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 glad 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 tilings 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 red 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, straight-forward 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:

“Welcome, maids of honor,
You do bring
In the spring,
And wait upon her.
She has virgins many,
Fresh and fair,
Yet you are
More sweet than any.”

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 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:

“‘Y’ are the maiden posies,
And so graced,
To be placed
Fore damask roses.
Yet, though thus respected,
By and by
Ye do lie,
Poor girls, neglected.’

“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 breast-knot, 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 greenhouse 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 it 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 hands; 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.