University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.
THROUGH THE MIST.

THE year that followed was the saddest Christie
had 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 divine. 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 lean upon Him as I
ought?”

In all sincerity she asked these questions, in all sincerity
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 unsatisfactory
to one who wanted a living God. She went to

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, despondently:

“I 'm afraid I never shall get religion, for all taht '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 fearlessly 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 sorrowful

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 preferred
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 dainty
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 problem 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

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 gentlewomen,
who tell them to go into factories, or scrub in
kitchens, for there is work enough for all, the most convincing
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 cheerful
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 minister
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 neighborly.
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

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 loneliness
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 submissive
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 destroyed
appetite, and unpaid debts made each mouthful
difficult to swallow with Mrs. Flint's hard eye upon

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 fall 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 presence.

Christie turned slowly round, for there was no elasticity
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

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 sometimes
done by them you wouldn't think it of,” she said,
with an aggravating sniff of intelligence.

To be suspected 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 controlled
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

landlady's eyes; then retied the parcel, and, pausing on
the threshold of the door, looked back with an expression
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 suspected
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 indignation,
for she had done her best to pay her debts; had
sold the few trinkets she possessed, and several treasures
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 without
troubling any one.”

When she came to her employer's door, the servant
said: “Missis was out;” then seeing Christie's disappointed
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

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, despondently.

“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 's a shame! These things are part of a present
the ladies are going to give the minister; but I don't
believe he 'll feel easy in 'em if poor folks is wronged
to get 'em. Missis won't pay what they are worth, I
know; for, don't you see, the cheaper the work is done,
the more money she has to make a spread with her
share of the present? It 's my opinion you 'd better
hold on to these shirts till she pays for 'em handsome.”

“No; I 'll keep my promise, and I hope she will
keep hers. Tell her I need the money very much, and
have worked very hard to please her. 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 that hard-earned money
had been her sustaining hope through the weary hours
spent over that ill-paid work. The girl said “Good-bye,”

with a look of mingled pity and respect, for in
her eyes the seamstress was more of a lady than the
mistress in this transaction.

Christie hurried to another place, and asked eagerly
if the young ladies had any work for her. “Not a
stitch,” was the reply, and the door closed. She stood
a moment looking down upon the passers-by wondering
what answer she would get if she accosted any one;
and had any especially benevolent face looked back at
her she would have been tempted to do it, so heart-sick
and forlorn did she feel just then.

She knocked at several other doors, to receive the
same reply. She even tried a slop-shop, but it was
full, and her pale face was against her. Her long illness
had lost her many patrons, and if one steps out
from the ranks of needle-women it is very hard to press
in again, so crowded are they, and so desperate the
need of money.

One hope remained, and, though the way was long,
and a foggy drizzle had set in, she minded neither distance
nor the chilly rain, but hurried away with anxious
thoughts still dogging her steps. Across a long bridge,
through muddy roads and up a stately avenue she
went, pausing, at last, spent and breathless at another
door.

A servant with a wedding-favor in his button-hole
opened to her, and, while he went to deliver her urgent
message, she peered in wistfully from the dreary world
without, catching glimpses of home-love and happiness
that made her heart ache for very pity of its own loneliness.

A wedding was evidently afoot, for hall and staircase

blazed with light and bloomed with flowers. Smiling
men and maids ran to and fro; opening doors showed
tables beautiful with bridal white and silver; savory
odors filled the air; gay voices echoed above and
below; and once she caught a brief glance at the
bonny bride, standing with her father's arm about her,
while her mother gave some last, loving touch to her
array; and a group of young sisters with April faces
clustered round her.

The pretty picture vanished all too soon; the man
returned with a hurried “No” for answer, and Christie
went out into the deepening twilight with a strange
sense of desperation at her heart. It was not the
refusal, not the fear of want, nor the reaction of overtaxed
nerves alone; it was the sharpness of the contrast
between that other woman's fate and her own that
made her wring her hands together, and cry out,
bitterly:

“Oh, it isn't fair, it isn't right, that she should have
so much and I so little! What have I ever done to be
so desolate and miserable, and never to find any happiness,
however hard I try to do what seems my duty?”

There was no answer, and she went slowly down the
long avenue, feeling that there was no cause for hurry
now, and even night and rain and wind were better
than her lonely room or Mrs. Flint's complaints. Afar
off the city lights shone faintly through the fog, like
pale lamps seen in dreams; the damp air cooled her
feverish cheeks; the road was dark 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, and a spectral ship was slowly passing through.

With no desire to mingle in the crowd that waited on
either side, she paused, and, leaning on the railing, let
her thoughts wander where they would. As she stood
there the heavy air seemed to clog her breath and
wrap her in its chilly arms. She felt as if the springs
of life were running down, and presently would stop;
for, even when the old question, “What shall I do?”
came haunting her, she no longer cared even to try to
answer it, and had no feeling but one of utter weariness.
She tried to shake off the strange mood that
was stealing over her, but spent body and spent brain
were not strong enough to obey her will, and, in spite
of her efforts to control it, the impulse that had seized
her grew more intense each moment.

“Why should I work and suffer any longer for myself
alone?” she thought; “why wear out my life
struggling for the bread I have no heart to eat? I am
not wise enough to find my place, nor patient enough
to wait until it comes to me. Better give up trying,
and leave room for those who have something to live
for.”

Many a stronger soul has known a dark hour when
the importunate wish has risen that it were possible
and right to lay down the burdens that oppress, the
perplexities that harass, and hasten the coming of the
long sleep that needs no lullaby. Such an hour was
this to Christie, for, as she stood there, that sorrowful
bewilderment which we call despair came over her, and
ruled her with a power she could not resist.

A flight of steps close by led to a lumber wharf, and,
scarcely knowing why, she went down there, with a
vague desire to sit still somewhere, and think her way

out of the mist that seemed to obscure her mind. A
single tall lamp shone at the farther end of the platform,
and presently she found herself leaning her hot
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 one would care if she staid for ever, and,
yielding to the perilous fascination that drew her there,
she lingered with a heavy throbbing in her temples, and
a troop of wild fancies whirling through her brain.
Something white swept by below, — only 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 conjured
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
must 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 white 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 the
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

eyes, and the earth seemed to slip away from underneath
her feet. Then she was herself again, and found
that she was sitting on a pile of lumber, with her head
uncovered, and a woman's arm about her.

“Was I going to drown myself?” she asked, slowly,
with a fancy that she had been dreaming frightfully,
and some one had wakened her.

“You were most gone; but I came in time, thank
God! O Christie! 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 and
worry me; and I was so worn out, and weak, and
wicked, I think I meant to take my life.”

“No, dear; it was not you that meant to do it,
but the weakness and the trouble that 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 Christmas;
but you never came.”

“I 've been away, dear heart, hard at work in another

city, larger and wickeder than this. I tried to get work
here, that I might be near you; but that cruel Cotton
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
wretched than I what you had done for me. God put
the thought into my heart, and He helped me in my
work, for it has prospered wonderfully. All this year
I have been busy with it, and almost happy; for I felt
that your love made me strong to do it, and that, in
time, I might grow good enough to be your friend.”

“See what I am, Rachel, and never say that any
more!”

“Hush, my poor dear, and let me talk. You are not
able to do any thing, but rest, and listen. I knew how
many poor souls went wrong when the devil tempted
them; and I gave all my strength to saving those who
were going the way I went. I had no fear, no shame
to overcome, for I was one of them. They would listen
to me, for I knew what I spoke; they could believe in
salvation, 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 washed away a little of my own great sin. O
Christie! never think it 's time to die till you are called;
for the Lord leaves us till we have done our work, and
never sends more sin and sorrow than we can bear and
be the better for, if we hold fast by Him.”

So beautiful and brave she looked, so full of strength
and yet of meek submission was her voice, that Christie's
heart was thrilled; for it was plain that Rachel

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. Thank 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 that came
with such fervor from the other's lips.

“I passed you on the bridge. I did not see your face,
but you stood leaning there so wearily, and looking
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. Her
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.

When she had heard the story of Christie's troubles,
she stood up as if inspired with a happy thought, and
stretching both 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 Christie,
and I 'll 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 room, 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 wholesome
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
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.

Rachel 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 befriends
such as you and I. She will take you in without
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 heart, dear; I 'll not leave you till you are safe.”

So cheerily she spoke, so confident she looked, that

the lost expression passed from Christie's face, and
hand in hand they went away together, — two types of
the sad sisterhood standing on either shore of the dark
river that is spanned by a Bridge of Sighs.

Rachel led her friend toward the city, and, coming
to the mechanics' quarter, stopped before the door of
a small, old house.

“Just knock, say `Rachel sent me,' and you 'll find
yourself at home.”

“Stay with me, or let me go with you. I can't lose
you again, for I need you very much,” pleaded Christie,
clinging to her friend.

“Not so much as that poor girl dying all alone.
She's waiting for me, and I must go. But I 'll write
soon; and remember, Christie, I shall feel as if I had
only paid a very little of my debt if you go back to the
sad old life, and lose your faith and hope again. God
bless and keep you, and when we meet next time let
me find a happier face than this.”

Rachel kissed it with her heart on her lips, smiled
her brave sweet smile, and vanished in the mist.

Pausing a moment to collect herself, Christie recollected
that she had not asked the name 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. Wilkins, Clear-Starcher.

“Laces done up in the best style.”

Too tired to care whether a laundress or a lady took
her in, she knocked timidly, and, while she waited for

[ILLUSTRATION]

"C. Wilkins, Clear Starcher."

[Description: 445EAF. Page 165. In-line image of C. Wilkins, a large woman with no front teeth and a plump face.]

an answer to her summons, stood listening to the noises
within.

A swashing sound as of water was audible, likewise a
scuffling as of flying feet; some one clapped hands, and
a voice said, warningly, “Into your beds this instant
minute or I 'll come to you! Andrew Jackson, give
Gusty a boost; Ann Lizy, don't you tech Wash's feet
to tickle 'em. Set pretty in the tub, Victory, dear,
while ma sees who 's rappin'.”

Then heavy footsteps approached, the door opened
wide, and a large woman appeared, with fuzzy red
hair, no front teeth, and a plump, clean face, brightly
illuminated by the lamp she carried.

“If you please, Rachel sent me. She thought you
might be able” —

Christie got no further, for C. Wilkins put out a
strong bare arm, still damp, and gently drew her in,

saying, with the same motherly tone as when addressing
her children, “Come right in, dear, and don't mind
the clutter things is in. I 'm givin' the children their
Sat'day scrubbin', and they will slop and kite 'round,
no matter ef I do spank 'em.”

Talking all the way in such an easy, comfortable
voice that Christie felt as if she must have heard it
before, Mrs. Wilkins led her unexpected guest into a
small kitchen, smelling suggestively of soap-suds and
warm flat-irons. In the middle of this apartment was
a large tub; in the tub a chubby child sat, sucking a
sponge and staring calmly at the new-comer with a
pair of big blue eyes, while little drops shone in the
yellow curls and on the rosy shoulders.

“How pretty!” cried Christie, seeing nothing else
and stopping short to admire this innocent little Venus
rising from the sea.

“So she is! Ma's darlin' lamb! and ketchin' her
death a cold this blessed minnit. Set right down, my
dear, and tuck your wet feet into the oven. I' ll have
a dish o' tea for you in less 'n no time; and while it 's
drawin' I' ll clap Victory Adelaide into her bed.”

Christie sank into a shabby but most hospitable old
chair, dropped her bonnet on the floor, put her feet in
the oven, and, leaning back, watched Mrs. Wilkins
wipe the baby as if she had come for that especial purpose.
As Rachel predicted, she 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 meteors across
the open doorway of an adjoining room, with whoops
and howls, bursts of laughter, and antics of all sorts.

How pleasant it was; that plain room, with no ornaments
but the happy faces, no elegance, but cleanliness,
no wealth, but hospitality and lots of love. This latter
blessing gave the place its charm, for, though Mrs.
Wilkins threatened to take her infants' noses off if they
got out of bed again, or “put 'em in the kettle and
bile 'em” they evidently knew no fear, but gambolled
all the nearer to her for the threat; and she beamed
upon them with such maternal tenderness and pride
that her homely face grew beautiful in Christie's eyes.

When the baby was bundled up in a blanket and
about to be set down before the stove to simmer a
trifle before being put to bed, Christie held out her
arms, saying with an irresistible longing in her eyes
and voice:

“Let me hold her! I love babies dearly, and it seems
as if it would do me more good than quarts of tea to
cuddle her, if she 'll let me.”

“There now, that's real sensible; and mother's bird 'll
set along with you as good as a kitten. Toast her
tootsies wal, for she 's croupy, and I have to be extra
choice of her.”

“How good it feels!” sighed Christie, half devouring
the warm and rosy little bunch in her lap, while baby
lay back luxuriously, spreading 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
herself, in the closet, as she cut bread and rattled down
a cup and saucer:

“That's what she wants, poor creeter; I 'll let her
have a right nice time, and warm and feed and chirk

her up, and then I 'll see what 's to be done for her. She
ain't one of the common sort, and goodness only knows
what Rachel sent her here for. She 's poor and sick,
but she ain't bad. I can tell that by her face, and she 's
the sort I like to help. It 's a mercy I ain't eat my supper,
so she can have that bit of meat and the pie.”

Putting a tray on the little table, the good soul set
forth all she had to give, and offered it with such hospitable
warmth that Christie ate and drank with unaccustomed
appetite, finishing off deliciously with a
kiss from baby before she was borne away by her
mother to the back bedroom, where peace soon
reigned.

“Now let me tell you who I am, and how I came to
you in such an unceremonious way,” began Christie,
when her hostess returned and found her warmed,
refreshed, and composed by a woman's three best comforters,
— kind words, a baby, and a cup of tea.

“'Pears to me, dear, I wouldn't rile myself up by
telling any werryments to-night, but git right warm
inter bed, and have a good long sleep,” said Mrs. Wilkins,
without a ray of curiosity in her wholesome red
face.

“But you don't know any thing about me, and I may
be the worst woman in the world,” cried Christie,
anxious to prove herself worthy of such confidence.

“I know that you want takin' care of, child, or
Rachel wouldn't a sent you. Ef I can help any one, I
don't want no introduction; and ef you be the wust
woman in the world (which you ain't), I wouldn't shet
my door on you, for then you 'd need a lift more 'n you
do now.”

Christie could only put out her hand, and mutely
thank her new friend with full eyes.

“You 're fairly tuckered out, you poor soul, so you
jest come right up chamber and let me tuck you
up, else you 'll be down sick. It ain't a mite of inconvenience;
the room is kep for company, and it 's all
ready, even to a clean night-cap. I 'm goin' to clap
this warm flat to your feet when you 're fixed; it 's
amazin' comfortin' and keeps your head cool.”

Up they went to a tidy little chamber, and Christie
found herself laid down to rest none too soon, for she
was quite worn out. Sleep began to steal over her the
moment her head touched the pillow, in spite of the
much beruffled cap which Mrs. Wilkins put on with
visible pride in its stiffly crimped borders. She was
dimly conscious of a kind hand tucking her up, a comfortable
voice purring over her, and, best of all, a
motherly good-night kiss, then the weary world faded
quite away and she was at rest.