University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
WAKING UP.

EVERY thing did “go beautifully” for a time;
so much so, that Christie began to think she
really had “got religion.” A delightful peace pervaded
her soul, a new interest made the dullest task agreeable,
and life grew so inexpressibly sweet that she felt as
if she could forgive all her enemies, love her friends
more than ever, and do any thing great, good, or
glorious.

She had known such moods before, but they had
never lasted long, and were not so intense as this;
therefore, she was sure some blessed power had come
to uphold and cheer her. She sang like a lark as she

swept and dusted; thought high and happy thoughts
among the pots and kettles, and, when she sat sewing,
smiled unconsciously as if some deep satisfaction made
sunshine from within. Heart and soul seemed to wake
up and rejoice as naturally and beautifully as flowers in
the spring. A soft brightness shone in her eyes, a
fuller tone sounded in her voice, and her face grew
young and blooming with the happiness that transfigures
all it touches.

“Christie 's growing handsome,” David would say
to his mother, as if she was a flower in which he took
pride.

“Thee is a good gardener, Davy,” the old lady would
reply, and when he was busy would watch him with a
tender sort of anxiety, as if to discover a like change in
him.

But no alteration appeared, except more cheerfulness
and less silence; for now there was no need to hide his
real self, and all the social virtues in him came out
delightfully after their long solitude.

In her present uplifted state, Christie could no more
help regarding David as a martyr and admiring him
for it, than she could help mixing sentiment with her
sympathy. By the light of the late confessions, his life
and character looked very different to her now. His
apparent contentment was resignation; his cheerfulness,
a manly contempt for complaint; his reserve, the
modest reticence of one who, having done a hard duty
well, desires no praise for it. Like all enthusiastic persons,
Christie had a hearty admiration for self-sacrifice
and self-control; and, while she learned to see David's
virtues, she also exaggerated them, and could not do

enough to show the daily increasing esteem and respect
she felt for him, and to atone for the injustice she once
did him.

She grubbed in the garden and green-house, and
learned hard botanical names that she might be able to
talk intelligently upon subjects that interested her comrade.
Then, as autumn ended out-of-door work, she
tried to make home more comfortable and attractive
than ever.

David's room was her especial care; for now to her
there was something pathetic in the place and its poor
furnishing. He had fought many a silent battle there;
won many a secret victory; and tried to cheer his solitude
with the best thoughts the minds of the bravest,
wisest men could give him.

She did not smile at the dilapidated idols now, but
touched them tenderly, and let no dust obscure their
well-beloved faces. She set the books in order daily,
taking many a sip of refreshment from them by the
way, and respectfully regarded those in unknown
tongues, full of admiration for David's learning. She
covered the irruptive sofa neatly; saw that the little
vase was always clear and freshly filled; cared for the
nursery in the gable-window; and preserved an exquisite
neatness everywhere, which delighted the soul of the
room's order-loving occupant.

She also — alas, for romance! — cooked the dishes
David loved, and liked to see him enjoy them with the
appetite which once had shocked her so. She watched
over his buttons with a vigilance that would have
softened the heart of the crustiest bachelor: she even
gave herself the complexion of a lemon by wearing

blue, because David liked the pretty contrast with his
mother's drabs.

After recording that last fact, it is unnecessary to explain
what was the matter with Christie. She honestly
thought she had got religion; but it was piety's twin-sister,
who produced this wonderful revival in her soul;
and though she began in all good faith she presently
discovered that she was

After the birthnight confessions, David found it
easier to go on with the humdrum life he had chosen
from a sense of duty; for now he felt as if he had not
only a fellow-worker, but a comrade and friend who understood,
sympathized with, and encouraged him by an
interest and good-will inexpressibly comfortable and
inspiring. Nothing disturbed the charm of the new
league in those early days; for Christie was thoroughly
simple and sincere, and did her womanly work with no
thought of reward or love or admiration.

David saw this, and felt it more attractive than any
gift of beauty or fascination of manner would have
been. He had no desire to be a lover, having forbidden
himself that hope; but he found it so easy and pleasant
to be a friend that he reproached himself for not trying
it before; and explained his neglect by the fact that
Christie was not an ordinary woman, since none of all
the many he had known and helped, had ever been
any thing to him but objects of pity and protection.

Mrs. Sterling saw these changes with her wise,

motherly eyes, but said nothing; for she influenced
others by the silent power of character. Speaking
little, and unusually gifted with the meditative habits
of age, she seemed to live in a more peaceful world
than this. As George MacDonald somewhere says,
“Her soul seemed to sit apart in a sunny little room,
safe from dust and noise, serenely regarding passers-by
through the clear muslin curtains of her window.”

Yet, she was neither cold nor careless, stern nor selfish,
but ready to share all the joys and sorrows of
those about her; and when advice was asked she gave
it gladly. Christie had won her heart long ago, and
now was as devoted as a daughter to her; lightening
her cares so skilfully that many of them slipped naturally
on to the young shoulders, and left the old lady
much time for rest, or the lighter tasks fitted for feeble
hands. Christie often called her “Mother,” and felt
herself rewarded for the hardest, humblest job she ever
did when the sweet old voice said gratefully, “I thank
thee, daughter.”

Things were in this prosperous, not to say paradisiacal,
state, when one member of the family began to
make discoveries of an alarming nature. The first was
that the Sunday pilgrimages to church were seasons of
great refreshment to soul and body when David went
also, and utter failures if he did not. Next, that the
restless ambitions of all sorts were quite gone; for now
Christie's mission seemed to be sitting in a quiet corner
and making shirts in the most exquisite manner, while
thinking about — well, say botany, or any kindred subject.
Thirdly, that home was woman's sphere after all,
and the perfect roasting of beef, brewing of tea, and

concocting of delectable puddings, an end worth living
for if masculine commendation rewarded the labor.

Fourthly, and worst of all, she discovered that she
was not satisfied with half confidences, and quite pined
to know all about “David's trouble.” The little needle-book
with the faded “Letty” on it haunted her; and
when, after a pleasant evening below, she heard him
pace his room for hours, or play melancholy airs upon
the flute, she was jealous of that unknown woman who
had such power to disturb his peace, and felt a strong
desire to smash the musical confidante into whose responsive
breast he poured his woe.

At this point Christie paused; and, after evading any
explanation of these phenomena in the most skilful
manner for a time, suddenly faced the fact, saying to
herself with great candor and decision:

“I know what all this means: I 'm beginning to
like David more than is good for me. I see this clearly,
and won't dodge any longer, but put a stop to it at
once. Of course I can if I choose, and now is the time
to do it; for I understand myself perfectly, and if I
reach a certain point it is all over with me. That
point I will not reach: David's heart is in that Letty's
grave, and he only cares for me as a friend. I promised
to be one to him, and I 'll keep my word like an honest
woman. It may not be easy; but all the sacrifices
shall not be his, and I won't be a fool.”

With praiseworthy resolution Christie set about the
reformation without delay; not an easy task and one
that taxed all her wit and wisdom to execute without
betraying the motive for it. She decided that Mrs.
Sterling must not be left alone on Sunday, so the young

people took turns to go to church, and such dismal trips
Christie had never known; for all her Sundays were bad
weather, and Mr. Power seemed to hit on unusually
uninteresting texts.

She talked while she sewed instead of indulging in
dangerous thoughts, and Mrs. Sterling was surprised
and entertained by this new loquacity. In the evening
she read and studied with a diligence that amazed and
rather disgusted David; since she kept all her lively
chat for his mother, and pored over her books when he
wanted her for other things.

“I 'm trying to brighten up my wits,” she said, and
went on trying to stifle her affections.

But though “the absurdity,” as she called the new
revelation, was stopped externally, it continued with
redoubled vigor internally. Each night she said, “this
must be conquered,” yet each morning it rose fair and
strong to make the light and beauty of her day, and
conquer her again. She did her best and bravest, but
was forced at last to own that she could not “put a
stop to it,” because she had already reached the point
where “it was all over with her.”

Just at this critical moment an event occurred which
completed Christie's defeat, and made her feel that her
only safety lay in flight.

One evening she sat studying ferns, and heroically
saying over and over, “Andiantum, Aspidium, and
Asplenium, Trichomanes,” while longing to go and talk
delightfully to David, who sat musing by the fire.

“I can't go on so much longer,” she thought despairingly.
“Polypodium aureum, a native of Florida,” is
all very interesting in its place; but it doesn't help me

to gain self-control a bit, and I shall disgrace myself
if something doesn't happen very soon.”

Something did happen almost instantly; for as she
shut the cover sharply on the poor Polypods, a knock
was heard, and before David could answer it the door
flew open and a girl ran in. Straight to him she went,
and clinging to his arm said excitedly:

“Oh, do take care of me: I 've run away again!”

“Why, Kitty, what 's the matter now?” asked
David, putting back her hood, and looking down at her
with the paternal expression Christie had not seen for
a long time, and missed very much.

“Father found me, and took me home, and wanted
me to marry a dreadful man, and I wouldn't, so I ran
away to you. He didn't know I came here before, and
I 'm safe if you 'll let me stay,” cried Kitty, still clinging
and imploring.

“Of course I will, and glad to see you back again,”
answered David, adding pitifully, as he put her in his
easy-chair, took her cloak and hood off and stood stroking
her curly hair: “Poor little girl! it is hard to have
to run away so much: isn 't it?”

“Not if I come here; it 's so pleasant I 'd like to stay
all my life,” and Kitty took a long breath, as if her
troubles were over now. “Who 's that?” she asked
suddenly, as her eye fell on Christie, who sat watching
her with interest:

“That is our good friend Miss Devon. She came
to take your place, and we got so fond of her we
could not let her go,” answered David with a gesture
of introduction, quite unconscious that his position
just then was about as safe and pleasant as that of

a man between a lighted candle and an open powder
barrel.

The two young women nodded to each other, took
a swift survey, and made up their minds before David
had poked the fire. Christie saw a pretty face with
rosy cheeks, blue eyes, and brown rings of hair lying
on the smooth, low forehead; a young face, but not
childlike, for it was conscious of its own prettiness, and
betrayed the fact by little airs and graces that reminded
one of a coquettish kitten. Short and slender, she
looked more youthful than she was; while a gay dress,
with gilt ear-rings, locket at the throat, and a cherry
ribbon in her hair made her a bright little figure in that
plain room.

Christie suddenly felt as if ten years had been added
to her age, as she eyed the new-comer, who leaned back
in the great chair talking to David, who stood on the
rug, evidently finding it pleasanter to look at the vivacious
face before him than at the fire.

“Just the pretty, lively sort of girl sensible men
often marry, and then discover how silly they are,”
thought Christie, taking up her work and assuming an
indifferent air.

“She 's a lady and nice looking, but I know I shan't
like her,” was Kitty's decision, as she turned away and
devoted herself to David, hoping he would perceive
how much she had improved and admire her accordingly.

“So you don't want to marry this Miles because he
is not handsome. You 'd better think again before you
make up your mind. He is respectable, well off, and
fond of you, it seems. Why not try it, Kitty? You

need some one to take care of you sadly,” David said,
when her story had been told.

“If father plagues me much I may take the man;
but I 'd rather have the other one if he wasn't poor,”
answered Kitty with a side-long glance of the blue
eyes, and a conscious smile on the red lips.

“Oh, there 's another lover, is there?”

“Lots of 'em.”

David laughed and looked at Christie as if inviting
her to be amused with the freaks and prattle of a child.
But Christie sewed away without a sign of interest.

“That won't do, Kitty: you are too young for much
of such nonsense. I shall keep you here a while, and
see if we can't settle matters both wisely and pleasantly,”
he said, shaking his head as sagely as a grandfather.

“I 'm sure I wish you would: I love to stay here,
you are always so good to me. I 'm in no hurry to be
married; and you won't make me: will you?”

Kitty rose as she spoke, and stood before him with a
beseeching little gesture, and a confiding air quite captivating
to behold.

Christie was suddenly seized with a strong desire to
shake the girl and call her an “artful little hussy,” but
crushed this unaccountable impulse, and hemmed a
pocket-handkerchief with reckless rapidity, while she
stole covert glances at the tableau by the fire.

David put his finger under Kitty's round chin, and
lifting her face looked into it, trying to discover if
she really cared for this suitor who seemed so providentially
provided for her. Kitty smiled and blushed,
and dimpled under that grave look so prettily that it

soon changed, and David let her go, saying indulgently:

“You shall not be troubled, for you are only a child
after all. Let the lovers go, and stay and play with me,
for I 've been rather lonely lately.”

“That 's a reproach for me,” thought Christie, longing
to cry out: “No, no; send the girl away and let
me be all in all to you.” But she only turned up the
lamp and pretended to be looking for a spool, while her
heart ached and her eyes were too dim for seeing.

“I 'm too old to play, but I 'll stay and tease you as
I used to, if Miles don't come and carry me off as he
said he would,” answered Kitty, with a toss of the
head which showed she was not so childlike as David
fancied. But the next minute she was sitting on a
stool at his feet petting the cat, while she told her adventures
with girlish volubility.

Christie could not bear to sit and look on any longer,
so she left the room, saying she would see if Mrs. Sterling
wanted any thing, for the old lady kept her room
with a touch of rheumatism. As she shut the door,
Christie heard Kitty say softly:

“Now we 'll be comfortable as we used to be: won't
we?”

What David answered Christie did not stay to hear,
but went into the kitchen, and had her first pang of
jealousy out alone, while she beat up the buckwheats
for breakfast with an energy that made them miracles
of lightness on the morrow.

When she told Mrs. Sterling of the new arrival,
the placid little lady gave a cluck of regret and said
with unusual emphasis:

“I 'm sorry for it.”

“Why?” asked Christie, feeling as if she could embrace
the speaker for the words.

“She is a giddy little thing, and much care to whoever
befriends her.” Mrs. Sterling would say no more,
but, as Christie bade her good-night, she held her hand,
saying with a kiss:

“No one will take thy place with me, my daughter.”

For a week Christie suffered constant pin-pricks of
jealousy, despising herself all the time, and trying to
be friendly with the disturber of her peace. As if
prompted by an evil spirit, Kitty unconsciously tried
and tormented her from morning to night, and no one
saw or guessed it unless Mrs. Sterling's motherly heart
divined the truth. David seemed to enjoy the girl's
lively chat, her openly expressed affection, and the fresh
young face that always brightened when he came.

Presently, however, Christie saw a change in him,
and suspected that he had discovered that Kitty was a
child no longer, but a young girl with her head full of
love and lovers. The blue eyes grew shy, the pretty
face grew eloquent with blushes now and then, as he
looked at it, and the lively tongue faltered sometimes
in speaking to him. A thousand little coquetries were
played off for his benefit, and frequent appeals for
advice in her heart affairs kept tender subjects uppermost
in their conversations.

At first all this seemed to amuse David as much as
if Kitty were a small child playing at sweethearts; but
soon his manner changed, growing respectful, and a
little cool when Kitty was most confiding. He no
longer laughed about Miles, stopped calling her “little

girl,” and dropped his paternal ways as he had done
with Christie. By many indescribable but significant
signs he showed that he considered Kitty a woman
now and treated her as such, being all the more scrupulous
in the respect he paid her, because she was so
unprotected, and so wanting in the natural dignity and
refinement which are a woman's best protection.

Christie admired him for this, but saw in it the
beginning of a tenderer feeling than pity, and felt each
day that she was one too many now.

Kitty was puzzled and piqued by these changes, and
being a born flirt tried all her powers on David, veiled
under guileless girlishness. She was very pretty, very
charming, and at times most lovable and sweet when
all that was best in her shallow little heart was touched.
But it was evident to all that her early acquaintance
with the hard and sordid side of life had brushed the
bloom from her nature, and filled her mind with
thoughts and feelings unfitted to her years.

Mrs. Sterling was very kind to her, but never treated
her as she did Christie; and though not a word was
spoken between them the elder women knew that they
quite agreed in their opinion of Kitty. She evidently
was rather afraid of the old lady, who said so little and
saw so much. Christie also she shunned without appearing
to do so, and when alone with her put on airs
that half amused, half irritated the other.

“David is my friend, and I don't care for any one
else,” her manner said as plainly as words; and to him
she devoted herself so entirely, and apparently so successfully,
that Christie made up her mind he had at
last begun to forget his Letty, and think of filling the
void her loss had left.

A few words which she accidentally overheard confirmed
this idea, and showed her what she must do.
As she came quietly in one evening from a stroll in the
lane, and stood taking off cloak and hood, she caught a
glimpse through the half-open parlor door of David
pacing to and fro with a curiously excited expression
on his face, and heard Mrs. Sterling say with unusual
warmth:

“Thee is too hard upon thyself, Davy. Forget the
past and be happy as other men are. Thee has atoned
for thy fault long ago, so let me see thee at peace
before I die, my son.”

“Not yet, mother, not yet. I have no right to hope
or ask for any woman's love till I am worthier of it,”
answered David in a tone that thrilled Christie's heart:
it was so full of love and longing.

Here Kitty came running in from the green-house
with her hands full of flowers, and passing Christie, who
was fumbling among the cloaks in the passage, she
went to show David some new blossom.

He had no time to alter the expression of his face
for its usual grave serenity: Kitty saw the change at
once, and spoke of it with her accustomed want of
tact.

“How handsome you look! What are you thinking
about?” she said, gazing up at him with her own eyes
bright with wonder, and her cheeks glowing with the
delicate carmine of the frosty air.

“I am thinking that you look more like a rose than
ever,” answered David turning her attention from himself
by a compliment, and beginning to admire the

flowers, still with that flushed and kindled look on his
own face.

Christie crept upstairs, and, sitting in the dark, decided
with the firmness of despair to go away, lest she should
betray the secret that possessed her, a dead hope now,
but still too dear to be concealed.

“Mr. Power told me to come to him when I got tired
of this. I 'll say I am tired and try something else, no
matter what: I can bear any thing, but to stand quietly
by and see David marry that empty-hearted girl, who
dares to show that she desires to win him. Out of
sight of all this, I can conquer my love, at least hide it;
but if I stay I know I shall betray myself in some bitter
minute, and I 'd rather die than do that.”

Armed with this resolution, Christie went the next
day to Mr. Power, and simply said: “I am not needed
at the Sterlings any more: can you give me other work
to do?”

Mr. Power's keen eye searched her face for a moment,
as if to discover the real motive for her wish.
But Christie had nerved herself to bear that look, and
showed no sign of her real trouble, unless the set expression
of her lips, and the unnatural steadiness of
her eyes betrayed it to that experienced reader of
human hearts.

Whatever he suspected or saw, Mr. Power kept to
himself, and answered in his cordial way:

“Well, I 've been expecting you would tire of that
quiet life, and have plenty of work ready for you.
One of my good Dorcases is tired out and must rest; so
you shall take her place and visit my poor, report
their needs, and supply them as fast as we can. Does
that suit you?”

“Entirely, sir. Where shall I live?” asked Christie,
with an expression of relief that said much.

“Here for the present. I want a secretary to put my
papers in order, write some of my letters, and do a
thousand things to help a busy man. My old housekeeper
likes you, and will let you take a duster now
and then if you don't find enough other work to do.
When can you come?”

Christie answered with a long breath of satisfaction:
“To-morrow, if you like.”

“I do: can you be spared so soon?”

“Oh, yes! they don't want me now at all, or I would
not leave them. Kitty can take my place: she needs
protection more than I; and there is not room for two.”
She checked herself there, conscious that a tone of
bitterness had crept into her voice. Then quite steadily
she added:

“Will you be kind enough to write, and ask Mrs.
Sterling if she can spare me? I shall find it hard to
tell her myself, for I fear she may think me ungrateful
after all her kindness.”

“No: she is used to parting with those whom she
has helped, and is always glad to set them on their way
toward better things. I will write to-morrow, and you
can come whenever you will, sure of a welcome, my
child.”

Something in the tone of those last words, and the
pressure of the strong, kind hand, touched Christie's
sore heart, and made it impossible for her to hide the
truth entirely.

She only said: “Thank you, sir. I shall be very
glad to come;” but her eyes were full, and she held

his hand an instant, as if she clung to it sure of succor
and support.

Then she went home so pale and quiet; so helpful,
patient, and affectionate, that Mrs. Sterling watched
her anxiously; David looked amazed; and, even self-absorbed
Kitty saw the change, and was touched
by it.

On the morrow, Mr. Power's note came, and Christie
fled upstairs while it was read and discussed.

“If I get through this parting without disgracing
myself, I don't care what happens to me afterward,” she
said; and, in order that she might do so, she assumed
a cheerful air, and determined to depart with all the
honors of war, if she died in the attempt.

So, when Mrs. Sterling called her down, she went
humming into the parlor, smiled as she read the note
silently given her, and then said with an effort greater
than any she had ever made in her most arduous part
on the stage:

“Yes, I did say to Mr. Power that I thought I 'd
better be moving on. I 'm a restless creature as you
know; and, now that you don't need me, I 've a fancy to
see more of the world. If you want me back again in
the spring, I 'll come.”

“I shall want thee, my dear, but will not say a word
to keep thee now, for thee does need a change, and Mr.
Power can give thee work better suited to thy taste
than any here. We shall see thee sometimes, and
spring will make thee long for the flowers, I hope,”
was Mrs. Sterling's answer, as Christie gave back the
note at the end of her difficult speech.

“Don't think me ungrateful. I have been very

happy here, and never shall forget how motherly kind
you have been to me. You will believe this and love
me still, though I go away and leave you for a little
while?” prayed Christie, with a face full of treacherous
emotion.

Mrs. Sterling laid her hand on Christie's head, as she
knelt down impulsively before her, and with a soft solemnity
that made the words both an assurance and a
blessing, she said:

“I believe and love and honor thee, my child. My
heart warmed to thee from the first: it has taken
thee to itself now; and nothing can ever come between
us, unless thee wills it. Remember that, and go in
peace with an old friend's thanks, and good wishes
in return for faithful service, which no money can
repay.”

Christie laid her cheek against that wrinkled one, and,
for a moment, was held close to that peaceful old heart
which felt so tenderly for her, yet never wounded her
by a word of pity. Infinitely comforting was that little
instant of time, when the venerable woman consoled
the young one with a touch, and strengthened her by
the mute eloquence of sympathy.

This made the hardest task of all easier to perform;
and, when David met her in the evening, Christie was
ready to play out her part, feeling that Mrs. Sterling
would help her, if need be. But David took it very
quietly; at least, he showed no very poignant regret at
her departure, though he lamented it, and hoped it
would not be a very long absence. This wounded
Christie terribly; for all of a sudden a barrier seemed
to rise between them, and the old friendliness grew
chilled.

“He thinks I am ungrateful, and is offended,” she
said to herself. “Well, I can bear coldness better than
kindness now, and it will make it easier to go.”

Kitty was pleased at the prospect of reigning alone,
and did not disguise her satisfaction; so Christie's last
day was any thing but pleasant. Mr. Power would
send for her on the morrow, and she busied herself in
packing her own possessions, setting every thing in
order, and making various little arrangements for Mrs.
Sterling's comfort, as Kitty was a heedless creature;
willing enough, but very forgetful. In the evening
some neighbors came in; so that dangerous time was
safely passed, and Christie escaped to her own room
with her usual quiet good-night all round.

“We won't have any sentimental demonstrations;
no wailing, or tender adieux. If I 'm weak enough to
break my heart, no one need know it, — least of all,
that little fool,” thought Christie, grimly, as she burnt
up several long-cherished relics of her love.

She was up early, and went about her usual work
with the sad pleasure with which one performs a task
for the last time. Lazy little Kitty never appeared till
the bell rang; and Christie was fond of that early hour,
busy though it was, for David was always before her
with blazing fires; and, while she got breakfast, he
came and went with wood and water, milk and marketing;
often stopping to talk, and always in his happiest
mood.

The first snow-fall had made the world wonderfully
lovely that morning; and Christie stood at the window
admiring the bridal look of the earth, as it lay dazzlingly
white in the early sunshine. The little parlor

was fresh and clean, with no speck of dust anywhere;
the fire burned on the bright andirons; the flowers
were rejoicing in their morning bath; and the table
was set out with dainty care. So homelike, so pleasant,
so very dear to her, that Christie yearned to stay,
yet dared not, and had barely time to steady face and
voice, when David came in with the little posies he
always had ready for his mother and Christie at breakfast
time. Only a flower by their plates; but it meant
much to them: for, in these lives of ours, tender little
acts do more to bind hearts together than great deeds
or heroic words; since the first are like the dear daily
bread that none can live without; the latter but occasional
feasts, beautiful and memorable, but not possible
to all.

This morning David laid a sprig of sweet-scented
balm at his mother's place, two or three rosy daisies at
Kitty's, and a bunch of Christie's favorite violets at hers.
She smiled as her eye went from the scentless daisies,
so pertly pretty, to her own posy full of perfume, and
the half sad, half sweet associations that haunt these
blue-eyed flowers.

“I wanted pansies for you, but not one would bloom;
so I did the next best, since you don't like roses,” said
David, as Christie stood looking at the violets with
a thoughtful face, for something in the peculiarly graceful
arrangement of the heart-shaped leaves recalled
another nosegay to her mind.

“I like these very much, because they came to me in
the beginning of this, the happiest year of my life;”
and scarcely knowing why, except that it was very sweet
to talk with David in the early sunshine, she told about

the flowers some one had given her at church. As she
finished she looked up at him; and, though his face was
perfectly grave, his eyes laughed, and with a sudden conviction
of the truth, Christie exclaimed!

“David, I do believe it was you!”

“I couldn't help it: you seemed so touched and
troubled. I longed to speak to you, but didn't dare, so
dropped the flowers and got away as fast as possible.
Did you think it very rude?”

“I thought it the sweetest thing that ever happened
to me. That was my first step along a road that you
have strewn with flowers ever since. I can't thank
you, but I never shall forget it.” Christie spoke out
fervently, and for an instant her heart shone in her
face. Then she checked herself, and, fearing she had
said too much, fell to slicing bread with an energetic
rapidity which resulted in a cut finger. Dropping the
knife, she tried to get her handkerchief, but the blood
flowed fast, and the pain of a deep gash made her a
little faint. David sprung to help her, tied up the
wound, put her in the big chair, held water to her lips,
and bathed her temples with a wet napkin; silently, but
so tenderly, that it was almost too much for poor
Christie.

For one happy moment her head lay on his arm, and
his hand brushed back her hair with a touch that was a
caress: she heard his heart beat fast with anxiety; felt
his breath on her cheek, and wished that she might die
then and there, though a bread-knife was not a romantic
weapon, nor a cut finger as interesting as a broken
heart. Kitty's voice made her start up, and the blissful
vision of life, with David in the little house alone, vanished

[ILLUSTRATION]

"One Happy Moment."

[Description: 445EAF. Page 305. In-line image of Christie sitting in a chair and leaning against David, who is sitting on the arm of the chair, as he kisses her brow.]

like a bright bubble, leaving the hard reality to
be lived out with nothing but a woman's pride to
conceal a woman's most passionate pain.

“It 's nothing: I 'm all right now. Don't say any
thing to worry your mother; I 'll put on a bit of court-plaster,
and no one will be the wiser,” she said, hastily
removing all traces of the accident but her own pale
face.

“Poor Christie, it 's hard that you should go away

with a wound like this on the hand that has done so
much for us,” said David, as he carefully adjusted the
black strip on that forefinger, roughened by many
stitches set for him.

“I loved to do it,” was all Christie trusted herself to
say.

“I know you did; and in your own words I can only
answer: `I don't know how to thank you, but I never
shall forget it.”' And David kissed the wounded hand
as gratefully and reverently as if its palm was not
hardened by the humblest tasks.

If he had only known — ah, if he had only known! —
how easily he might repay that debt, and heal the
deeper wound in Christie's heart. As it was, she could
only say, “You are too kind,” and begin to shovel tea
into the pot, as Kitty came in, as rosy and fresh as the
daisies she put in her hair.

“Ain't they becoming?” she asked, turning to David
for admiration.

“No, thank you,” he answered absently, looking out
over her head, as he stood upon the rug in the attitude
which the best men will assume in the bosoms of their
families.

Kitty looked offended, and turned to the mirror for
comfort; while Christie went on shovelling tea, quite
unconscious what she was about till David said gravely:

“Won't that be rather strong?”

“How stupid of me! I always forget that Kitty does
not drink tea,” and Christie rectified her mistake with
all speed.

Kitty laughed, and said in her pert little way:

“Getting up early don't seem to agree with either

of you this morning: I wonder what you've been
doing?”

“Your work. Suppose you bring in the kettle:
Christie has hurt her hand.”

David spoke quietly; but Kitty looked as much surprised
as if he had boxed her ears, for he had never
used that tone to her before. She meekly obeyed; and
David added with a smile to Christie:

“Mother is coming down, and you 'll have to get
more color into your cheeks if you mean to hide your
accident from her.”

“That is easily done;” and Christie rubbed her pale
cheeks till they rivalled Kitty's in their bloom.

“How well you women know how to conceal your
wounds,” said David, half to himself.

“It is an invaluable accomplishment for us sometimes:
you forget that I have been an actress,” answered
Christie, with a bitter sort of smile.

“I wish I could forget what I have been!” muttered
David, turning his back to her and kicking a log that
had rolled out of place.

In came Mrs. Sterling, and every one brightened up
to meet her. Kitty was silent, and wore an injured air
which nobody minded; Christie was very lively; and
David did his best to help her through that last meal,
which was a hard one to three out of the four.

At noon a carriage came for Christie, and she said
good-by, as she had drilled herself to say it, cheerfully
and steadily.

“It is only for a time, else I couldn't let thee go,
my dear,” said Mrs. Sterling, with a close embrace.

“I shall see you at church, and Tuesday evenings,

even if you don't find time to come to us, so I shall not
say good-by at all;” and David shook hands warmly,
as he put her into the carriage.

“I 'll invite you to my wedding when I make up my
mind,” said Kitty, with feminine malice; for in her eyes
Christie was an old maid who doubtless envied her her
“lots of lovers.”

“I hope you will be very happy. In the mean time
try to save dear Mrs. Sterling all you can, and let her
make you worthy a good husband,” was Christie's answer
to a speech she was too noble to resent by a sharp
word, or even a contemptuous look.

Then she drove away, smiling and waving her hand
to the old lady at her window; but the last thing she
saw as she left the well-beloved lane, was David going
slowly up the path, with Kitty close beside him, talking
busily. If she had heard the short dialogue between
them, the sight would have been less bitter, for Kitty
said:

“She 's dreadful good; but I 'm glad she 's gone: ain't
you?”

“No.”

“Had you rather have her here than me?”

“Yes.”

“Then why don't you ask her to come back.”

“I would if I could!”

“I never did see any thing like it; every one is so
queer and cross to-day I get snubbed all round. If
folks ain't good to me, I 'll go and marry Miles! I declare
I will.”

“You 'd better,” and with that David left her frowning
and pouting in the porch, and went to shovelling
snow with unusual vigor.