the elm, with David leaning on the back of his chair, both applauding heartily. 44 You insatiable people!i do you expect me to give you low comedy and beavy tragedy all alone? I'm equall to melodrama I think, and I'll give you Miss St. Clazir as Juliet, if you wait a moment." Christie stepped into the house, and soon reappeared with a white table-cloth draped about her, two dishev. elled. locks of hair on her shoulders, and the vinegar eruct in her hand, that beina the first bottle'sbe could find. She meant to burlesqjue the poison scene, and began in the usual ranting way; but she soon forgot St. Clair in poor Juliet, and did it, as she Yad often longed, to do it, with all the power and, ion he possessed, Very faulty was her rendering, b tltaeartnestes she put into it made it most effective to her uncritical audi- ence, Who broughtt dow11 the house," when she f611 upon the grass with her best stage drop, and lay there getting her breath after the mouthful of vinegar she had taken in the excitement of the moment, 272 WORK. She, was up again directly, and, inspired by this superb success, razn 'in and presently reappeared as Lalily Macbeth with Mrs. Wilkrins's scarlet shawl fbr royal robes, and the leafy chaplet of the morning for a crowii. She took the stage with sonie difficulty, for the! uneven- ness of the turf impaired thle maj(_-sty of her tragic, stl'ide, and fixing her eyes on an invisible Thanne (wlio cut his part shamefully, and spoke ill the glu-U&St Of' gruff voices) she gave them. the dagger scene. David as the orchestra, had been ecrforminu a drum solo on the back; of a chairi with twYo of the corn-cobs Victoria had been buildin houses with; but, when Lady Macbeth said, 11Give me the daggers, 1 C rlistie plucked the cobs suddenly from. his hands, looking so fiercely scornful, and lowering upon him so, wrathfully with her corked brows that he ejaculated an involun-- talry, 11 Bless me!" as he stepped back quaite daunted. 1Being in the spirit of her part, Christie closed with the sleep-walking scene, usina -the' table-cloth aaain, while a towel composed the tragic nighttctlp of hler ladyship. This was an imitation, and Ilaving a fine model and being t good mimic, she did well; for the children sat staring with around,, eyes, the gentlemen watched the woful face and gestures intently, (and Mrs. Wilkins took a IOng breath at the end, exclaini- ing 1" never did see the beat of that for 'gastliness My sister Clarissy used to walk in ber sleep, but slle warn't half so kind of dreadful." CIf she had had tthe murder of a fewrfriends on her conscience, I -dare say she would have been," said Chris- tie, going in to make herself tidy. ('Well, how do you like her as an actress? asked CHRzISTIE IS GALAL. 2'13 Mlr. Power of David, who stood looking, as if he still saw and heard the bamnted lady, ((Very much; but better as a woman. I'd no, idea she had it in her; answered David, in a wonder-striicken tolle' 44 Plenty of tragedyl and comedy in all of us," began Mrrl Power; but David said hastily c:Yes, but few of us have passion and imagination enoiiSh to act Shaktspeare in thate way!' "Velry true : Chlristie herself could not give a whole character in that style, and'would not think of trying." -T think she could; and I'd like to see ber try it," saidl David, mlinch impressed by the drai-natic ability Which. Chlristie's usual quietude had most effectually hidden.n He was still tblinkting about it, when she came out (1111in. Mlr. Power beckoned to her, saying, as slie came and stood before him, flushed and kindred with her' efforts ' Now, you niust give me a bit fronm the 'Merchant of Venice!' Portial is a favorite ctlaracter of mine, and I want to see if you can do any thing with it."' "No, sir, I cannot.L I Used to study it, but it was, too sober to suit ine. I ani not a judicial woman, so I gave it tiup,"' answered Christie, inuch flattered by his request, and aniused. at the respectfill way in which David looked at her·. Then, as if it just occurred to, lier shle added, 11I remeniber one little speech that I can say to youc, shl; with greatn truth, and I will, since You like that play." Still sitandingr before hinm, she bent ber head a little, anld with a graceful gesture of the Hands, as if offering 12* R 274 WORK6: something, she delivered with heartfelt emphasis' the first part of PO-1tia's pretty Speech to her fortunatee suitor You see me, Lord BaEssanio, where I stand., Such as I am : though, for myself alone, I would not be ambitious in my wish, To wish myself much better;, yet for you, I would be trebled twenty times myself; A thousand tims more fair, ten thousand timetj more rich; That, only to stand high in your account, I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends, Exceed account: but the fuu sum of me Is sum of something; which, to term in gross, Is an unlesson'd girl, unschooled, unpractis'd:- Happy in this, slie is not yet so old But she may learn; happier than thiis, Slie is not bred so dull but slie can learn EHappiest of all, is that her willing spirit '-Commits itself to yours to be directed, As from her lord,'her governor, her king." David applaadded vigorously; but MI·. Pow Or rose silently, looking both touched and surprised;; and, dll·aw- ing, Christie's hand through bis airm, led ber away into the garden -for one of the quiet talks that were so much to her. When they returned, the Wilkinses were preparingl to depart; ,and, ,after repeatedly leave-t,,ikinffs, finally rrot under way, were ptickedl into tble oninibus, and ruinbled off wi th bats, balnds, and Nindkcrcliiefs wa·wv- ing from every window. Mr. Power· sooii followed ind peace retnrne to the little house in the lane. Later in the evening, when M1·s. Sterlin'( was en- raared w ith a nei bor, wbo bad CODI tocon-fide some CHRIS TIE'S GALA. 275 friction to the good lady, Christie went into the porch, idl found David sittinus on the ste oyingvlr the mel- i w moonlight and cthe baliny ir. As he did -not speak, ic sat dlown silently, folded Iler hands in her lap, and i ,(Y"n to elijoy the, beauty of the night in her owyn wfly. i; presently site beetanio conscious that David's eyes bad j [rned ftoniolz tbe inloon. to herl owrn face. I-lIe sat' in, tbee tade, she in the licrblt, and lie was looking at her with ) Le new expression which amused her. ccLL ) Well, what is it? You look as if you never saw i c before se said, smiling. I feeCl as if I lie, Ver had) he answered, still regard- Sher as if she had been a picture. ·i W TVh:t do I look like?"i ICA peanceful, pious nun, just now2' 11 Oh! that is owincr to my pretty shawl1. I put it on 1 bonor of the day, thoulb. it is' a trifle warm, I con- SS." nd Chr1istie stroked the soft foldts about her boulders, and settled the corner that lay lightly on her tir. I do, feel pearnntcefil tonight, but not pi ous, n afraid I never shaI1rl lnll do ha" s B dded sobeTI ly "Why not? w Tell, it does not seem to be my nature, and I 1 )n't kno,%N how to reliance it. I want something to! ':Ile inl steady, but I can't flnd it. So I whiffle about I tis way and tba\t, and sometimes think. I am a most !cr'1I'n reature."lC.' Thatln is only hunian nature, so don't be troubled. J To are all compasses pointincr due north. W'e get ' taklen often, and the neelel varies in spite of us; but ic ininuteP we are quiett. it poinnts rIight, and we have Iily to follow it." CHR IS TIE'S GALA. 276 WORK. "The keeping quiet is just what I cannot do. Your mother shows me how lovely it is, and I try to imitate it; but this restless soul of mine will ask questions and doubt and fear, and worry me in many ways. What shall I doto keep it still?" asked Christie, smiling, yet earnest. "Let it alone: you cannot force these things, and the best way is to wait till the attraction is strong enough to keep the needle steady. Some people get their ballast slowly, some don't need much, and some have to work hard for theirs." "Did you?" asked Christie; for David's voice fell a little, as he uttered the last words. "I have not got much yet." "I think you have. Why, David, you are always cheerful and contented, good and generous. If tlat is not true piety, what is? "You are very much deceived, and I am sorry for it," said David, with the impatient gesture of the head, and a troubled look. "Prove it!" And Christie looked at him with such sincere respect and regard, that his honest .nature would not let him accept it, though it gratified him much. He made no answer for a minute. Then he said slowly, as if feeling a modest man's hesitation to speak of himself, yet, urged to it by some irresistible im- pulse : "I will prove it if you won't mind the unavoidable egotism; for I cannot let you think me so much better than I am. Outwardly I seem to you 'cheerful, con- tented, generous, and good.' In reality I am sad, dis- satisfied, bad, and selfish: see if I'm not. I often tire of this quiet life, hate my work, and long to break away, and follow my own wild and wilful impulses, no matter where they lead. Nothing keeps. me at such times but my mother and God's patience." David began quietly; but the latter part of this con- fession was made with a sudden impetuosity that startled Christie, so utterly unlike his usual self-control was it. She could only look at him with the surprise she felt. I-is face was in the shadow; but she saw that it was flushed, his eyes excited, and in his voice she heard an undertone that made it sternly self-accusing. "I am not a hypocrite," he went on rapidly, as if driven to speak in spite of himself. "I try to be what I seem, but it is too hard sometimes and I despair. Espe- cially hard is it to feel that I have learned to feign happiness so well that others are entirely deceived. Mr. Power and mother know me as I am: other friends I have not, unless you will let me call you one. Whether you do or not after this, I respect you too much to let you delude yourself about my virtues, so I tell you the truth and abide the consequences." IIe looked up at her as he paused, with a curious mixture of pride and humility in his face, and squared his broad shoulders as if lie had thrown off a burden, that had much oppressed him. Christie offered him her hand, saying in a tone that did his heart good: "The consequences are that I respect, admire, and trust you more than ever, and feel proud to be your friend." David gave the hand a strong and grateful pressure, said, "Thank you," in a moved tone, and then leaned ?-Y-. - . -.-- - --.,-, -c lll*lc- ·----I;------ --- I --- r . -- . I' CIIIRS TIE'S GALA. 279 back into the shadow, as if trying to recover from tllis unusual burst of confidence, won firom him by the soft magic of time, place, and companionship. Fearing he would regret tle glimpse lie hlad given her, and anxious to show how much slie liked it, Chris- tie talked on to give himl time to regain composure. "I always thought in reading the lives of saints or good men of any time, that their struggles were the most interesting and helpful things recorded. Human imperfection only seems to make real piety more possi- ble, and to me more beautiful; for where others have conquered I can conquer, having suffered as they suffer, and seen their hard-won success. That is the sort of religion I want; something to hold by, live in, and enjoy, if I can only get it." "I know you will." He said it heartily, and seemed quite calm again; so Christie obeyed the instinct which told her that questions would be good for David, and that he was in the mood for answering them. "May I ask you something," she began a little timidly. "Any thing, Christie," he answered instantly. "That is a rash promise: I am a woman, and there- fore curious; what shall you do if I take advantage of the privilege?" "Try and see." "I will be discreet, and only ask one thing," she replied, charmed with her success. "You said just now tlat you had learned to feign happiness. I wish you would tell me how you do it, for it is such an excellent imitation I shall be quite content with it till I can learn the genuine thing." David fingered the troublesome forelock thought- fidly for a moment, then said, with something of the former impetuosity coming back. into his voice and manner: "I will tell you all about it; that's the best way: I know I shall some day because I can't help ,it; so I may as well have done with it now, since I have begun.. It is not interesting, mind you, - only a grim little history of one man's fight with the world, the flesh, and the devil: will you have it?" "Oh, yes!" answered Christie, so eagerly that David laughed, in spite of the bitter memories stirring at his heart. "So like a woman, always ready to hear and forgive sinners," lie said, then' took a long breath, and added rapidly "I'1 put it in as few words as possible and much good may it do you. Some years ago I was desperately miserable ; never mind why: I dare say I shall tell you all about it some day if I go on at this rate. Well, being miserable, as I say, every thing looked black and bad to me: I halted all men, distrusted all women, doubted the existence of God, and was a forlorn wretch generally. Why I did not go to the devil I can't say: I did start once or twice; but the thought of that dear old woman in there sitting all alone and waiting for me dragged me back, and kept me here till the first reck- lessness was over. People talk about duty being sweet; I have not found it so, but there it was: I should have been a brute to shirk it; so I took it up, and held on desperately till it grew bearable." "It has grown sweet now, David, I am sure," said Christie, very low. 280 W6RIC. "No, not yet," he answered with the stern honesty that would not let him deceive himself or others, cost what it might to be true. 11There is a celstnin solid salt- isfaction in it thht I did not use to find. It is not a more dogged per sisters now, as it one(, was, and that is a step towards loving it perhapss" Ile spoke, half to himself, and sat leanincr his ]read on both bands propped on his knees, looking down ,is if the wveigrht of the old trouble beat his shoulders again.IIII 11 Wbaht more, David??" said. Chr·istie. "Only this. WThen I fbund I bad crot to live, and live manfully, I said to myself, II must leave help or I cannot do it.' TSo UO living soul -could I tell my grief, not even to my mother, for she had her own to bear: no human being could help me, yet I must have belp or give up shamefully. Then I did whant others do Wihen all else fails to sustain them; I turned to God: not humbly, not devoutly or trustfully, but doubtfully, bitterly, and rebelliously; for I said in my despairing beart, I If there is a God, let)i Him Ilelp me, and I will believe? Ile did help me, and I kept mly word." Oh, David, how?" whispelred Chlristie after a irno- ment's silence, for the last -wordcs were solenin in their earnestness. The help did not come at once'. No miracle answered me, and I thougllt my cry had not been beard. Bunt it bad, and slowly something like submission came to me. lt was not cheerful nor pio-us : it wasS only a dumb, slid sort of patience Without hope or faitb. It was better than desperation, ; so I accepted it, and bore the inevi- table as well as-fcould. Presently, courage seemed to CHIRISTIE-i S GALA. 281 sprig upagain: I w ahmd to be beaten in the first battle, and some sort of blind hv-itinct made me long to break awavy from the 'ast and begin again. My fatllher was, dead; niotber left all to nie, and followed where I le.I sold the old place, bought this, and, sbuttinu O11t the world as much as I could, I fell to work as if my life depended on it. That was five or six ,years acro: and for a longs time I delved away without interest or pleasure, merely as a safety-valve for my energies, and a means of livincr·; for I gave up all my earlier hopes and plans when the trouble caane. 64 I did not love my work; 'but it was good for me, and- helped cure my sick soul. I never guessed why I felt better, but dug on with indifferecnce first, then felt pri4,e in my garden, then ratec rest iii the Plants I tended, and by and by I saw whatt they Ilad done for me, and loved them like true fr'lends2' A broad woodbine leaf bad been fluttering against David's bead, as lie leaned on the slender pillar of the porch where' it grew. Now, as if involuntarily, lie laid, bris clleck against it with a caressing gesture, and sat looking over the garden lying dcewy adsili h moonlicrht, witb thle grateffil look of a man who has learned3 the hearing miracles of Nature and how near slic is to God. c4 Mr.. Powerr helped you: didn't be?" said Christie, longing to hear more. 44 So much!i I never can tell you what be was to me, 11or how I think him. To him, alldJ to my work I owe the little I have won in the way of strength and com- fort after years of effort. I see now the compensation that comes out of trouble, the lovely possibilities that 282 WORKXTL exist, for all of us, and the infinite patience of God, which is to rae one of the greatest of His divine attli-i butes. I have only got so far·, but things grow\ easier as one goes on; anrd if I keel) tuicr lcv IItn yet be thee cheerful, contended nian I sccen. T114dat is anll, Clitc and a loncrer stoi- flilaLii I meantl to tell." "Not loiig enotiah: sonic -time, you will I-ell ine moma perhaps, si1-1c· yorr have onlnce becnrun. - It seelnis quite, natural now, andc I am so pleased and hlonored by your confidencec. Bnlt I cannot. help wonderincnr what Iladc you do it a ll at once," said Cbristic p1·esently, after they bad listened to a whippoorwill, and watched the flight of a dlowny owl. "I do not think I quite know myself, unless it w as because I have been on my good behavior since Y- oil came, and, being a humbug, as I tell you, was forced to unmask in spite of myself. There are limits to bunian endurance, and the proudestnt man Aoncrs to unpack his woes before a sympathizin friend now and then. I have been longing to, do this for sonic time ; but I never like to dlistulrb mother's peace, or takre Mr. Powecr fr1om those who need Min more. So to-day, when you so sweetly offei,-ed to heclp me if you could, it quite went to my beart, and seemed so 11-iondlly and comfortable, I couldl not resist tryinanr it to- night, when you began about nmy imaginanry virtues. That is the truth, I believe: now, what sliall we do about; it?? Junst (Yo on, and do it again whenever you feel like it. I know what loneliness is, and how telling wolrries often cures them. I meant ever word. I said this inorning, and will prove it by doing anySn thingr in the C11111 IS 7 7E IS G.A LA. .ol I can for rii. Believe this, and let me be your fi'iendl." They had risen, as a stir within told them the guest AV ,is goincr; and as CllliRitie spolic sho was look-incr up Nitli the nioolioit fill upon ber facee. If' tlere badi been any hidden purplose in her mind, aiiy flllsC sentiiljjitent, or tracec of coquetlry in her Daninel it would have spoiled that licarty little spececll others. But in her bleart was notbincr but aL sincere desire to pi-oii-c cri-titudo ald offer sympatlly; in her manner tile gentle fnanknenss of a woman spe'aking to a brother; andin ier Oc the earnestness of' one who fel h valuel, of friendship, and did not ask: or give it lightly. 61 I will, was David's emphatic answer, and then, as if to seal the ballgarin, be stooped down, and gravely kissed ber on the foirehead. Cliristie was a little startled, but neither offended nor Confusedd for there was no love in that quiet kiss, only resj,)et, affction, and inuel gratitude ; an involuntary demonstration from the lonely man to the true-bearted woman who band dared to come and comfort him. Olxt trotted neighbor MCiller and that was the end of ;cnidences in the porch ; but David plot eldoul Oil bis,flute that nighlt, and Christie fell asleep saying Ilappily to Ilerself: (Now we are all ribt, friends for ever, and every thing will go beautifully." CHAIAPTER X111. WAKIING UP. ICITTY. EVERY thing did 'Lggo Beauntifully" for a th-ne; so much so, that Christie began to think she really h7ad 11 got religion."A delightful peace pervaded her soul, a new interest made the dullest task agfreea- ble, and life grew so inexpressibly sweet that she felt as if she could forgave all ber enemies, love her friends more than ever, and do any thing great, good, or gloriess She bad known such moods bef-ore, but, they had never lasted long, and were not so intense as this; therefore, sbe was sure some blessed power bad come to uphold and cheer her. Sbe sang, like a lark 'as she WAKINrG UP. . 285 swept and dusted;cc thought hi,(,h andr happy thougahts, amog te pts ndkettles, and, when she sat sewing smiled unconsciously as if sorme deep satisffzction made sminshine from within. Heart and soul seemed to wake u7p ann rejoice as naturally and beautifully as flowers in the spring. A soft brightness shone in her eyes, a Roller tone sounded in her voice, and her face glrew young7 and blooming with the happiness. that trans- fignr's all1 it touches. "Christie's growing handsome,"David would say to his mother, as if sine was a flower in which he took pride. 11 Thee is a good gardener, D,,-i-V," the old lady would reply, and when be was busy would watch him with q tender sort o't, f anxiety, as if to discover ar · n like chahnnge in B3ut no alteration appealred, except more cheerfillness and less silence; for now there was no need to hide h;is real self, and all tlhe sociall virtues in him came out delicyl-Afthlly after their long solitude. Nn her present uplifted state, Christie could no more , belp regarding David as a martyr and admiring him for it, than she could help mixing sentiment with here sympathy. By the light of the late confessions, his life and character lookedi very different to her now. His apparent contentment was resignation; his cheerfulness, at manly contempt for complaint; his reserve, the modest Ireticence of one! who, ]Iaving done a hard duty well, desires no praise for it;. Like all enthusiastic per- .Sons, Christie bad a hearty admiiration for self-sacrifice and self-control; and, while she learned to see, David's virtues, she also exaggerated them, and could not do 286 JWORK. enough to show the daily increasing esteem and respect she felt for him, and to atone for the injustice she once did him. She grubbed in the garden and green-house, and learned hard botanical nlnes that sle might be able to talk intelligently upon subjects that interested her conl- rade. Then, as autumn ended out-of-door work, sllo tried to make home more comfortable and attractive than ever. David's room was her especial care ; for now to her there was something pathetic in the place and its poor furnishing. He had fought many a silent battle there; won many a secret victory; and tried to cheer his soli- tude with the best thoughts the minds of the bravest, wisest men could give him. She did not smile at the dilapidated idols now, but touched them tenderly, and let no dust obscure their well-beloved faces. 'She set the books in order daily, taking many a sip of refreshment from them by the way, and respectfully regarded those in unkn- wn tongues, full of admiration for David's learning. She covered the irruptive sofa neatly; saw that the little vase was always clear and freshly filled; cared for the nursery in the gable-window; and preserved an exqui- site neatness everywhere, which delighted the soul of the room's order-loving occupant. She also - alas, for romance! - cooked the dishes David loved, and liked to see him enjoy them with the appetite which once had shocked her so. She watched over his buttons with a vigilance that would have softened the heart of the crustiest bachelor: she even gave herself the complexion of a lemon by wearing * I WAKING UP. 287 blue, because David liked the pretty contrast with his mother's drabs. After recording that last fact, it is unnecessary to ex- plain what was the matter with Christie. She honestly thought slle had got religion; but it was piety's twil- sister, who produced this wonderful revival in her soul; and though she began in all good faith she presently discovered that she was "Not the first maiden Who came but for friendship, And took away love." After the birthnight confessions, David found it easier to go on with the humdrum life he had chosen from a sense of duty; for now he felt as if he had not only a fellow-worker, but a comrade and friend who un- derstood, sympathized with, and encouraged him by an interest and good-will inexpressibly comfortable and inspiring. Nothing disturbed the charm of the new league in those early days; for Christie was thoroughly simple and sincere, and did her womanly work with no thought of reward or love or admiration. David saw this, and felt it more attractive than any gift of beauty or fascination of manner would have been. HIe had no desire to be a lover, having forbidden himself that hope; but lie found it so easy and pleasant to be a friend that he reproached himself for not trying it before; and explained his neglect by the fact that Christie was not an ordinary woman, since none of all the many he had known and helped, had ever been any thing to him but objects of pity and protection. Mrs. Sterling saw these changes with her wise, t. I WAKING UP. O0 C/tOWORK. motherly eyes, but said nothing; for she inflnence d others by the silent power of character. Speakirga little, and unusucally gifted with the meditative habits of age, she seemed t'o live in a more peaceful world than this. As George MacDonald somewhecle says, 46 Her soul seemed to sit apart in a surlny little, r'001n Safe from dust and noise, serenely reganrdingr passerssby through the clear muslin curtains of her windows." YTet, she was neither cold nor careless, stern Ilor sel- fisb, but ready to share aill the joys and sorrows of tbos'e about her; and when advice was asked she gave it gladly. Chr1istie had won hel· heart lonor ago, and now was as devoted as a'dati(Aiter to her; ligrhteningr er cares so skilfully that many of themr slipped natu- ally on to the yonna shoulders, and left the old ladyy miich time for rest, or the lighter tasks fitted for feeble hands. Christie often called her 11Motber ," a0 kiclt herself rewarded for the hardest, humblest job she ever did when the sweet old voice said glratcfully, "I tliq.Dk .thee, daughterr" Things were in this prosperous, not to say paradi- siacal, state, when one member of the family begann to make discoveries of an alarming nature. The first was that the Sunday pilgrimages to church were seasons of C)"reat refreshment to soul and body when David event also, and utter failures if he did not. Nekt, that the restless ambitions of all sorts were quite gone; for now Christie's mission seemed to b5e Sittingginaq cuiet corner and making shifts 'in the most exquisite marinncl; wllile thinking. about - well, say botany, or any kindred sub- jecL; Thirdly, that home was woman's sphere after all, and the perfect roasting of beef, brewing of tea, and concocting of delectable puddings, an end worth living for· if niazsculine commeendation rewarded the labor* FIourthlly' and worst of all, she discovered that she W,118 rot; satisfied with half confidences, and quite pined toktiow allaboutls' David's trouble."The little needle. bookk with the faded "Letty" on it haunted her; and wheat, after a pleasant evening below, she heard hini pace his roora. fbr hours, or play melancholy airs upon the flute, she, was jealous of that unknown woman who had suctl power to disturb his peace, and felt a strong dlesire to sr4as8h the musicalC8 confidante into whose r·e- sponsive breast lie pouredc his woe. At this point Chlristie paused; and, after evading any exp'lanation of these phenomena in the most skilful innner fir a time, suddenly faced the ffact, sayings to hclrsclf with great candor and decision: "I know what all1 tlhis means: I'm beginning to likre David more than is good for me. I see this clearly, and won't dodge any longer, but put a stop to it at once. Of course I can if I choose, and now is the time to do it; for I understand myself perfectly, and if I reacll a certain point it is all over with me. That point I will not reach: David's heart is in that Letty's grave., and he only cares for kme as a firiend. I promisetl to be one to hlim, and I'll keep my word like ani honest- woman. It may not be easy; but all the sacrifices shatll not be his, and I: won't be a fool." With praiseworthy resolution Christiic set about the reformation without delay; not an easy task and one thaht taxcc2 all her wit aznd wvisdom to execcute with 'ut betraying the Inotive for it. She decided that Airs., Sterling' nust not be left alone oil Sunday, so the young 13 I I I 290 I V Pi K )eople, took: turnsl to go to CI1IPCI, and sSuch dismal fi'ilps . Mristie badt never knoNnrn; fbr all hier Sunllays were badc weather, and Mr. Power seemed to hit on unusnullly ininterestinsr texts. She talked while sbe s(-,)wd instead of indu]gn inl lalngerous thoughts, andc Mrs.. Sterlincr was surp1·isedi nd entertained bvy tilis new loqlnacity. In the evcenf he read and Studied witi a diligenceC that a: mazed n ( 111d ,ather· discrusted David; since shle kecpt all her lively -hat for Iris n-other, and pored over hler books irlien lie vranted lier f r other tbin:ys. Fnim tryini r to brighten up my wits,";·I' sbo said, andlc vent on tryincr to- stifle ber afectiolls. But though (( the absurdcity," as shle calledi the new evelaltion, was stopl'ed e'xtern, Ilyl, it colltinuedl withl edoubled vicror internally. Eahndt h fi aust be conquered," yet etach morliilS it 'rose fair andlt trongnc to make t e lig JSlt and beauty of ber day, andl onquer ber again. She did her best and bravest;, butt ras forced at last to ow'n that she could not 11 put a top to it," becaiise sbe bad already reachllcc the point There 11 it was all over with her·." Just at this clritical Tno-nent an event occurred NMrbicli completed Christie's dereat, ajid rnade ler feel thatf her n'ly safety bay in fli(Ait. One evening slie sat stunilyincrr ferns, and herloicllly ,tying over andc over, 11Andianturn n Aspidium, an3l. Lsplenium, Tr·ichomanes," while longing to go andl tall efightfully to David, who sat musing by tbe flre. "Ican't gor on so match loncrer," she tboucylit despair-- Igly. "Polypo(Iitim :anreum, a native of Florida 1" 11 very interesting in its place;'lbut it doesn't lielp m WA KING UP. 291 to gain self-control a bit, and I sball disgrace myself if something doesn't happen very soon*)7 Sometbinu did happen almost instantly - fqr as she shut tho cover shalrply on the poor Polypods, a khock was heardl, and before Dazvid3 could answer it the door flew open and a girl raniDn. Stlraight to hint she went, and Clingincy tO his arm said excitedly: O11, do takle care of me : I've run away again!i Whly, Kitty, what 7s the matter now? asked David, putting back hel· ]ioodl, and looking down at her with the paterdal expression Christie had not seen for a long time, and missed very much. 44 F ther found nie and took me home, andE wanted Mle to marry a dread-fal man, and I wouldn't, so l ydn away to you. I-e didn't know I came ]lere before, and I'm safe if you'll let me stay," cried Kitty, Still Cling- hig and imploring. 14Of course I will, and glad to sloe you back again, answered David, addincr pitifully, as be put her in his easy-chair, took her cloak and hood off and stood strok- iiigp her surly hair: L'Poor little giH I it is hard to have to run awayy so inuch : isn't it?"" Not if I come 2here ; it '8 so pleasant I'd like to stay all in life," and - Kitty took a long breath, as if her troubles were'over-now. "Whos that?" she asked suddenly as -her eye fell on Christie, who siat watching Iler witli interests : "That; is our good friend Miss DevoD. Slie came to take your place, alnd we got so fond of her we could not let her go," answered Dalvid with a gresture af introduction, quite unconscious that his position jitst then wvas about as safe andli pleasant as that of 292 WORK. a man between a lighted candle and an open pow- der barrel. The tvo young women nodded to each other, took a swift survey, and made up their minds before David had poked the fire. Christie saw a pretty face with rosy cheeks, blue eyes, and brown rings of hair lying on the smooth, low forehead; a young face, but not childlike, for it was conscious of its own prettiness, and betrayed the fact by little airs and graces that reminded one of a coquettish kitten. Short and slender, she looked more youthful than she was; while a gay dress, with gilt ear-rings, locket at the throat, and a cherry ribbon in her hair made her a bright little figure in that plain room. Christie suddenly felt as if ten years had been added to her age, as she eyed the new-comerl, who leaned back in the great chair talking to David, who stood on the rug, evidently finding it pleasanter to look at the vi- vacious face before him than at the fire. "Just the pretty, lively sort of girl sensible men often marry, and then discover how silly they are," thought Christie, taking up her work and assuming an indifferent air. "She's a lady and nice looking, but I know I shan't like her," was Kitty's decision, as she turned away and devoted herself to David, hoping he would perceive how much she had improved and admire her accord- ingly. "So you don't want to marry this Miles because he is not handsome. You 'd better think again before you make up your mind. HIe is respectable, well off, and fond of you, it seems. Why not try it, Kitty? You WAKING, UP. g93 need some one to take care of you sadly,"David said, wlien her story had been told. "If father plagues me much I may take the man; but I'd ratller have the other one if lie wasn't poor," answered Kitty with a side-long glance of the blue eyes, and a conscious smile on the red lips. "01, there's' another lover, is there?" "Lots of 'cm." David. laughed and looked at Christie as if inviting her to be amused with the freaks and prattle of a child. But Clhiistie sewed away without a sign of interest. "That won't do, Kitty: you are too young for much of such nonsense. I shall keep you here a while, and see if we can't settle matters both wisely and pleas- antly," he said, shaking his head as sagely as a grand- father. "I'm sure I wisi you would: I love to stay here, you are always so good to me. I'm in no hurry to be married; and you won't make me: will you?" Kitty rose as she spoke, and stood before him with a beseeching little gesture, and a confiding air quite cap- tivating to behold. Christie was suddenly seized with a strong desire to shake the girl and call her an " artful little hussy," but crushed this, unaccountable impulse, and hemmed a pocket-handkerchief with reckless rapidity, while she stole covert glances at the tableau by the fire. David put his finger under Kitty's round chin, and lifting her face looked into it, trying to discover if slhe really cared for this suitor who seemed so provi- dentially provided for her. Kitty smiled and blushed, and dimpled under that grave look so prettily that it WORK. soon changed, and David let her go, saying indul- gently: "You shall not be troubled, for you are only a child after all. Let the lovers go, and stay and play with me, for I've been rather lonely lately." "That's a reproach for me," thought' Christie, long- ing to cry out: No, no; send the girl away and let me be all in all to you." But she only turned up the lamp and pretended to be looking for a spool, while her heart ached and her eyes were too dim for seeing. "I'm too old to play, but I 'll stay and tease you as I used to, if Miles don't come and carry me off as lie said he would," answered Kitty, with a toss of the head which showed she was not so childlike as David fancied. But the next minute she was sitting on a stool at his feet petting tlle cat, while she told her ad- ventures with girlish volubility. Christie could not bear to sit and look on any longer, so she'left the room, saying she would see if Mrs. Ster- ling wanted any thing, for the old lady kelt her room with a touch of rheumatism. As she shut the door, Christie heard Kitty say softly: "Now we'll be comfortable as we used to be: won't we?" What David answered Christie did not stay to hear, but went into the kitchen, and had her first pang of' jealousy out alone, while she beat up the buckwheats for breakfast with an energy that made them miracles of lightness on the morrow. When she told Mrs. Sterling of the new arrival, the placid little lady gave a cluck of regret and said with unusual emphasis: . mm IWA KING UP. 295 "I 'Im sorry for it." "Why?" asked Christie, feeling as if she could em- brace the speaker for the words. "She is a giddy little thing, and much care to who- ever befriends her." Mrs. Sterling would say no more, but, as Christie bade her good-nigllt, she held her hand, saying with a kiss: "No one will take thy place with me, my daughter." I lFor a week Christie suffered constant pin-pricks of jealousy, despising herself all the time, and trying to be friendly with the disturber of her peace. As if prompted by an evil spirit, Kitty unconsciously tried and tormented her from morning to night, and no one saw or guessed it unless Mrs. Sterling's motherly heart divined the truth. DI)vid seemed to enjoy the girl's lively chat, her openly expressed affection, and the fresh young face that always brightened when he came. Presently, however, Christie saw a change in him, and suspected tlat he had discovered that Kitty was a child no longer, but a young girl with her head full of love and lovers. The blue eyes grew shy, the pretty face grew eloquent with blushes now and then, as he looked at it, and the lively tongue faltered sometimes in speaking to him. A thousand little coquetries were played off for his benefit, and frequent appeals for advice in her heart affairs kept tender subjects upper- most in their conversations. At first; all this seemed to amuse David as much as if Kitty were a small child playing at sweethearts; but soon his manner changed, growing respectful, and a little cool when Kitty was most confiding. I-e no longer laughed about Miles, stopped calling her "little 296 WORK. girl," and dropped his paternal ways as he had done with Christie. By many indescribable but significant signs he showed that he considered Kitty a woman now and treated her as such, being all the more scru- pulous in the respect he paid her, because she was so unprotected, and so wanting in the natural dignity and refinement which are a woman's best protection. Christie admired him for this, but saw in it the beginning of a tenderer feeling than pity, and felt each day that she was one too many now. Kitty was puzzled and piqued by these cllanges, and being a born flirt tried all her powers on David, veiled under guileless girlishness. She was very pretty, very charming, and at times most lovable and sweet when all that was best in her shallow little heart was touched. But it was evident to all that her early acquaintance with the hard and sordid side of life had brushed the bloom from her nature, and filled her mind with thoughts and feelings unfitted to her years. 'Mrs. Sterling was very kind to her, but never treated her as she did Christie; and though not a word was spoken between them the elder women knew that they quite agreed in their opinion of Kitty. She evidently was rather afraid of the old lady, who said so little and, saw so much. Christie also she shunned without ap- pearing to doso, and when alone with her put on airs that half amused, half irritated the other. "David is my friend, and I don't care for any one else," her manner said as plainly as words; and to him she devoted herself so entirely, and apparently so suc- cessfilly, that Christie made up her mind he had at last begun to forget his Letty, and think of filling the void her loss had left. WAKING UP. 297 A few words which she accidentally overheard con- firmed this idea, and showed her what she must do. As she came quietly in one evening from a stroll in the lane, and stood taking off cloak and hood, she caught a glimpse through the half-open parlor door of David pacing to and fio with a curiously excited expression on his face, and heard Mrs. Sterling say with unusual warm th: "Thee is too hard upon thyself, Davy. Forget the past and be happy as other men are. Thee has atoned for thy fault long ago, so let me see thee at peace before I die, ny son." "Not yet, mother, not yet. I have no right to hope or ask for any woman's love till I am worthier of it," answered David in a tone that thrilled Christie's heart: it was so full of love and longing. Here Kitty came running in from the green-house with her hands full of flowers, and passing Christie, who was fumbling among the cloaks in the passage, she went to show David some new blossom. He had no time to alter the expression of his face for its usual grave serenity: Kitty saw the change at once, and spoke of it with her accustomed want of tact. "How handsome you look! What are you thinking about?" she said, gazing up at him with her own eyes bright with wonder, and her cheeks glowing with the delicate carmine of the frosty air. "I am thinking that you look more like a rose than ever" answered David turning her attention from him- self by a compliment, and beginning to admire the 13* , V WORK. 299 WA K IN T.G UP. flowers, still with that flushed and kindled look on Iiis own face. Chr·istie crept upstairls, and, sitting iti tie darki, decidedd witli the firrnness of despair to go ;2;1', Icfsle hol boetray the secret that possessed lier, a dead bope nowv, but still too dear to be concecaled. Mr.l· Power told me to come to hini when I crot, tiredi of this. I'll say I amt tilrcd and try something else, no matter what: I can bear any thincrr,.but to stand quietly by and see David marry that empty-heartedc girl, irio dares to sl-ow thalC slle desirecs to will hiln. Out of sicrht of all this, I can conquer my love, at least bide 'it; but if I stay I know I shall betray myself inl some bit- ter minute, and I'd rather die theirl do thalt.') Armed with this resolution, Chriistie went the next .day to Mr.1· Powel·, and simply said: "I ani not ' neeled cc Entirely, sir. 'Where 5ball. I live?" asked Christie, ·with an expression of relief that said much. tc Herele for the present. I warnt a secretary to put my paper's in order, write sonle of mly letters, and do a thousand things to Ilelp a busy man. My old house- keeper likes you, and will let you take a duster now and then if you don't find enough other work to do. Whelln can you come?" Christie alnswelred witll a long breath of satisfaction: "'To-morrowW if youl like." "I do: can you be, spared. so soon?" cc 01h, 'es!i they don't want me now at all, or I would not; leave them. Kitty can take my place: she. needs n-otcction. more tllan I; and thelre is not roo011 for two." Slio, cliecked herself tllere', conscious that a tone of bitternecss hadcl crept. into lier voice. Tlien qulite steadily 300 WORKm 301 WA KIN G UP. his hand an instant, as if she clung to it sure of succor and support. IThen she went bome so pale and quiet; so helpful, pastient, and affectutionate, that Mrs. Sterling wateliedi hier -anxiously; DDavid lookedl alnazed ;: lnd even. self- .absorbed Kiitty saw the cleange n a uhc .by it. On the morrow, Mr·. ,Power's note came, and Christie, fled upstairs while' it wats read and discussed. 411f I get througll this painti1g without disgralcing myself, I don't calre what happens to me afterward," slie said; -and, in order that she I might do so, she assumed a cheerful air;' and deteri-ined to'departt with all1 the honors of wa'r, if she died in the attempt. So, when Mrs. Sterling called her down, she went bummingr into the par ol, smiled as sire read the note silently given her, and then said witli are effort g1·eater than any she hazd ever made in her most arduous part on the stages "Yes, I did say to Mr. Power that I thouglht I'd better be moving on. F.m a restless creatu;re -cs yo'U( know; and, now that you don't need me, I've a fiaincy to see more of the world. If you want me back again in the spi-ing, -I'll come.17 11I shall want thee, rny dear, but will not say a wordl to keep thee now, for thee does Deed a change, and Mr. Power can, 'ive thee work better suited to thy taste than any here. We shall see thee sometimes, and spring will make thee long for the flowers, I hope," was Mrs. Sterling's answel·, as Christie gave back the tinote at the end of her difficult speech, "Don't,· tbink me ungrat(:,ffl. I have been velry 11IP er'adnee hllfre how motherly ktincl you have been to me. YUou will bSelieve this and love e. still thougll I go awayy and leave you for a little! while?" prayed Cliristiei, with a face fulml of treacherous -emotion. Mrs. Sterling laid lier hand on Christie's head, as she k Inelt down impulsively before her·, and with a soft so. lemnity that made thre wordss both an assuranceandi a b -lessing, sI1 said: 64 I believe and love and honor thee, my child. My be-ajrt waxined. to thee from. the first: it has taken thee to itselfll now; and no thincr · can ever Come between us, unless thee wills it. Remembe that, and go inl peace"C with an old friend's thanks, and good wishes ..in return for. faithful, service, which no moneycann repay." Cllristie laid her cheek ,against that wrinkled one, and, for a2 moment, was hold close to that peaceful old heart whlich felt so tenderly for ber, yet never wounded her by a word of pity. lnnitely comfolrting; was that little instant of time, when the venerable womann consoled the youngnnr one with a touch, and strengthened her by the mute eloquence of'sympathy. This made the hardest; talsk of all easier to perform; and, when David met her in the evening, Christie was ready to play out her part, feeling that Mrs. Sterling wo-ftld help her, if need be. But David took it very ;quietly; at least, he showedn n To very poignant regretAt at her departure, thonfih he lamented it, and hoped 'it would not -be a very long absence. This wounded Christie terribly; for all of a sudden a barrier seemed to rise between them, and the old- friendliness (View chiffled* WORK. "He thinks I am ungrateful, and is offended," sll said to herself. "Well, I can bear coldness better than kindness now, and it will make it easier to go." Kitty was pleased at the prospect of reigning alone, and did not disguise her satisfaction; so Christie's last day was any thing but pleasant. Mr. Power would send for her on the morrow, and she busied herself in packing her own possessions, setting every thing in order, and making various little arrangements for Mrs. Sterling's comfort, as Kitty was a heedless creature; willing enough, but very folgetful. In the evening some neighbors came in; so that dangerous time was safely passed, and Christie escaped to her own room with her usual quiet good-night all rounl. "We won't have any sentimental demonstrations; no wailing, or tender adienx. ' If I'm weak enough to break my heart, no one need know it, - least of all, that little fool," thought Christie, glimly, as she burnt up several long-cherished relics of her love. She was up early, and went about her usual work with the sad pleasure with which one performs a task for the last time. Lazy little Kitty never appeared till the bell rang; and Christie was fond of that early hour, busy though it was, for David was always before her with blazing fires; and, while she got breakfLt, lie came and werit with wood and water, milk and market- ing; often stopping to talk, and always in his happiest mood. The first snow-fall had made the world wonderfully lovely that morning; and Christie stood at the window admiring. the bridal look of the earth, as it lay daz- zlingly white in the early sunshine. The little parlor WAKING UP. 303 was fresli and clean, with no speck of dust anywhere; thle lire burned on the bright andirons; the flowers were rejoicing in their morning bath; and tlhe table was set out with dainty care. So homelike, so pleas- ailt, so very dear to her, that Christie yearned to stay, yet dared not, and had barely time to steady face and voice, when David came in with the little posies lie always had ready for his mother and Christie at break- fast time. Only a flower by their plates; but it meant much to them: for, in these lives of ours, tender little acts do more to bind hearts together than great deeds or heroic words; since the first are like the dear daily bread that none can live without; the latter but occa- sional feasts, beautiful and memorable, but not possible to all. This morning David laid a sprig of sweet-scented balm at his mother's place, two or three rosy daisies at Kitty's, and a bunch 'of Christie's favorite violets at hers. She smiled as her eye went from the scentless daisies, so pertly pretty, to her own posy full of perfume, and the half sad, half sweet associations that haunt these blue-eyed flowers. "I wanted pansies for you, but not one would bloqm; so I did the next best, since you don't like roses," said D)avid, as Christie stood looking at the violets with a thoughtful facc, for somethlilg il the peculiarly grace- fill arrangement of the heart-shaped leaves recalled another nosegay to her mind. "I like these very much, because they came to me in the beginning of this, the happiest year of my life;" 1and scarcely knowing why, except that it was very sweet to talk with David in the early sunshine, she told about O4 WliORK. .ie flowers some one had given her at church. As she nished she looked up ait him; and, though his face was W erfee'ltly grave'his e es laugInhlOebd, and with a'udden con- b iction of tlic truth, Christie exclaimed! c Datvid, I do believe it was you 1. 1- "I couldn't help it: you seemed so touclled andt doubled. I longed to speak to you, but didn't dare, so ropped the flowers and got away as fast as possible. )id you think it; very rude?3 ,44I thought it the sweetest thing that ever happened ,me. Tiiat was my first stop along a road that you ave strewn with flowers ever since. 1' Can't thalnk ou, but I never shall forget it."Christie spoke, out 11rvently, and for an'instant her heart shone in her· tce. Then she checked herself, and, fearing she had iidltoo much, fell to SliCing bread with an energetic I;;r Tx;h Ipnrt.p n .I 'Inrr.T1nrr t rapidity whic resulted ina cut finger.Droppinrr th nife, she tried to get her handkerchief, but the blood owed fast, and the pain of a deep gash made her a ttle'faint. David sprung to blelp her,. tied -up tlio lound, put her· in the bicr chair, held water to her lips, ad bathed her temples with a wet napkin - silently, but ) tenderly, that it was almost too much f'or poor For one happy moment her head lay on his arm, and Is han-A brushed back ber· hair with a touch that was a iress: she heard Mis heart beat fast with anxiety; felt Is breath on her che ek, and wished that she mi lit die ien and theree though a bread-knifc ·was not a rornan- c weapon nor a cutt fluster as interecstina ffs 11 broken ea.rt. Kitty's voice made her start up, and the blissftil vision of life, with David in the little house alone, valn- IV KN U-305 l I like -a bright bubble, leaving the hard reality to ived out wth noth.)ing but -a woman's pride to j il 1j eal a wolnan s most passionate pain.,I I Is notlliiii I'm all rio-litt now., Don't say any to WO'''ry your other * I T1 put, on a bit. of coutt- 'i ',t-ij er, and no one wS ill be tChII wiser, slie said, bastiy·i ; giving all1 traces of thex accident but her own pale iIji 'oor Chi-istie, it's hard that you· should go awayi ijii 1il4 I iii ,ii II I ( 7! i ii j ik iii lOM HAPPYMOMENT IIII iiiilili/ i'i Ai i' I· I Ii I ri i i ) iiTi 806 WORK. with a wound like this on the hand that has done so much for us," said David, as he carefully adjusted the black strip oy that forefinger, roughened by many stitches set for him. L "I loved to do it," was all Christie trusted herself to say. "I know you did; and in your own words I can only answer: 'I don't know how to thank you, but I never shall forget it.'"And David kissed the wounded hand as gratefully and reverently as if its palm was not hardened by the humblest tasks. If he had only known - ah, if he had only known!- how easily he might repay that debt, and heal the deeper wound in Christie's heart. As it was, she could only say, "You are too kind," and begin to shovel tea into the pot, as Kitty came in, as rosy and fresh as the daisies she put in her hair. "Ain't they becoming?" she asked, turning to Da- vid for admiration. "No, thank you," he answered absently, looking out over her head, as he stood upon the rug in the attitude which the best men will assume in the bosoms of their families. Kitty looked offended, and turned to the mirror for comfort; while Christie went on shovelling tea, quite unconscious what she was about till David said gravely: "Won't that be rather strong?" "How stupid of me! I always forget that Kitty does not drink tea," and Christie rectified her mistake with all speed. Kitty laughed, and said in her pert little way: "Getting up early don't seem to agree with either 1 WA KING UP. of you this morning: I wonder what you've been doing?", "Your -work. Suppose you bring in the kettle: Chrlistie has hurt her hand." David spoke quietly; but Kitty looked as much sur- prised as if he had boxed her ears, for he had never used that tone to her before. She meekly obeyed; and David added with a smile to Christie: "Mother is coning down, and you'll have to get more color into your cheeks if you mean to hide your accident fiom lher." "That is easily done;" and Christie rubbed her pale checks till they rivalled Kitty's in their bloom. "I-ow well you women know how to conceal your wounds," said David, half to himself. 'It is an invaluable accomplishment for us sometimes: you forget that I have been an actress," answered Christie, with a bitter sort of smile. "I wish I could forget what I have been!" muttered David, turning his back to her and kicking a log that had rolled out of place. In came Mrs. Sterling, and every one brightened up to meet her. Kitty was silent, and wore an injured air which nobody minded; Christie was very lively; and David did his best to help her through that last meal, which was a hard one to three out of the four. At noon a carriage came for Christie, and she said good-by, as she had drilled herself to say it, cheerfully and steadily. "It is only for a time, else I couldn't let thee go, my dear," said Mrs. Sterling, with a close embrace. "I shall see you at church, and Tuesday evenings, 308 WORK. even if you don't find time to come to us, so I shall not say good-by at all;" and David shook hands warmly, as he put her into the carriage. "I'll invite you to my wedding when I make up my mind," said Kitty, with feminine malice; for in her eyes Christie was an old maid who doubtless envied her her "lots of lovers." "I hope you will be very happy. In the mean time try to save dear Mrs. Sterling all you can, and let her make you worthy a good husband," was Christie's an- swer to a speech she was too noble to resent by a sharp word, or even a contemptuous look. Then she drove away, smiling and waving her hand to the old lady at her window; but the last thing slle saw as she left the well-beloved lane, was David going slowly up the path, with Kitty close beside him, talking busily. If she had heard the short dialogue between them, the sight would have been less bitter, for Kitty said: "She 's dreadful good; but I'm glad she's gone: ain't you?" No." "Had you rather have her here than me?" "Yes" "Then why don't you ask her to come back." "I would if I could!" "I never did see any thing like it; every one is so queer and cross to-day I get snubbed all round. If folks ain't good to me, I'll go and marry Miles! I de- clare I will." "You'd better," and with that David left her frown- ing and pouting in the porch, and went to shovelling snow with unusual vigor. -I CHAPTER XIV. WHICH? DAVID. M R. POWER received Christie so hospitably that she felt at home at once, and took up her new duties with the energy of one anxious to repay a favor. Her friend knew well the saving power of work, and gave her plenty of it; but it was a sort that at once interested and absorbed her, so that she had little time for dangerous thoughts or vain regrets. As he once said, Mr. Power made her own troubles seem light by showing her others so terribly real and great that she was ashamed to repine at her own lot.- 310 WORK. Her gift of sympathy served her well, past expe- rience gave her a quick eye to read the truth in others, and the earnest desire to help and comfort made her an excellent almoner for the rich, a welcome friend to the poor. She was in just the right mood to give herself gladly to any sort of sacrifice, and labored witll a quiet energy, painful to witness had any one known the hid- den suffering that would not let her rest. If she had been a regular novel heroine at this crisis, she would have grown gray in a single night, had a dangerous illness, gone mad, or ht least taken to Iper- vading the house at unseasonable hours with her back hair down and much wringing of the hands. Being only a commonplace woman she did nothing so roman- tic, but instinctively tried to sustain and comfort her- self with the humble, wholesome duties and affections which seldom fail to keep heads sane and hearts safe. Yet, though her days seemed to pass so busily and cheerfully, it must be confessed that there were lonely vigils in the night;. and sometimes in the morning Christie's eyes were very heavy, Christie's pillow wet with tears. But life never is all work or sorrow; and happy hours, helpful pleasures, are mercifully given like way- side springs to pilgrims trudging wearily along. Ir. Power showed Christie many such, and silently pro- vided her with better consolation than pity or advice. "Deeds not words," was his motto; and he lived it out most faithfully. "Books and work" he gave his new charge; and then followed up that prescription with "healthful play" of a sort she liked, and had longed for all her life. Sitting at his table Christie WIICH? 311 saw the best and bravest men and women of our times; for Mr. Power was a magnet that drew them fiom all parts of the world. Shle saw and heard, admired and loved them; felt her soul kindle with the desire to fol- low in their steps, share their great tasks, know their difficulties and dangers, and in the end taste the immor- tal satisfactions given to those who live and labor for tleir fellow-men. In such society all other aimis seemed poor and petty; for they appeared to live in a nobler world than any she had known, and she felt as if they belonged to another race; not men nor angels, but a delightful mixture of the two; more as she im- agined the gods and heroes of old; not perfect, but wonderfully strong and brave and good; each gifted with a separate virtue, and each bent on a mission that should benefit mankind. Nor was this the only pleasure given her. One even- ing of each week was set apart by Mr. Power for the reception of lwholnsoever chose to visit him; for his parish was a large one, and his house a safe haunt for refugees firono all countries, all oppressions. Cllristie enjoyed these evenings heartily, for there was no ceremony; each comer brought his mission, idea, or need, and genuine hospitality made the visit profitable or memorable to all, for entire freedom pre- vailed, and there was ablling for every one's hobby. Christie felt that shle s now receiving the best cult- ure, acquiring the polish that society gives, and makes truly admirable when character adds warmth and power to its charm. The, presence of her bosom-care calmed the old unrest, softened her manners, and at times touched her face with an expression more beautiful 312 WORKZ. than heauty. She was quite unconscious of the changes passing over her; and if any one had told her she was fast.becoming a most attl·actlive womazn, she, would have been utterly incredulous. BSut otbcers saw and felt the new charni; for no deep experience brtavely. bolrne can fail to leave its niark, often giving power hi return for patience, and lending a subtle loveliness to faces whose bloom it has destlroyed. This fact was made apparent to Chrisstie one eveninar when she went down to flie' weekly gatthering· in oneo of the melancholy moods wI-lich sometimes oppressed ber. She -felt dissatisfied with hecrself becaLuse her interest in all- things becran to flazr and a restless longina for some new excitemellt to break -up the monotonous pain of her inner life possessed! her. Being still a little shy in- company, she slippedc quietly into a recess which commanded a view of both rooms, 'and sat looking listlessly about her while waiting for David, who seldom failed to come.. curious collection of feillow-beinas was-beforee her, and at another time she woultl have found much to interest and - amuse 'lier. In one corner· a newly ii-n ported German with an Orson-like bead, tbumb'riny and tfhe fragrance of many nieerschauins still lovering about him, was hanlmering away upon some disputed point with a scientific, Frenchman, wbose' national politeness was only equalled by bis national volubility. A prominent statesman was talking with a. fugitive slave; ayoung poet getting inspiration &iom the face and voice of a Ihandlsome girl who had earned the right to put M. D. to herl name. An old philosopher was calm- ing the ardor of several ram ant radicals, and a famous WHIV _" 313 Finger was comforting the heart of an Italian exile by talking politics in hils owu melodious tongue. There were plenty of reformers: some as truculent as Mai-tin 'Luther ; others as beaming and be'nevo- lent as if the pelting olf the world had only mellowed' thein, and no amount jof denunciatory thunder could sour the inilk of human kindness creaming in their happy' hear'ts. Tliere were eager women just beginning their protestagainilst the wron s that had wrecked t heir pe"ace; subdued women who bad been worsted in the unequal conflict and given it up; resolute women with 44 No surrender" written all over their strong-minded countenances; and sweet, hopeful women, whose faith in ,God and man Ilothingr could shake or· saldden. B3ut 'to Christie tllere was only one face worth look- ingr at till David came, and that was Mr. Power's; for be was a perfect host, and pervaded the rooms like a genial atmosphclre, using the welcome of eye and hand whicl needs no lancruacre to interpret it, giving to each guest the intellectual fare lie lov;ed, and making their enjoyment his own. B'Iless the dear man!i what should we all do without hrim? 1 thought Ch1·istie, following him with grateful eyes, as be led an awkwanrd -youth in rusty black to the statesman whom it had been the desire of llis ambi- tious soul to meet., The next minute she proved that she at least could do 'without the 16 dear man;" for David entered' the Loom, and she forgot all' about him., Here and at church were the only places where the friends had met during these months, except one or two short 31.4 WR visits to the little house iIn the lane when Cliristie devoted herself to Mrs. Ste,-Iing. David wats qu'ite unchan6yed though once or twice Chlristie fancied lie seemed ill at ease with her, and h-n- mediartely tormented helrself witi, the idea thalt soine :alteration in her own manner had perplexed or off'ended bini. She did her best to be as frank andl cordiail as in the happy old days; bnt it was impossible a s on gave it up, assuming in the place of' that forinerr fi-ie'nd- liness, a gi,,qve andl quiet manlner which would have led a wiser mail than David to believe her busied with her own affairs and rather indliffelrent to evelry tbinct else. If he had known how ber heart dlanced in her bosom, her· eyes brighltened, and all the world became endure able, the moment be ap'pearedi, be would not have been so longs in joining her, nor liave doubted what welcome awaited him. As it was, he stopped to spenlk to- bis host; and, before be reappeared, Christie bad found the excitenlent she had been longing fbr. LNow some bore will keep hinl an ]four-, ad tile evening is so shol't) sllce t'll01(ft, with a imLt·nff of disfip pointment; and, tlllining heii. eyes away from the b cClowd wbich bad swvallowed up ber Ieart's decsire, threy, fe-1 upon a gentleman just, enteri*1195 and remained fixed with an expression of unutterable snlprise; for there, elegant, calm, and cool as ever·, stood Mr. F'letcher. 11How came be here? 11 ws her first question ; C6. How will be behave to me?" ber second. As she could answer no'itber; she composed herself as fast as possible,, resolviD'g'to let matters take their own course, and feeling in the nioodl for ain encounter within a discarded WRICIT? ' 315 loveir, as shee took a womanish satisfa'ctiOn in remember- ingS that the very personable gentleman before her had once, been. Mir. F letcher annd his companion passed on to find thwir bost; and, with ·,q glance at the nirror opposite, Which showed her that the surprise of the moment had gSiven her the color shle lacked beforec, Christie occupied Ilcrself with a portfolio of enaravi ng8, fbleling ver' much as sile used to feel wben waiting at a side scene She had not long to wait before'Mf. Power came up, 31ind presented the stronger; for such lie fancied him, never liavincr heard a certain episode in Cbrlistid's life. Mpr. Fletcher bowed, with no sign of recognition in his face and began to talk in the smooth, low voice she remrembelred so well. Foro the moment, through sheer 8111prise, Chr·istie listened and replied as any YOUnff laily inicrIA haveV done to a new-made acqnaintance. But very soon shelc felt sure that Mr91. Fletcher intended to imore the past; a2I1C, finding her on a higher round of the social ladder, to accept the falct and begin again. Ait -flrst she was anlrry, theln amused-, then interested in the somecwliat dramatic tulrn affailrs were iakring and. very wisely decided to meet bim oil his own ground, andl see whtat came'of it. in "the midst of an apparently absorbingn discussion of one of Raphael's most insipidc Madconnas, she was conscious tbat David bad approached, paused, and was scrutinizing her companion with unuslxal interest. Seized with a sudden desire to see the two men to- gethe·r, Christie beckoned; and when he obeyed, she introduced him, drew him into', the conversation, and 316 WORK.r- then left him in the lurch by falling silent and taking notes ·whilb they talked. if she wished. to wean her heart firom David by seeing bim ata, disadvantage,, site could have devised no better way; -for, though a velry feminine test, it answered the purpose excellently. Mr. Fletcher'wass a handsome man, and just then .looked his. best. Improved health gave energy and color to his fornierly sallowi listless ffice: the cold eyes were softer, the hard mouth suave -and smilincr and about the whole ma2n there wasS that inldCscribable1 something which often. proves more azttralctive tllan worth or wisdom to keener-sighted women than Christie. Never bad lie talked better; for, as n lie suspected wlhat was in the inind of one bearer, lie exelited himsenslf to be as brilliant as possible, and succeeded admirably. David never -appeared so ill, for lie had no clew to the little comedy being playetl before hiin; and loncr seclrrsion anld natural r esei -ve unfitted. bit-n to shine beside a mlan of the world like Mr·. Fleltc'her. His simple English sounded harsh, after tbe forei gn phrases that slipped so easily o-ver the other's tongue. H'e had visited no galleries, seen few of the world's wonders, and could only listen when they were discussed. More than once he wls Iright, but failed to prove it, for Mr. F'letclher skilfully ebancred. the sub ect or qyuenched him with a politelyr incredulous shrug.. Even in tbhe matter of costumer poor David was worsted; for, in a wvoman's- eyes, dress has wonderful significance. Christie used to think his suit of sober grayl the most becoming man could wear ; but now it looked Shapeless and shabby, beside garments which bore the WHICHI S 317 stamp of Paris in the gloss aznd gra2ce of bnroadcloth annd fl ti linen. D:avid wore no, gloves: Mr. Fleltch-- ell)s were immaculate,. Da;vid's tic, was so plain no onebsreit M Ftbr,,,eeatadfutss enou h for a modern Beau Brtimmsrvdif M· 'lthe·', el. Da n futlslvid's hand-i kerch'eif was of the commonest sort (she knocw that, for· she blemmed it Herseslf) : Mr. Filetcher·'s was the finest cambic, and a delicatlj breath of perfurme refreshed the a2ristocratic nose to which the article belonged.. Christie despised Herself as she madee these compar-- isons, and felt howm superficial tlley were; but;, havin(Y resolved to exalt one iman at the expense of then other fbr l'ier own good, she did not relent till Pavid took advan- tage o f a pauseS, anld left tllem with. a rcpproachfull loole that inade her wish Mr.1' Fletchecr at the bottonz of' the sea. When they wecre -alone a, subtle eban"Or" il his face. andl mannerl convinced herl that he also had been taking notes, and hadn arrived at a favorable decision regfard- ingS helrself. Women are' qnick at imakincr such discov- eries annd, even wllile shec tallked witl hini as a str·nnger-, 8110 felt assuredi thatt if Shle chose, site might make him. agarin lier lover. Here was a temptation! Site had longed for some new excitement, andi f.-Ae seelned to have put oiie of the most danncr erofus withiln her reach.. I? t was natural·. to find comfort in the knowledule th:Lt somebody lovedl her, and to tnlke pride in her power over one inan, because aliotbler did not own it., In spite of her better self she( felt thle fascinaztion of thle bolir, and yielded to if;, half unconsciously azssuming sornethingr of the 11 dash and daring" whichl Mr. Pi letcher had orlce confessed to finding so captiirathig in the demurre governess. I-le 818 WORK. evidently thougllt so still, and played bis part with spirit-, for, while 'app,:arentl c01oy10 a couversasttion which container no allusion to the past, the memory of it gave piquallncy. to that tInloij tv ete-aN-tete. As the first guests becran to, go, Mr·. IFletcher's firiend beckioneci to himn ; andl lie rose, sayhig w% ith tiil aCcelt of regret which ebalnged to one of entreaty, as be put hisa question 1I, too, must go. Miay j[ coine again, Mis's Devon? "I aim scarcely more than a guest myself; but Mr. replied Christie rather primly, though her eyes were dancing with amusement at the recollection of those love passages upon ttle beach. "Next time, I slitll come not as a stronger,,, but as a former - may I say friends?" lie addedl quickly, as if emboldened by the mirthfulI eyes thitat so belied the demulre lips. '(Now you forgret your palrt," and Cblristie's primness vanished in a laugh. I am glad of it, for I want to ask about Mrs. Saltonstall, and the chlildren. I'Sve often thought of the little dears, and longed to see th cm."' They are in Paris with tlleir f;2ther.') Mrs. Satltoqstall is well, I hope?" Sbbh- died six months ago!' An expression of genuine sorrow came over Mr. Fleteber's, face as be spoke; and, remembering that the silly little woman was bis sister, Cbristie put out ber hand with a look and gesture so full of sympathy that words were unnecessary. Taking advantage of this propitious moment, he said, with -an expressive glance I wlrrclHWHC q 319' and effective tone: 4cI am all alone now. Youl will lot me cori-i again? it Certainly, if it' can give you plea'surel sbe an- siwered heartily, forgetting herself in pity for his sor- Mr. Filetcher pressed her 'hand with rtfl "Thank you!i and wisely went away at once, leaving companssion to plead for him better than he could have done it, for himself. Leaning back in ier chair,. Christie was thinking over this interview so intently that shle started when David's voice said close beside her: Sliall I disturb you if I say, I Good-night'?" "I thougbht you were not going to' say it at all, Sbe answered Father sharply. it I ve - been looking for a chance - but you were so absolrbed with that man I had to wait.') '(Considerin' the, elegance of I that man,' you don't treat him with much respect." 14 1 don't feel much. What brought him here, I won. der·. A Fre'nch salon is more in his line." (LI-le came to see Mr. Power, as every one else does, o·· f COUrsC." "Don't dodge, Christie: you know he came to see .YOU."" "How do you like him?", she asked, with treachery. ous abruptness. "Not particularly, so far. But if I knew him, I dare say I should fired many good traits in hitn." "I know you would!" said Christie, Warmly, not thinking 'of Fletcher, but of David's ,kindly way of finding rood 'in every one, 320 WORK. "He must have improved since you saw him last; for then, if I remember rightly, you found him 'lazy, cross, selfish, and conceited."' "Now, David, I never said any thing of the sort," began Christie, wondering what possessed him to be so satirical and short with her. "Yes, you did, last September, sitting on the old apple-tree the morning of your birthday." "What an inconvenient memory you have! Well, he was all that then; but he is not an invalid now, and so we see his real self." "I also remember that you gave me the impression that he was an elderly man." "Isn't forty elderly?" "He wasn't forty when you taught his sister's chil- dren." "No; but he looked older than he does now, being so ill. I used to think he would be very handsome with good health; and now I see I was right," said Christie, with feigned enthusiasm; for it was a new thing to tease David, and she liked it. But she got no more of it; for, just then, the singer began to sing to the select few who remained, and every one was silent. Leaning on the high back of Christie's chair, David watched the reflection- of her face in the long mirror; for she listened to the music with downcast eyes, unconscious what eloquent ex- pressions were passing over her countenance. She seemed a new Christie to David, in that excited mood; and, as he watched her, he thought: "She loved this man once, or he loved her; and to- night it all comes back to her. How will it end?" WHIICM? 321 So earnestly did he try to read that altered face that Christie felt the intentness of his gaze, looked up sud- denly, and met his eyes in the glass. Something in the expression of those usually serene eyes, now darkened and dilated with the intensity of that long scrutiny, surprised and troubled her; and, scarcely knowing what she said, she asked quickly: "Who are you admiring?" "Not myself:" "I wonder if you'd think me vain if I asked you somlctlhing that I want to know?" she said, obeying a sud(Iden impulse., "Ask it, and I'll tell you." "Am I much changed since you first knew me?" "Very much." "For tie better or the worse?" ! "The better, decidedly." "Thank you, I hIoped so; but one never knows how one scems to other people. I was wondering what you saw in the glass." "A good and lovely woman, Christie." -low sweet it sounded to hear David say that! so sinlply and sincerely that it was far more than a mere colnplinlent. She did not thank him, but said softly as if to herself: "So let me seem until I be" -and then sat silent, so full of satisfaction in the thought that David found her "good and lovely," she could not resist stealing a glance at the tell-tale mirror to see if she might believe him. She forgot herself, however; for he was off guard now, and stood looking away with brows knit, lips tightly 14* u 8J22 WORK. set, and eyes fixed, yet full of fire; his whole attitude and expression tlat of a mliin intent on subduing some strong impulse by a yet stronger will. It startled Christie; and she leaned forward, watching him with breathless interest till the song ceased, and, with the old impatient gesture, David seemed to relapse into his accustomed quietude. "It was the wonderful music that excited liim: that was all;" thought Christie; yet, when he came round to say good-night, the strange expression was not gone, and his manner was not his own. "Shall I ask if I may come again," he said, imitating Mr. Fletcher's graceful bow with an odd smile. "I let him come because he has lost his sister, and is lonely," began Christie, but got no further, for David said, "Good-night!" abruptly, and was gone without a word to Mr. Power. "IIe's in a hurry to get back to his Kitty," she thought, tormenting herself with feminine skill. "Never mind," she added, with a defiant sort of smile; "I 've got my Philip, handsomer and (ore in love than ever, if I'm not deceived. I wonder if he will come again?" Mr. Fletcher did come again, and with flattering regu- larity, fir several weeks, evidently fining something very attractive in those novel gatherings. Mr. Power soon saw why he cane; and, as Christie seemed to enjoy his presence, the good man said nothing to disturb lier, though h6 sometimes cast an anxious glance toward the recess where the two usually sat, apparently busy with books or pictures; yet, by their faces, showing that an under current of deeper interest than art or literature flowed through their intercourse. WIICH? ' 323 Clhristie had not deceived herself, and it was evident that her old lover meant to try his fate again, if she continued to smile upon him as she had done of late. He showed her his sunny side now, and very pleasant she found it. The loss of his sister had touched his heart, and made him long to fill the place her death left vacant. Better health sweetened his temper, and woke the desire to do something worth the doing; and the siglht of the only woman he had ever really loved, reawakened the sentiment that had not died, and made it doubly sweet. Wlhy he cared for Christie le could not tell, but he never had forgotten her; and, when lie met her again witl that new beauty in her face, he felt that time had only ripened the blithe girl into a deep-hearted woman, and lie loved her with a better love than before. I-is whole manner showed this; for the half-careless, half- condescending air of former times was replaced by the most courteous respect, 'a sincere desire to win her favor, and at times the tender sort of devotion women find so charming. Christie felt all this, enjoyed it, and tried to be grateful for it in the way he wished, thinking that hearts could be managed like children, and when one toy is unattainable, be appeased by a bigger or a brighter one of another sort. "I must love some one," she said, as she leaned over a basket of magnificent flowers just left for her by Mr. Fletcher's servant, a thing which often happened now. "Philip his loved me with a fidelity that ought to touch my heart. Why not accept him, and enjoy a new life of luxury, novelty, and pleasure? All these things he 324 WORKi. can gi;ve me: all these things Iare valued, admired, and sought for:3 and wino would appreciate them more than I? I could travel, cultivate myself in inanny delightful ways, and do so - much good. No matter if I wais not very happy: I should make Philip so, and have it in my power to comfort many poor souls. That ought to satisfy me; for what is nobler than1 to live for others? T is idea attractedd her , as it (Ioes all generous matures; she ecame enamoured of self-saclrifice, and ,almost per- suadled. herself that it was her d uty to inarryy Mr. Fletcher, whether slle loved Ilim or not, in order thatt 811e mi'cht dedicate hier life to the service of poorer:, sazdder creaztures tlan Ilerselff B3ut in spite of this am"F'ble delusion, in spite of the desire to forget the love she would bave in the love she might have, and in spite of the great iinproveinent in ber falithfuil Philip, Chr1istie could not blind Ilerself to the fact thast her head, rathere than her heart advised the match;' she could not conquer a suspicion that, how-- .evel· much Mri Fletcher inicrlt love llis wife, he would be something of a- tyrant, and she was very sure she never Iwould inake a good slave. In her cooler mo- ments she remembered that men are not plxppets, to be moved as a woman's will commands, and, tfhe uncer- tainty of being, able to carry out her charitable plans made her pause to consider whether she would not be selling her liberty too cheaply, if in Ireturn she got only dependence and bondagclne along- with fortune and a home. So tempted -an'd pclrplexed, self-dehided ,and self- warned, attracted and repelled, was poor Christie, that she began to feel as if she I otit albyit WRICH? 825 without any clew to bring her safely out. Sbelonged to ask advice of some one, but could not; turn to Mrs. Sterling; and what other woman fi-iend had she except Rachlel, from wboin she bad not Ilealrd for months? As she asked herself this question, one day, feeling sure that Mr. Filetcher would come in the evening, and would soon put his folrtune to the touch -again, the tllought of Mrs. Wilktins seemed to answer her. 44 Why not?"' said Christie: 'L sine is sensible, kind, and discreet; she may put me right, for I'm all in a tanlgle now with doubts and fears, feelings and fan- 66c. I'll go and see her: that 'will do me good, even if I don't say a word about my I werryments,' as the dear· soul 'Woutld calll thlem."' Awayy she went, and fortunately found her friend alone ill the 11 settin'-room," darning, away at a perfect stack of socks, as she creaked comfortably to and fro in her old rockinlg-chlailr. "I was jest wishin' somebod y would drop in - it's so kinder lonesome withl the; childlren to school and ·nAdelaide asleepp How be you, dear?" said Mrs. Wil- kinls, with a hospitable bucr and a beamiucr smile. Finm wolrriedl in myil11hid, so I came to see you," -answeretl Chr1istie, sitting down with a sigh. Bless Your dearr heart, wllat is to pay. Free your aimed, end I T1 do my best to lend a hand." The mere sound Of that heazlty voice, com orted C111-istiec and g:ave her courage to introduce the little fiftion under which sh e had decided to defl-'aud Mrs. Wilkiiis of ber advice. So' she helped heirself to a V, illy -agmentary b Ilue sock aznd a big needle, that she might have employment for her eyes, as they were- not 26 WORK. ,obedient as ber· ton tic, and then be. crn in' as easy a mne as she could assulne. )Wll you see a friend of mine wants It:cvieo very serious znattel·, and I 1·eally don't know wliatln to Ive her. It is strictly moafidentiall, you knoiv, solT '011% mention any names, but just set tlie'etise befbi-Ic Du and get your· opinion, for I've great fialith. in your· 1,1sible way of looking a$ t thirias." "Thanky, dear, your wevlconme to my opinion ef it's uth anyn thing. Bo. theses folkls yoll tell of youn(-v? 5kedl Mrs. Wilkills, with evidelt reClish1 for the inys- 1y. icNo, the woman is past, thirty, and the man 'most, Aty,, I believe, said Ciliristie darnincrin away 'll some, lepidationn at liaviD(r taken'thelr first p nuncre. "My patience 1. ain't the creanter. old enoncrh to lcnow 1,3r own mind? for I s'pose sllo's the one, in the quan- ,,31 r y exclaifned Mi-s. Wilkins, lookin=v over her )ectacles with dalcrei-ously keenn eyes. "The case is this, saidi Clilistie, in gunilty, haste.. Tile 4 creatlure' is poor· and nobody, the nian rich and i cood family so you. see, it's rat1;Ier lard for lier to "No, I don't see nothing' of th e sort, " retllined blunt Irs-. Wilkins. E f she loves the i-nn, tlake Min: eff ie don't, give him the mittin (,lacd done with it. Money id friends and firmmly ain't much to do withl the inlat ,r accordin' to MY view. It's jest a plain quecstioll -1twixt them two. Ef it takesx much'settlin' tliey'd ,ltter· let it alonee.' She doesn't love him as much as she -might, I falncy, Lit she 'is tiredl of grubbing along' aloile. I-le is veryy WIHICIII 327 l ind of her; and very-rieli -; and it would be a fine thing I ,1r her· in7 a wol'ldly wayY I'nl stirL "/II sheil slc's goin' to marry fbi- a livin' is she ? Wial, i ,Ow I'd ruther one, of my girls should grub the wust iintl still their days thannl do thant. Hows'ever, it; may' til't some folks ef thley ainl't grot much beanrt, and is ontentedc witli fine Clothes, nice vittles, and handlsome amnitoor. Selfish, cold /silly kinder women inighbt git / n, I dlare say; but I shouldn't think any friend of ; 'our n woultl be one of that sort,"I . 14 But shle might