University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
CHRISTIE'S GALA.

ON the fourth of September, Christie woke up, saying
to herself: “It is my birthday, but no one
knows it, so I shall get no presents. Ah, well, I 'm
too old for that now, I suppose;” but she sighed as she
said it, for well she knew one never is too old to be
remembered and beloved.

Just then the door opened, and Mrs. Sterling entered,
carrying what looked very like a pile of snow-flakes in
her arms. Laying this upon the bed, she kissed Christie,
saying with a tone and gesture that made the words
a benediction:

“A happy birthday, and God bless thee, my daughter!”

Before Christie could do more than hug both gift and
giver, a great bouquet came flying in at the open window,
aimed with such skill that it fell upon the bed,
while David's voice called out from below: “A happy
birthday, Christie, and many of them!”

“How sweet, how kind of you, this is! I didn't dream
you knew about to-day, and never thought of such a
beautiful surprise,” cried Christie, touched and charmed
by this unexpected celebration.

“Thee mentioned it once long ago, and we remembered.
They are very humble gifts, my dear; but we
could not let the day pass without some token of the
thanks we owe thee for these months of faithful service
and affectionate companionship.”

Christie had no answer to this little address, and was
about to cry as the only adequate expression of her
feelings, when a hearty “Hear! Hear!” from below
made her laugh, and call out:

“You conspirators! how dare you lay plots, and then
exult over me when I can't find words to thank you?
I always did think you were a set of angels, and now
I 'm quite sure of it.”

“Thee may be right about Davy, but I am only a
prudent old woman, and have taken much pleasure
in privately knitting this light wrap to wear when thee
sits in the porch, for the evenings will soon grow chilly.
My son did not know what to get, and finally decided
that flowers would suit thee best; so he made a bunch
of those thee loves, and would toss it in as if he was a
boy.”

“I like that way, and both my presents suit me exactly,”
said Christie, wrapping the fleecy shawl about
her, and admiring the nosegay in which her quick eye
saw all her favorites, even to a plumy spray of the
little wild asters which she loved so much.

“Now, child, I will step down, and see about breakfast.
Take thy time; for this is to be a holiday, and we
mean to make it a happy one if we can.”

With that the old lady went away, and Christie soon
followed, looking very fresh and blithe as she ran down
smiling behind her great bouquet. David was in the

porch, training up the morning-glories that bloomed
late and lovely in that sheltered spot. He turned as
she approached, held out his hand, and bent a little as
if he was moved to add a tenderer greeting. But he
did not, only held the hand she gave him for a moment,
as he said with the paternal expression unusually
visible:

“I wished you many happy birthdays; and, if you
go on getting younger every year like this, you will
surely have them.”

It was the first compliment he had ever paid her, and
she liked it, though she shook her head as if disclaiming
it, and answered brightly:

“I used to think many years would be burdensome,
and just before I came here I felt as if I could not bear
another one. But now I like to live, and hope I shall
a long, long time.”

“I 'm glad of that; and how do you mean to spend
these long years of yours?” asked David, brushing
back the lock of hair that was always falling into his
eyes, as if he wanted to see more clearly the hopeful
face before him.

“In doing what your morning-glories do, — climb up
as far and as fast as I can before the frost comes,” answered
Christie, looking at the pretty symbols she had
chosen.

“You have got on a good way already then,” began
David, smiling at her fancy.

“Oh no, I haven't!” she said quickly. “I 'm only
about half way up. See here: I 'll tell how it is;” and,
pointing to the different parts of the flowery wall, she
added in her earnest way: “I 've watched these grow,

and had many thoughts about them, as I sit sewing in
the porch. These variegated ones down low are my
childish fancies; most of them gone to seed you see.
These lovely blue ones of all shades are my girlish
dreams and hopes and plans. Poor things! some are
dead, some torn by the wind, and only a few pale ones
left quite perfect. Here you observe they grow sombre
with a tinge of purple; that means pain and gloom,
and there is where I was when I came here. Now
they turn from those sad colors to crimson, rose, and
soft pink. That 's the happiness and health I found here.
You and your dear mother planted them, and you see
how strong and bright they are.”

She lifted up her hand, and gathering one of the
great rosy cups offered it to him, as if it were brimful
of the thanks she could not utter. He comprehended,
took it with a quiet “Thank you,” and stood looking
at it for a moment, as if her little compliment pleased
him very much.

“And these?” he said presently, pointing to the
delicate violet bells that grew next the crimson ones.

The color deepened a shade in Christie's cheek, but
she went on with no other sign of shyness; for with
David she always spoke out frankly, because she could
not help it.

“Those mean love to me, not passion: the deep red
ones half hidden under the leaves mean that. My
violet flowers are the best and purest love we can
know: the sort that makes life beautiful and lasts for
ever. The white ones that come next are tinged with
that soft color here and there, and they mean holiness.
I know there will be love in heaven; so, whether I

ever find it here or not, I am sure I shall not miss it
wholly.”

Then, as if glad to leave the theme that never can
be touched without reverent emotion by a true woman,
she added, looking up to where a few spotless blossoms
shone like silver in the light:

“Far away there in the sunshine are my highest
aspirations. I cannot reach them: but I can look up,
and see their beauty; believe in them, and try to follow
where they lead; remember that frost comes latest to
those that bloom the highest; and keep my beautiful
white flowers as long as I can.”

“The mush is ready; come to breakfast, children,”
called Mrs. Sterling, as she crossed the hall with a tea-pot
in her hand.

Christie's face fell, then she exclaimed laughing:
“That 's always the way; I never take a poetic flight
but in comes the mush, and spoils it all.”

“Not a bit; and that 's where women are mistaken.
Souls and bodies should go on together; and you will
find that a hearty breakfast won't spoil the little hymn
the morning-glories sung;” and David set her a good
example by eating two bowls of hasty-pudding and
milk, with the lovely flower in his button-hole.

“Now, what are we to do next?” asked Christie,
when the usual morning work was finished.

“In about ten minutes thee will see, I think,” answered
Mrs. Sterling, glancing at the clock, and smiling
at the bright expectant look in the younger woman's
eyes.

She did see; for in less than ten minutes the rumble
of an omnibus was heard, a sound of many voices, and

then the whole Wilkins brood came whooping down
the lane. It was good to see Ma Wilkins jog ponderously
after in full state and festival array; her bonnet
trembling with bows, red roses all over her gown, and
a parasol of uncommon brilliancy brandished joyfully
in her hand. It was better still to see her hug Christie,
when the latter emerged, flushed and breathless, from
the chaos of arms, legs, and chubby faces in which she
was lost for several tumultuous moments; and it was
best of all to see the good woman place her cherished
“bunnit” in the middle of the parlor table as a choice
and lovely ornament, administer the family pocket-handkerchief
all round, and then settle down with a
hearty:

“Wal, now, Mis Sterlin', you've no idee how tickled
we all was when Mr. David came, and told us you was
goin' to have a galy here to-day. It was so kind of
providential, for 'Lisha was invited out to a day's
pleasurin', so I could leave jest as wal as not. The
children 's ben hankerin' to come the wust kind, and go
plummin' as they did last month, though I told 'em berries
was gone weeks ago. I reelly thought I 'd never
get 'em here whole, they trained so in that bus. Wash
would go on the step, and kep fallin' off; Gusty's hat
blew out a winder; them two bad boys tumbled round
loose; and dear little Victory set like a lady, only I
found she 'd got both feet in the basket right atop of
the birthday cake, I made a puppose for Christie.”

“It hasn't hurt it a bit; there was a cloth over it,
and I like it all the better for the marks of Totty's
little feet, bless 'em!” and Christie cuddled the culprit
with one hand while she revealed the damaged

delicacy with the other, wondering inwardly what evil
star was always in the ascendant when Mrs. Wilkins
made cake.

“Now, my dear, you jest go and have a good frolic
with them children, I 'm a goin' to git dinner, and you
a goin' to play; so we don't want to see no more of
you till the bell rings,” said Mrs. Wilkins pinning up
her gown, and “shooing” her brood out of the room,
which they entirely filled.

Catching up her hat Christie obeyed, feeling as much
like a child as any of the excited six. The revels
that followed no pen can justly record, for Goths and
Vandals on the rampage but feebly describes the youthful
Wilkinses when their spirits effervesced after a
month's bottling up in close home quarters.

David locked the greenhouse door the instant he
saw them; and pervaded the premises generally like
a most affable but very watchful policeman, for the ravages
those innocents committed much afflicted him.
Yet he never had the heart to say a word of reproof,
when he saw their raptures over dandelions, the relish
with which they devoured fruit, and the good it did the
little souls and bodies to enjoy unlimited liberty, green
grass, and country air, even for a day.

Christie usually got them into the big meadow as
soon as possible, and there let them gambol at will;
while she sat on the broken bough of an apple-tree,
and watched her flock like an old-fashioned shepherdess.
To-day she did so; and when the children were happily
sailing boats, tearing to and fro like wild colts, or discovering
the rustic treasures Nurse Nature lays ready
to gladden little hearts and hands, Christie sat idly

[ILLUSTRATION]

A Friendly Chat.

[Description: 445EAF. Page 264. In-line image of David, holding a child, stops by a stone wall to talk to Christie.]

making a garland of green brakes, and ruddy sumach
leaves ripened before the early frosts had come.

David saw her there, and, feeling that he might come
off guard for a time, went strolling down to lean upon
the wall, and chat in the friendly fashion that had naturally
grown up between these fellow-workers. She was
waiting for the new supply of ferns little Adelaide was
getting for her by the wall; and while she waited she

sat resting her cheek upon her hand, and smiling to
herself, as if she saw some pleasant picture in the green
grass at her feet.

“Now I wonder what she 's thinking about,” said
David's voice close by, and Christie straightway answered:

“Philip Fletcher.”

“And who is he?” asked David, settling his elbow
in a comfortable niche between the mossy stones, so
that he could “lean and loaf” at his ease.

“The brother of the lady whose children I took care
of;” and Christie wished she had thought before she
answered that first question, for in telling her adventures
at different times she had omitted all mention of
this gentleman.

“Tell about him, as the children say: your experiences
are always interesting, and you look as if this
man was uncommonly entertaining in some way,” said
David, indolently inclined to be amused.

“Oh, dear no, not at all entertaining! invalids seldom
are, and he was sick and lazy, conceited and very cross
sometimes.” Christie's heart rather smote her as she said
this, remembering the last look poor Fletcher gave her.

“A nice man to be sure; but I don't see any thing to
smile about,” persisted David, who liked reasons for
things; a masculine trait often very trying to feminine
minds.

“I was thinking of a little quarrel we once had. He
found out that I had been an actress; for I basely did
not mention that fact when I took the place, and so got
properly punished for my deceit. I thought he 'd tell
his sister of course, so I did it myself, and retired from

the situation as much disgusted with Christie Devon as
you are.”

“Perhaps I ought to be, but I don't find that I am.
Do you know I think that old Fletcher was a sneak?”
and David looked as if he would rather like to mention
his opinion to that gentleman.

“He probably thought he was doing his duty to the
children: few people would approve of an actress for a
teacher you know. He had seen me play, and remembered
it all of a sudden, and told me of it: that was the
way it came about,” said Christie hastily, feeling that
she must get out of the scrape as soon as possible, or
she would be driven to tell every thing in justice to Mr.
Fletcher.

“I should like to see you act.”

“You a Quaker, and express such a worldly and
dreadful wish?” cried Christie, much amused, and very
grateful that his thoughts had taken a new direction.

“I 'm not, and never have been. Mother married out
of the sect, and, though she keeps many of her old ways,
always left me free to believe what I chose. I wear
drab because I like it, and say `thee' to her because
she likes it, and it is pleasant to have a little word all
our own. I 've been to theatres, but I don't care much
for them. Perhaps I should if I 'd had Fletcher's luck
in seeing you play.”

“You didn't lose much: I was not a good actress;
though now and then when I liked my part I did pretty
well they said,” answered Christie, modestly.

“Why didn't you go back after the accident?” asked
David, who had heard that part of the story.

“I felt that it was bad for me, and so retired to private
life.”

“Do you ever regret it?”

“Sometimes when the restless fit is on me: but not
so often now as I used to do; for on the whole I 'd
rather be a woman than act a queen.”

“Good!” said David, and then added persuasively:
“But you will play for me some time: won't you? I 've
a curious desire to see you do it.”

“Perhaps I 'll try,” replied Christie, flattered by his
interest, and not unwilling to display her little talent.

“Who are you making that for? it 's very pretty,”
asked David, who seemed to be in an inquiring frame
of mind that day.

“Any one who wants it. I only do it for the pleasure:
I always liked pretty things; but, since I have lived
among flowers and natural people, I seem to care more
than ever for beauty of all kinds, and love to make it if I
can without stopping for any reason but the satisfaction,”

observed David, who had a weakness for poetry, and,
finding she liked his sort, quoted to Christie almost as
freely as to himself.

“Exactly, so look at that and enjoy it,” and she
pointed to the child standing knee-deep in graceful
ferns, looking as if she grew there, a living buttercup,
with her buff frock off at one plump shoulder and her
bright hair shining in the sun.

Before David could express his admiration, the little
picture was spoilt; for Christie called out, “Come, Vic,
bring me some more pretties!” startling baby so that
she lost her balance, and disappeared with a muffled

cry, leaving nothing to be seen but a pair of small convulsive
shoes, soles uppermost, among the brakes. David
took a leap, reversed Vic, and then let her compose
her little feelings by sticking bits of green in all the
button-holes of his coat, as he sat on the wall while she
stood beside him in the safe shelter of his arm.

“You are very like an Englishman,” said Christie,
after watching the pair for a few minutes.

“How do you know?” asked David, looking surprised.

“There were several in our company, and I found
them very much alike. Blunt and honest, domestic and
kind; hard to get at, but true as steel when once won;
not so brilliant and original as Americans, perhaps, but
more solid and steadfast. On the whole, I think them
the manliest men in the world,” answered Christie, in
the decided way young people have of expressing their
opinions.

“You speak as if you had known and studied a great
variety of men,” said David, feeling that he need not
resent the comparison she had made.

“I have, and it has done me good. Women who
stand alone in the world, and have their own way to
make, have a better chance to know men truly than
those who sit safe at home and only see one side of
mankind. We lose something; but I think we gain a
great deal that is more valuable than admiration, flattery,
and the superficial service most men give to our
sex. Some one says, `Companionship teaches men and
women to know, judge, and treat one another justly.'
I believe it; for we who are compelled to be fellow-workers
with men understand and value them more
truly than many a belle who has a dozen lovers sighing

at her feet. I see their faults and follies; but I also
see so much to honor, love, and trust, that I feel as if
the world was full of brothers. Yes, as a general rule,
men have been kinder to me than women; and if I
wanted a staunch friend I 'd choose a man, for they
wear better than women, who ask too much, and cannot
see that friendship lasts longer if a little respect and
reserve go with the love and confidence.”

Christie had spoken soberly, with no thought of flattery
or effect; for the memory of many kindnesses
bestowed on her by many men, from rough Joe Butterfield
to Mr. Power, gave warmth and emphasis to her
words.

The man sitting on the wall appreciated the compliment
to his sex, and proved that he deserved his share
of it by taking it exactly as she meant it, and saying
heartily:

“I like that, Christie, and wish more women thought
and spoke as you do.”

“If they had had my experience they would, and not
be ashamed of it. I am so old now I can say these things
and not be misjudged; for even some sensible people
think this honest sort of fellowship impossible if not improper.
I don't, and I never shall, so if I can ever do
any thing for you, David, forget that I am a woman and
tell me as freely as if I was a younger brother.”

“I wish you were!”

“So do I; you 'd make a splendid elder brother.”

“No, a very bad one.”

There was a sudden sharpness in David's voice that
jarred on Christie's ear and made her look up quickly.
She only caught a glimpse of his face, and saw that it

was strangely troubled, as he swung himself over the
wall with little Vic on his arm and went toward the
house, saying abruptly:

“Baby 's sleepy: she must go in.”

Christie sat some time longer, wondering what she
had said to disturb him, and when the bell rang went
in still perplexed. But David looked as usual, and the
only trace of disquiet was an occasional hasty shaking
back of the troublesome lock, and a slight knitting of
the brows; two tokens, as she had learned to know,
of impatience or pain.

She was soon so absorbed in feeding the children,
hungry and clamorous as young birds for their food,
that she forgot every thing else. When dinner was
done and cleared away, she devoted herself to Mrs.
Wilkins for an hour or two, while Mrs. Sterling took
her nap, the infants played riotously in the lane, and
David was busy with orders.

The arrival of Mr. Power drew every one to the
porch to welcome him. As he handed Christie a book,
he asked with a significant smile:

“Have you found him yet?”

She glanced at the title of the new gift, read “Heroes
and Hero-worship,” and answered merrily:

“No, sir, but I'm looking hard.”

“Success to your search,” and Mr. Power turned to
greet David, who approached.

“Now, what shall we play?” asked Christie, as the
children gathered about her demanding to be amused.

George Washington suggested leap-frog, and the
others added equally impracticable requests; but Mrs.
Wilkins settled the matter by saying:

“Let 's have some play-actin', Christie. That used
to tickle the children amazin'ly, and I was never tired
of hearin' them pieces, specially the solemn ones.”

“Yes, yes! do the funny girl with the baby, and the
old woman, and the lady that took pison and had fits!”
shouted the children, charmed with the idea.

Christie felt ready for any thing just then, and gave
them Tilly Slowboy, Miss Miggs, and Mrs. Gummage,
in her best style, while the young folks rolled on the
grass in ecstasies, and Mrs. Wilkins laughed till she
cried.

“Now a touch of tragedy!” said Mr. Power, who sat
under the elm, with David leaning on the back of his
chair, both applauding heartily.

“You insatiable people! do you expect me to give
you low comedy and heavy tragedy all alone? I 'm
equal to melodrama I think, and I 'll give you Miss St.
Clair as Juliet, if you wait a moment.”

Christie stepped into the house, and soon reappeared
with a white table-cloth draped about her, two dishevelled
locks of hair on her shoulders, and the vinegar
cruet in her hand, that being the first bottle she could
find. She meant to burlesque the poison scene, and
began in the usual ranting way; but she soon forgot St.
Clair in poor Juliet, and did it as she had often longed
to do it, with all the power and passion she possessed.
Very faulty was her rendering, but the earnestness she
put into it made it most effective to her uncritical audience,
who “brought down the house,” when she fell
upon the grass with her best stage drop, and lay there
getting her breath after the mouthful of vinegar she
had taken in the excitement of the moment.

She was up again directly, and, inspired by this
superb success, ran in and presently reappeared as Lady
Macbeth with Mrs. Wilkins's scarlet shawl for royal
robes, and the leafy chaplet of the morning for a crown.
She took the stage with some difficulty, for the unevenness
of the turf impaired the majesty of her tragic
stride, and fixing her eyes on an invisible Thane (who
cut his part shamefully, and spoke in the gruffest of
gruff voices) she gave them the dagger scene.

David as the orchestra, had been performing a drum
solo on the back of a chair with two of the corn-cobs
Victoria had been building houses with; but, when
Lady Macbeth said, “Give me the daggers,” Christie
plucked the cobs suddenly from his hands, looking so
fiercely scornful, and lowering upon him so wrathfully
with her corked brows that he ejaculated an involuntary,
“Bless me!” as he stepped back quite daunted.

Being in the spirit of her part, Christie closed with
the sleep-walking scene, using the table-cloth again,
while a towel composed the tragic nightcap of her
ladyship. This was an imitation, and having a fine
model and being a good mimic, she did well; for the
children sat staring with round eyes, the gentlemen
watched the woful face and gestures intently, and
Mrs. Wilkins took a long breath at the end, exclaiming:
“I never did see the beat of that for gastliness!
My sister Clarissy used to walk in her sleep, but she
warn't half so kind of dreadful.”

“If she had had the murder of a few friends on her
conscience, I dare say she would have been,” said Christie,
going in to make herself tidy.

“Well, how do you like her as an actress?” asked

Mr. Power of David, who stood looking, as if he still
saw and heard the haunted lady.

“Very much; but better as a woman. I 'd no idea
she had it in her,” answered David, in a wonder-stricken
tone.

“Plenty of tragedy and comedy in all of us,” began
Mr. Power; but David said hastily:

“Yes, but few of us have passion and imagination
enough to act Shakespeare in that way.”

“Very true: Christie herself could not give a whole
character in that style, and would not think of trying.”

“I think she could; and I 'd like to see her try it,”
said David, much impressed by the dramatic ability
which Christie's usual quietude had most effectually
hidden.

He was still thinking about it, when she came out
again. Mr. Power beckoned to her, saying, as she
came and stood before him, flushed and kindled with
her efforts:

“Now, you must give me a bit from the `Merchant of
Venice.' Portia is a favorite character of mine, and I
want to see if you can do any thing with it.”

“No, sir, I cannot. I used to study it, but it was
too sober to suit me. I am not a judicial woman, so I
gave it up,” answered Christie, much flattered by his
request, and amused at the respectful way in which
David looked at her. Then, as if it just occurred to
her, she added, “I remember one little speech that I
can say to you, sir, with great truth, and I will, since
you like that play.”

Still standing before him, she bent her head a little,
and with a graceful gesture of the hands, as if offering

something, she delivered with heartfelt emphasis the
first part of Portia's pretty speech to her fortunate
suitor:

David applauded vigorously; but Mr. Power rose
silently, looking both touched and surprised; and, drawing
Christie's hand through his arm, led her away into
the garden for one of the quiet talks that were so much
to her.

When they returned, the Wilkinses were preparing
to depart; and, after repeated leave-takings, finally
got under way, were packed into the omnibus, and
rumbled off with hats, hands, and handkerchiefs waving
from every window. Mr. Power soon followed,
and peace returned to the little house in the lane.

Later in the evening, when Mrs. Sterling was engaged
with a neighbor, who had come to confide some

affliction to the good lady, Christie went into the porch,
and found David sitting on the step, enjoying the mellow
moonlight and the balmy air. As he did not speak,
she sat down silently, folded her hands in her lap, and
began to enjoy the beauty of the night in her own way.
Presently she became conscious that David's eyes had
turned from the moon to her own face. He sat in the
shade, she in the light, and he was looking at her with
the new expression which amused her.

“Well, what is it? You look as if you never saw
me before,” she said, smiling.

“I feel as if I never hand,” he answered, still regarding
her as if she had been a picture.

“What do I look like?”

“A peaceful, pious nun, just now.”

“Oh! that is owing to my pretty shawl. I put it on
in honor of the day, though it is a trifle warm, I confess.”
And Christie stroked the soft folds about her
shoulders, and settled the corner that lay lightly on her
hair. “I do feel peaceful to-night, but not pious. I
am afraid I never shall do that,” she added soberly.

“Why not?”

“Well, it does not seem to be my nature, and I
don't know how to change it. I want something to
keep me steady, but I can't find it. So I whiffle about
this way and that, and sometimes think I am a most
degenerate creature.”

“That is only human nature, so don't be troubled.
We are all compasses pointing due north. We get
shaken often, and the needle varies in spite of us; but
the minute we are quiet, it points right, and we have
only to follow it.”

“The keeping quiet is just what I cannot do. Your
mother shows me how lovely it is, and I try to imitate
it; but this restless soul of mine will ask questions and
doubt and fear, and worry me in many ways. What
shall I do to keep it still?” asked Christie, smiling, yet
earnest.

“Let it alone: you cannot force these things, and
the best way is to wait till the attraction is strong
enough to keep the needle steady. Some people get
their ballast slowly, some don't need much, and some
have to work hard for theirs.”

“Did you?” asked Christie; for David's voice fell a
little, as he uttered the last words.

“I have not got much yet.”

“I think you have. Why, David, you are always
cheerful and contented, good and generous. If that
is not true piety, what is?”

“You are very much deceived, and I am sorry for
it,” said David, with the impatient gesture of the head,
and a troubled look.

“Prove it!” And Christie looked at him with such
sincere respect and regard, that his honest nature
would not let him accept it, though it gratified him
much.

He made no answer for a minute. Then he said
slowly, as if feeling a modest man's hesitation to speak
of himself, yet urged to it by some irresistible impulse:

“I will prove it if you won't mind the unavoidable
egotism; for I cannot let you think me so much better
than I am. Outwardly I seem to you `cheerful, contented,
generous, and good.' In reality I am sad, dissatisfied,

bad, and selfish: see if I 'm not. I often tire
of this quiet life, hate my work, and long to break
away, and follow my own wild and wilful impulses, no
matter where they lead. Nothing keeps me at such
times but my mother and God's patience.”

David began quietly; but the latter part of this confession
was made with a sudden impetuosity that startled
Christie, so utterly unlike his usual self-control was it.
She could only look at him with the surprise she felt.
His face was in the shadow; but she saw that it was
flushed, his eyes excited, and in his voice she heard an
undertone that made it sternly self-accusing.

“I am not a hypocrite,” he went on rapidly, as if
driven to speak in spite of himself. “I try to be what I
seem, but it is too hard sometimes and I despair. Especially
hard is it to feel that I have learned to feign
happiness so well that others are entirely deceived. Mr.
Power and mother know me as I am: other friends I
have not, unless you will let me call you one. Whether
you do or not after this, I respect you too much to let
you delude yourself about my virtues, so I tell you the
truth and abide the consequences.”

He looked up at her as he paused, with a curious
mixture of pride and humility in his face, and squared
his broad shoulders as if he had thrown off a burden
that had much oppressed him.

Christie offered him her hand, saying in a tone that
did his heart good: “The consequences are that I
respect, admire, and trust you more than ever, and feel
proud to be your friend.”

David gave the hand a strong and grateful pressure,
said, “Thank you,” in a moved tone, and then leaned

back into the shadow, as if trying to recover from this
unusual burst of confidence, won from him by the soft
magic of time, place, and companionship.

Fearing he would regret the glimpse he had given
her, and anxious to show how much she liked it, Christie
talked on to give him time to regain composure.

“I always thought in reading the lives of saints or
good men of any time that their struggles were the
most interesting and helpful things recorded. Human
imperfection only seems to make real piety more possible,
and to me more beautiful; for where others have
conquered I can conquer, having suffered as they suffer,
and seen their hard-won success. That is the sort of
religion I want; something to hold by, live in, and
enjoy, if I can only get it.”

“I know you will.” He said it heartily, and seemed
quite calm again; so Christie obeyed the instinct which
told her that questions would be good for David, and
that he was in the mood for answering them.

“May I ask you something,” she began a little timidly.

“Any thing, Christie,” he answered instantly.

“That is a rash promise: I am a woman, and therefore
curious; what shall you do if I take advantage of
the privilege?”

“Try and see.”

“I will be discreet, and only ask one thing,” she
replied, charmed with her success. “You said just now
that you had learned to feign happiness. I wish you
would tell me how you do it, for it is such an excellent
imitation I shall be quite content with it till I can learn
the genuine thing.”

David fingered the troublesome forelock thoughtfully

for a moment, then said, with something of the
former impetuosity coming back into his voice and
manner:

“I will tell you all about it; that 's the best way: I
know I shall some day because I can't help it; so I may
as well have done with it now, since I have begun. It
is not interesting, mind you, — only a grim little history
of one man's fight with the world, the flesh, and the
devil: will you have it?”

“Oh, yes!” answered Christie, so eagerly that David
laughed, in spite of the bitter memories stirring at his
heart.

“So like a woman, always ready to hear and forgive
sinners,” he said, then took a long breath, and added
rapidly:

“I 'll put it in as few words as possible and much
good may it do you. Some years ago I was desperately
miserable; never mind why: I dare say I shall tell you
all about it some day if I go on at this rate. Well,
being miserable, as I say, every thing looked black and
bad to me: I hated all men, distrusted all women,
doubted the existence of God, and was a forlorn wretch
generally. Why I did not go to the devil I can't say:
I did start once or twice; but the thought of that dear
old woman in there sitting all alone and waiting for me
dragged me back, and kept me here till the first recklessness
was over. People talk about duty being sweet;
I have not found it so, but there it was: I should have
been a brute to shirk it; so I took it up, and held on
desperately till it grew bearable.”

“It has grown sweet now, David, I am sure,” said
Christie, very low.

“No, not yet,” he answered with the stern honesty
that would not let him deceive himself or others, cost
what it might to be true. “There is a certain solid satisfaction
in it that I did not use to find. It is not a
mere dogged persistence now, as it once was, and that
is a step towards loving it perhaps.”

He spoke half to himself, and sat leaning his head
on both hands propped on his knees, looking down as
if the weight of the old trouble bent his shoulders
again.

“What more, David?” said Christie.

“Only this. When I found I had got to live, and
live manfully, I said to myself, `I must have help or I
cannot do it.' To no living soul could I tell my grief,
not even to my mother, for she had her own to bear:
no human being could help me, yet I must have help
or give up shamefully. Then I did what others do
when all else fails to sustain them; I turned to God:
not humbly, not devoutly or trustfully, but doubtfully,
bitterly, and rebelliously; for I said in my despairing
heart, `If there is a God, let Him help me, and I will
believe.' He did help me, and I kept my word.”

“Oh, David, how?” whispered Christie after a moment's
silence, for the last words were solemn in their
earnestness.

“The help did not come at once. No miracle answered
me, and I thought my cry had not been heard. But it
had, and slowly something like submission came to me.
It was not cheerful nor pious: it was only a dumb, sad
sort of patience without hope or faith. It was better
than desperation; so I accepted it, and bore the inevitable
as well as I could. Presently, courage seemed to

spring up again: I was ashamed to be beaten in the first
battle, and some sort of blind instinct made me long to
break away from the past and begin again. My father
was dead; mother left all to me, and followed where I
led. I sold the old place, bought this, and, shutting
out the world as much as I could, I fell to work
as if my life depended on it. That was five or six
years ago: and for a long time I delved away without
interest or pleasure, merely as a safety-valve for my
energies, and a means of living; for I gave up all my
earlier hopes and plans when the trouble came.

“I did not love my work; but it was good for me,
and helped cure my sick soul. I never guessed why I felt
better, but dug on with indifference first, then felt pride
in my garden, then interest in the plants I tended, and
by and by I saw what they had done for me, and loved
them like true friends.”

A broad woodbine leaf had been fluttering against
David's head, as he leaned on the slender pillar of the
porch where it grew. Now, as if involuntarily, he laid
his cheek against it with a caressing gesture, and sat
looking over the garden lying dewy and still in the
moonlight, with the grateful look of a man who has
learned the healing miracles of Nature and how near
she is to God.

“Mr. Power helped you: didn't he?” said Christie,
longing to hear more.

“So much! I never can tell you what he was to me,
nor how I thank him. To him, and to my work I owe
the little I have won in the way of strength and comfort
after years of effort. I see now the compensation
that comes out of trouble, the lovely possibilities that

exist for all of us, and the infinite patience of God,
which is to me one of the greatest of His divine attributes.
I have only got so far, but things grow easier as
one goes on; and if I keep tugging I may yet be the
cheerful, contented man I seem. That is all, Christie,
and a longer story than I meant to tell.”

“Not long enough: some time you will tell me more
perhaps, since you have once begun. It seems quite
natural now, and I am so pleased and honored by your
confidence. But I cannot help wondering what made
you do it all at once,” said Christie presently, after they
had listened to a whippoorwill, and watched the flight
of a downy owl.

“I do not think I quite know myself, unless it was
because I have been on my good behavior since you
came, and, being a humbug, as I tell you, was forced
to unmask in spite of myself. There are limits to
human endurance, and the proudest man longs to
unpack his woes before a sympathizing friend now
and then. I have been longing to do this for some
time; but I never like to disturb mother's peace, or
take Mr. Power from those who need him more. So
to-day, when you so sweetly offered to help me if
you could, it quite went to my heart, and seemed so
friendly and comfortable, I could not resist trying it to-night,
when you began about my imaginary virtues.
That is the truth, I believe: now, what shall we do
about it?”

“Just go on, and do it again whenever you feel like
it. I know what loneliness is, and how telling worries
often cures them. I meant every word I said this
morning, and will prove it by doing any thing in the

world I can for you. Believe this, and let me be your
friend.”

They had risen, as a stir within told them the guest
was going; and as Christie spoke she was looking up
with the moonlight full upon her face.

If there had been any hidden purpose in her mind,
any false sentiment, or trace of coquetry in her manner,
it would have spoiled that hearty little speech of hers.

But in her heart was nothing but a sincere desire to
prove gratitude and offer sympathy; in her manner
the gentle frankness of a woman speaking to a brother;
and in her face the earnestness of one who felt the
value of friendship, and did not ask or give it lightly.

“I will,” was David's emphatic answer, and then, as
if to seal the bargain, he stooped down, and gravely
kissed her on the forehead.

Christie was a little startled, but neither offended nor
confused; for there was no love in that quiet kiss, — only
respect, affection, and much gratitude; an involuntary
demonstration from the lonely man to the true-hearted
woman who had dared to come and comfort him.

Out trotted neighbor Miller, and that was the end of
confidences in the porch; but David played melodiously
on his flute that night, and Christie fell asleep saying
happily to herself:

“Now we are all right, friends for ever, and every
thing will go beautifully.”