University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
BEGINNING AGAIN.

IT was an April day when Christie went to her new
home. Warm rains had melted the last trace of
snow, and every bank was full of pricking grass-blades,
brave little pioneers and heralds of the Spring. The
budding elm boughs swung in the wind; blue-jays
screamed among the apple-trees; and robins chirped
shrilly, as if rejoicing over winter hardships safely
passed. Vernal freshness was in the air despite its
chill, and lovely hints of summer time were everywhere.

These welcome sights and sounds met Christie, as
she walked down the lane, and, coming to a gate,
paused there to look about her. An old-fashioned
cottage stood in the midst of a garden just awakening
from its winter sleep. One elm hung protectingly over
the low roof, sunshine lay warmly on it, and at every
window flowers' bright faces smiled at the passer-by
invitingly.

On one side glittered a long green-house, and on the
other stood a barn, with a sleek cow ruminating in the
yard, and an inquiring horse poking his head out of his
stall to view the world. Many comfortable gray hens
were clucking and scratching about the hay-strewn
floor, and a flock of doves sat cooing on the roof.

A quiet, friendly place it looked; for nothing marred
its peace, and the hopeful, healthful spirit of the season
seemed to haunt the spot. Snow-drops and crocuses
were up in one secluded nook; a plump maltese cat sat
purring in the porch; and a dignified old dog came
marching down the walk to escort the stranger in.
With a brightening face Christie went up the path,
and tapped at the quaint knocker, hoping that the face
she was about to see would be in keeping with the
pleasant place.

She was not disappointed, for the dearest of little
Quaker ladies opened to her, with such an air of peace
and good-will that the veriest ruffian, coming to molest
or make afraid, would have 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 Mr. Power, and I have a note for
Mrs. Sterling,” began Christie in her gentlest tone, as

her last fear vanished at sight of that mild maternal
figure.

“I am she; come in, friend; I am glad to see thee,”
said the old lady, smiling placidly, as she led the way
into a room whose principal furniture seemed to be
books, flowers, and sunshine.

The look, the tone, the gentle “thee,” went straight
to Christie's heart; and, while Mrs. Sterling put on her
spectacles and slowly read the note, she stroked the cat
and said to herself: “Surely, I have fallen among a set
of angels. I thought Mrs. Wilkins a sort of saint, Mr.
Power was an improvement even upon that good soul,
and if I am not mistaken this sweet little lady is the
best and dearest of all. I do hope she will like me.”

“It is quite right, my dear, and I am most glad to
see thee; for we need help at this season of the year,
and have had none for several weeks. Step up to the
room at the head of the stairs, and lay off thy things.
Then, if thee is not tired, I will give thee a little job
with me in the kitchen,” said the old lady with a kindly
directness which left no room for awkwardness on the
new-comer's part.

Up went Christie, and after a hasty look round a
room as plain and white and still as a nun's cell, she
whisked on a working-apron and ran down again,
feeling, as she fancied the children did in the fairy tale,
when they first arrived at the house of the little old
woman who lived in the wood.

Mrs. Wilkins's kitchen was as neat as a room could
be, wherein six children came and went, but this
kitchen was tidy with the immaculate order of which
Shakers and Quakers alone seem to possess the secret, —

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 Christie's
face, and led the chat to cheerful things, not saying
much herself, but beguiling the other to talk, and listening
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 possession
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

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 girl, and can set a table in style.
Shall 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 top 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 smiled 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 horsehair
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 attracted
her, and here she saw a goodly array whose names
were like the faces of old friends, because she remembered
them in her father's library.

Faust was full of ferns, Shakspeare, of rough sketches
of the men and women whom he has made immortal.
Saintly Herbert lay side by side with Saint
Augustine's confessions. Milton and Montaigne stood
socially together, and Andersen's lovely “Märchen” fluttered
its pictured leaves in the middle of an open Plato;
while several books in unknown tongues were half-hidden
by volumes of Browning, Keats, and Coleridge.

In the middle of this fine society, slender and transparent
as the spirit of a shape, stood a little vase holding
one half-opened rose, fresh and fragrant as if just
gathered.

Christie smiled 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 Göthe's nose
was broken, Schiller's head cracked visibly, and the
dust of ages seemed to have settled upon Linnæus 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. Portraits
of Mr. Power and Martin Luther stared thoughtfully
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
her “master,” as she had a fancy to call this unknown
David.

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
from 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 indulged
in dreams and fancies. “It will be so interesting

to see how he bears his secret sorrow. I am fond
of woe; but I do hope he won'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 inside.
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 took
her breath away. Not the faintest trace of the melancholy
Jaques about him; nothing interesting, romantic,
pensive, or even stern. Only a broad-shouldered, brown-bearded
man, with an old hat and coat, trousers tucked
into his boots, fresh mould on the hand he had given
her to shake, and the cheeriest voice she had ever
heard.

What a blow it was to be sure! Christie actually
felt vexed with him for disappointing her so, and could
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 the

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 gland 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,” answered
Christie with a sigh, as she recalled Rachel's

roses, dead long ago. “Shy, sick, and sad; poor soul,
we must lend a hand and cheer her up a bit” thought
David, as he watched her eyes turn toward the green
things in the windows with a bright, soft look, he liked
to see.

“Come to the conservatory in an hour, and I 'll show
you the best part of a `German,”' he said, with a nod
and a smile, as he went away, beginning to whistle like
a boy when the door was shut behind him.

“What did he mean?” thought Christie, as she
helped clear the table, and put every thing in Pimlico
order.

She was curious to know, and when Mrs. Sterling
said: “Now, my dear, I am going to take my nap, and
thee can help David if thee likes,” she was quite ready
to try the new work.

She would have been more than woman if she had
not first slipped upstairs to smooth her hair, put on a
fresh collar, and a black silk apron with certain effective
frills and pockets, while a scarlet rigolette replaced the
hood, and lent a little color to her pale cheeks.

“I am a poor ghost of what I was,” she thought;
“but that 's no matter: few can be pretty, any one can
be neat, and that is more than ever necessary here.”

Then she went away to the conservatory, feeling
rather oppressed with the pity and sympathy, for which
there was no call, and fervently wishing that David
would not be so comfortable, for he ate a hearty dinner,
laughed four times, and whistled as no heart-broken
man would dream of doing.

No one was visible as she went in, and walking slowly
down the green aisle, she gave herself up to the enjoyment

of the lovely place. The damp, sweet air
made summer there, and a group of slender, oriental
trees whispered in the breath of wind that blew in from
an open sash. Strange vines and flowers hung overhead;
banks of azaleas, ruddy, white, and purple, bloomed
in one place; roses of every hue turned their lovely
faces to the sun; ranks of delicate ferns, and heaths
with their waxen bells, were close by; glowing geraniums
and stately lilies side by side; savage-looking scarlet
flowers with purple hearts, or orange spikes rising from
leaves mottled with strange colors; dusky passion-flowers,
and gay nasturtiums climbing to the roof. All
manner of beautiful and curious plants were there; and
Christie walked among them, as happy as a child who
finds its playmates again.

Coming to a bed of pansies she sat down on a rustic
chair, and, leaning forward, feasted her eyes on these
her favorites. Her face grew young as she looked, her
hands touched them with a lingering tenderness as if
to her they were half human, and her own eyes were
so busy enjoying the gold and purple spread before
her, that she did not see another pair peering at her
over an unneighborly old cactus, all prickles, and queer
knobs. Presently a voice said at her elbow:

“You look as if you saw something beside pansies
there.”

David spoke so quietly that it did not startle her, and
she 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 face when I look at this flower. Sometimes it is
a sad one, sometimes it 's merry, often roguish, but always

a dear little face; and when I see so many together,
it 's like a flock of children, all nodding and smiling
at me at once.”

“So it is!” and David nodded, and smiled himself,
as he handed her two or three of the finest, as if it was
as natural a thing as to put a sprig of mignonette in
his own button-hole.

Christie thanked him, and then jumped up, remembering
that she came there to work, not to dream. He
seemed to understand, and went into a little room near
by, saying, as he pointed to a heap of gay flowers on
the table:

“These are to be made into little bouquets for a
`German' to-night. It is pretty work, and better fitted
for a woman's fingers than a man's. This is all you
have to do, and you can use your taste as to colors.”

While he spoke David laid a read and white carnation
on a bit of smilax, tied them together, twisted a
morsel of silver foil about the stems, and laid it before
Christie as a sample.

“Yes, I can do that, and shall like it very much,” she
said, burying her nose in the mass of sweetness before
her, and feeling as if her new situation grew pleasanter
every minute.

“Here is the apron my mother uses, that bit of silk
will soon be spoilt, for the flowers are wet,” and David
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 she
had made. She was disappointed, and yet she began
to feel as if the simple truth was better than the sentimental
fiction; and glanced up at David involuntarily

to see if there were any traces of interesting woe about
him.

But he was looking at her with the steady, straightforward
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.

“Make 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 flower-lovers can produce. She was so
interested that presently she began to hum half unconsciously,
as she was apt to do when happily employed:

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

[ILLUSTRATION]

David and Christie in the Greenhouse.

[Description: 445EAF. Page 232. In-line image of David and Christie having a conversation in the Greenhouse.]

you forgotten it?” he said, pleased and surprised to
find the new-comer singing Herrick's lines “To Violets.”

“Almost; my father used to say that when we went
looking for early violets, and these lovely ones reminded
me of it,” explained Christie, rather abashed.

As if to put her at ease David added, as he laid another
handful of double-violets on the table:

“I always think of them as pretty, modest maids
after that, and can't bear to throw them away, even
when faded.”

Christie hoped he did not think her sentimental, and
changed the conversation by pointing to her work, and
saying, in a business-like 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 `German' myself; but I have
looked on, and remember hearing the young people say
the little bouquets didn't mean any thing, so I tried to
make these expressive.”

“Well, I should think you had succeeded excellently,
and it is a very pretty fancy. Tell me what some of
them mean: will you?”

“You should know better than I, being a florist,”
said Christie, glad to see he approved of her work.

“I can grow the flowers, but not read them,” and
David looked rather depressed by his own ignorance
of those delicate matters.

Still with the business-like air, Christie held up one

after another of the little knots, saying soberly, though
her eyes smiled:

“This white one might be given to a newly engaged
girl, as suggestive of the coming bridal. That half-blown
bud would say a great deal from a lover to his
idol; and this heliotrope be most encouraging to a
timid swain. Here is a rosy daisy for some merry little
damsel; there is a scarlet posy for a soldier; this delicate
azalea and fern for some lovely creature just out;
and there is a bunch of sober pansies for a spinster, if
spinsters go to `Germans.' Heath, scentless 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 a handsome, sharp-tongued
woman, if any partner dared give it to her.”

David laughed, as his eye went from the flowers to
Christie's face, and when she laid down the last breastknot,
looking as if she would like the chance of presenting
it to some one she knew, he seemed much amused.

“If the beaux and belles at this party have the wit
to read your posies, my fortune will be made, and you
will have your hands full supplying compliments, declarations,
rebukes, and criticisms for the fashionable
butterflies. I wish I could put consolation, hope, and
submission into my work as easily, but I am afraid I
can't,” he added a moment afterward with a changed
face, as he began to lay the loveliest white flowers into
a box.

“Those are not for a wedding, then?”

“For a dead baby; and I can't seem to find any white
and sweet enough.”

“You know the people?” asked Christie, with the
sympathetic tone in her voice.

“Never saw or heard of them till to-day. Isn't it
enough to know that `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 want them to look lovely and comforting when
the mother opens the box, and I don't seem to have
the right flowers. Will you give it a touch? women
have a tender way of doing such things that we can
never learn.”

“I don't think I can improve it, unless I add another
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 in,
and I know they will suggest what you hope to these
poor people,” he said 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 mother's sore heart of the tender thought some one
had taken for her dead darling.

The box was sent away, and Christie went on with
her work, but that little task performed together seemed
to have made them friends; and, while David tied up
several grand bouquets at the same table, they talked

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 desire to show that she
was grateful for it helped her to please. David's bluntness
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. He was as frank and friendly
as a boy, yet had a certain paternal way with him
which rather annoyed her at first, and made her feel as
if he thought her a mere girl, while she was very sure
he could not be but a year or two older than herself.

“I 'd rather he 'd be masterful, and order me about,”
she thought, still rather regretting the “blighted being”
she had not found.

In spite of this she spent a pleasant afternoon, sitting
in that sunny place, handling flowers, 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, not merely valued them as merchandise.

They had just finished when the great dog came
bouncing in with a basket in his mouth.

“Mother wants eggs: will you come to the barn and
get them? Hay is wholesome, and you can feed the
doves if you like,” said David, leading the way with
Bran rioting about him.

“Why don't he offer to put up a swing for me, or
get me a doll? It 's the pinafore that deceives him.
Never mind: I rather like it after all,” thought Christie;

but she left the apron behind her, and followed with
the most dignified air.

It did not last long, however, for the sights and
sounds that greeted her, carried her back to the days
of egg-hunting in Uncle Enos's big barn; and, before
she knew it, she was rustling through the hay mows,
talking to the cow and receiving the attentions of Bran
with a satisfaction it was impossible to conceal.

The hens gathered about her feet cocking their
expectant eyes at her; the doves came circling round
her head; the cow stared placidly, and the inquisitive
horse responded affably when she offered him a handful
of hay.

“How tame they all are! I like animals, they are
so contented and intelligent,” she said, as a plump dove
lit on her shoulder with an impatient coo.

“That was Kitty's pet, she always fed the fowls.
Would you like to do it?” and David offered a little
measure of oats.

“Very much;” and Christie began to scatter the
grain, wondering who “Kitty” was.

As if he saw the wish in her face, David added,
while he shelled corn for the hens:

“She was the little girl who was with us last. Her
father kept her in a factory, and took all her wages,
barely giving her clothes and food enough to keep her
alive. The poor child ran away, and was trying to
hide when Mr. Power found and sent her here to be
cared for.”

“As he did me?” said Christie quickly.

“Yes, that 's a way he has.”

“A very kind and Christian way. Why didn't she
stay?”

“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 uncomfortably
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 inquiringly,
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 directing,
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

feel seventy at least, life has been so hard to me
lately.”

Her face sobered at the last words, and David's instantly
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 herself:
“How silly I was to say that! I may have spoilt
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 sentence;
but Christie heard it, and was pleased. A moment
or two later, David came toward her with a glass
in his hand, saying as if rather doubtful of his reception:

“New milk is part of the cure: will you try it?”

For the first time, Christie looked straight up in the
honest eyes that seemed to demand honesty in others,
and took the glass, answering heartily:

“Yes, thank you; I drink good health to you, and
better manners to me.”

The newly lighted lamp shone full in her face, and
though it was neither young nor blooming, it showed
something better than youth and bloom to one who
could read the subtle language of character as David
could. He nodded as he took the glass, and went away
saying quietly:

“We are plain people here, and you won't find it
hard to get on with us, I think.”

But he liked the candid look, and thought about it,
as he chopped kindlings, whistling with a vigor which
caused Christie to smile as she strained the milk.

After tea a spider-legged table was drawn out toward
the hearth, where an open fire burned cheerily, and
puss purred on the rug, with Bran near by. David
unfolded his newspapers, Mrs. Sterling pinned on her
knitting-sheath, and Christie sat a moment enjoying
the comfortable little scene. She sighed without knowing
it, and Mrs. Sterling asked quickly:

“Is thee tired, my dear?”

“Oh, no! only happy.”

“I am glad of that: I was afraid thee would find it
dull.”

“It 's beautiful!” then Christie checked herself, feeling
that these outbursts would not suit such quiet
people; and, half ashamed of showing how much she
felt, she added soberly, “If you will give me something
to do I shall be quite contented.”

“Sewing is not good for thee. If thee likes to knit
I 'll set up a sock for thee to-morrow,” said the old
lady well pleased at the industrious turn of her new
handmaid.

“I like to darn, and I see some to be done in this
basket. May I do it?” and Christie laid hold of the
weekly job which even the best housewives are apt to
set aside for pleasanter tasks.

“As thee likes, my dear. My eyes will not let me
sew much in the evening, else I should have finished
that batch to-night. Thee will find the yarn and
needles in the little bag.”

So Christie fell to work on gray socks, and neat
lavender-colored hose, while the old lady knit swiftly,
and David read aloud. Christie thought she was listening
to the report of a fine lecture; but her ear only
caught the words, for her mind wandered away into a
region of its own, and lived there till her task was done.
Then she laid the tidy pile in the basket, drew her
chair to a corner of the hearth, and quietly enjoyed
herself.

The cat, feeling sure of a welcome, got up into her
lap, and went to sleep in a cosy bunch; Bran laid his
nose across her feet, and blinked at her with sleepy
good-will, while her eyes wandered round the room,
from its quaint furniture and the dreaming flowers in
the windows, to the faces of its occupants, and lingered
there.

The plain border of a Quaker cap encircled that
mild old face, with bands of silver hair parted on a
forehead marked with many lines. But the eyes were
clear and sweet; winter roses bloomed in the cheeks,

and an exquisite neatness pervaded the small figure,
from the trim feet on the stool, to the soft shawl folded
about the shoulders, as only a Quakeress can fold one.
In Mrs. Sterling, piety and peace made old age lovely,
and the mere presence of this tranquil soul seemed to
fill the room with a reposeful charm none could resist.

The other face possessed no striking comeliness of
shape or color; but the brown, becoming beard made
it manly, and the broad arch of a benevolent brow
added nobility to features otherwise not beautiful, — a
face plainly expressing resolution and rectitude, inspiring
respect as naturally as a certain protective
kindliness of manner won confidence. Even in repose
wearing a vigilant look as if some hidden pain or
passion lay in wait to surprise and conquer the sober
cheerfulness that softened the lines of the firm-set lips,
and warmed the glance of the thoughtful eyes.

Christie fancied she possessed the key to this, and
longed to know all the story of the cross which Mr.
Power said David had learned to bear so well. Then
she began to wonder if they could like and keep her,
to hope so, and to feel that here at last she was at
home with friends. But the old sadness crept over her,
as she remembered how often she had thought this
before, and how soon the dream ended, the ties were
broken, and she adrift again.

“Ah well,” she said within herself, “I won't think
of the morrow, but take the good that comes and enjoy
it while I may. I must not disappoint Rachel, since
she kept her word so nobly to me. Dear soul, when
shall I see her again?”

The thought of Rachel always touched her heart,

more now than ever; and, as she leaned back in her
chair with closed eyes and idle hands, these tender
memories made her unconscious face most eloquent.
The eyes peering over the 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 had 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 thee about
matters. Good-night, and good rest, my child.”

So speaking, the little lady gave Christie a maternal
kiss; David shook handsl and then she went away,
wondering why service was so lightened by such little
kindnesses.

As she lay in her narrow white bed, with 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.