University of Virginia Library

2. 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 disappointment
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 embrace
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:

“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

voice; and an incapable husband to burden her shoulders
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 milkpans
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 darlings
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 better than 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

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' daughters
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 engaged
and kept waiting, dismissed for a whim, and so
worried that she began to regard herself as the incarnation
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 searf 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

[ILLUSTRATION]

Mrs. Stuart.

[Description: 445EAF. Page 018. In-line image of Christie entering a Salon where Mrs. Stuart is painting.]

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.

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 manners
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 modest
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.”

Mrs. Stuart gazed into space a moment, then delivered
the following address with impressive solemnity.

“I wish a capable, intelligent, honest, neat, well-conducted
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 Sunday,
and no followers. My table-girl must understand
her duties thoroughly, be extremely 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 insurmountable
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 profusion
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

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 perform.

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 Hepsey,
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 gentleman,
who appeared to be incensed against the elements,
for he burst in as if blown, shook himself like a Newfoundland
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, impatiently
repeated his request.

“Take this wet thing away, and pull off my overshoes.
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 overshoes,
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

see that the boots I sent down this morning are in
order.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Christie meekly, and immediately
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 garnishing
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.”

“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 shoulder,
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 gratefully,
“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 frequent
pacings to and fro. In the kitchen she found the
table spread for one, and Hepsey busy with the boots.

“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 protest
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,

though it was eaten at a kitchen table, with a bare-armed
cook sitting opposite, and three rows of burnished
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 helpful
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 servants
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.

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 indignation
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 forget
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, as 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

received one evening of each week, and on these occasions
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 themselves,
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 managed
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 for
in her most swan-like manner; while my lord stirred
up the lions he had captured, till they roared their best,
great and small.

“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 as all very elegant to go
on like a set of trained cauaries, 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 dilettanteism
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 bitterly
real that she never could forget it.

Friendship had prospered in the lower regions, for
Hepsey had a motherly heart, and Christie soon won

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 impression
on her, bringing home to her a sense of obligation
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.”

Then in a whisper that went straight to Christie's
heart, 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 considerable
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 he 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 comforted
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.

The select receptions upstairs seemed duller than
ever to her now, and her happiest evenings were spent
in the tidy kitchen, watching Hepsey laboriously shaping
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 affection
a solace for many griefs and wrongs. But Providence
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 himself
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

her; the long wick leaned against a cotton gown hanging
on the wall, and a greater part of Christie's wardrobe
was burning brilliantly.

“I forbade her to keep the gas lighted so late, and
see what the deceitful creature has done with her private
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 fragments
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 gesticulating
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

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 conflagration.

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 forgotten
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 performance.

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 Hepsey
promise to report progress from time to time, Christie
went back to Mrs. Flint's to compose her mind and
be ready à la Micawber “for something to turn up.”