Title: Work: A Story of Experience
Author: Louisa May Alcott




WORK:

A STORY OF EXPERIENCE.

BY

LOUISA M. ALCOTT,

AUTHOR OF "LITTLE WOMEN," "LITTLE MEN," "AN OLD-FASHIONED GIRL,"
"HOSPITAL SKETCHES," ETC.

"An endless significance lies in work; in idleness alone is there
perpetual despair."--CARLYLE.

BOSTON:

1901.






TO

MY MOTHER,

WHOSE LIFE HAS BEEN A LONG LABOR OF LOVE, THIS BOOK IS GRATEFULLY
INSCRIBED

BY

HER DAUGHTER.






CONTENTS.

I. CHRISTIE
II. SERVANT
III. ACTRBSS
IV. GOVERNESS
V. COMPANION
VI. SEAMSTRESS
VII. THROUGH THE MIST
VIII. A CURE FOR DESPAIR
IX. MRS. WILKINS'S MINISTER
X. BEGINNING AGAIN
XI. IN THE STRAWBERRY BED
XII. CHRISTIE'S GALA
XIII. WAKING UP
XIV. WHICH?
XV. MIDSUMMER
XVI. MUSTERED IN
XVII. THE COLONEL
XVIII. SUNRISE
XIX. LITTLE HEART'S-EASE
XX. AT FORTY






LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS,

FROM DRAWINGS BY SOL EYTINGE.

"How doth the little busy bee"
Christie
Aunt Betsey's Interlarded Speech
Mrs. Stuart.
Hepsey
Christie as Queen of the Amazons
Mr. Philip Fletcher
Mrs. Saltonstall and Family
"No, I thank you"
Helen Carrol
Mrs. King and Miss Cotton
The Rescue
"C. Wilkins, Clear Starcher"
Lisha Wilkins
Mrs. Wilkins' "Six Lively Infants"
Mr. Power
Mrs. Sterling
David and Christie in the Greenhouse
Mr. Power and Christie in the Strawberry Bed
A Friendly Chat
Kitty.
"One Happy Moment"
David
"Then they were married"
"Don't mourn, dear heart, but WORK"
"She's a good little gal; looks consid'able like you"
"Each ready to do her part to hasten the coming of the happy end"






WORK:

A STORY OF EXPERIENCE.





CHAPTER I.

CHRISTIE.





CHRISTIE.

"AUNT BETSEY, there's going to be a new Declaration of
Independence."

"Bless and save us, what do you mean, child?" And the startled old
lady precipitated a pie into the oven with destructive haste.

"I mean that, being of age, I'm going to take care of myself, and
not be a burden any longer. Uncle wishes me out of the way; thinks I
ought to go, and, sooner or later, will tell me so. I don't intend
to wait for that, but, like the people in fairy tales, travel away
into the world and seek my fortune. I know I can find it."

Christie emphasized her speech by energetic demonstrations in the
bread-trough, kneading the dough as if it was her destiny, and she
was shaping it to suit herself; while Aunt Betsey stood listening,
with uplifted pie-fork, and as much astonishment as her placid face
was capable of expressing. As the girl paused, with a decided thump,
the old lady exclaimed:

"What crazy idee you got into your head now?"

"A very sane and sensible one that's got to be worked out, so please
listen to it, ma'am. I've had it a good while, I've thought it over
thoroughly, and I'm sure it's the right thing for me to do. I'm old
enough to take care of myself; and if I'd been a boy, I should have
been told to do it long ago. I hate to be dependent; and now there's
no need of it, I can't bear it any longer. If you were poor, I
wouldn't leave you; for I never forget how kind you have been to me.
But Uncle doesn't love or understand me; I am a burden to him, and I
must go where I can take care of myself. I can't be happy till I do,
for there's nothing here for me. I'm sick of this dull town, where
the one idea is eat, drink, and get rich; I don't find any friends
to help me as I want to be helped, or any work that I can do well;
so let me go, Aunty, and find my place, wherever it is."

"But I do need you, deary; and you mustn't think Uncle don't like
you. He does, only he don't show it; and when your odd ways fret
him, he ain't pleasant, I know. I don't see why you can't be
contented; I've lived here all my days, and never found the place
lonesome, or the folks unneighborly." And Aunt Betsey looked
perplexed by the new idea.

"You and I are very different, ma'am. There was more yeast put into
my composition, I guess; and, after standing quiet in a warm corner
so long, I begin to ferment, and ought to be kneaded up in time, so
that I may turn out a wholesome loaf. You can't do this; so let me
go where it can be done, else I shall turn sour and good for
nothing. Does that make the matter any clearer?" And Christie's
serious face relaxed into a smile as her aunt's eye went from her to
the nicely moulded loaf offered as an illustration.

"I see what you mean, Kitty; but I never thought on't before. You be
better riz than me; though, let me tell you, too much emptins makes
bread poor stuff, like baker's trash; and too much workin' up makes
it hard and dry. Now fly 'round, for the big oven is most het, and
this cake takes a sight of time in the mixin'."

"You haven't said I might go, Aunty," began the girl, after a long
pause devoted by the old lady to the preparation of some compound
which seemed to require great nicety of measurement in its
ingredients; for when she replied, Aunt Betsey curiously interlarded
her speech with audible directions to herself from the receipt-book
before her.

AUNT BETSEY'S INTERLARDED SPEECH.

"I ain't no right to keep you, dear, ef you choose to take (a pinch
of salt). I'm sorry you ain't happy, and think you might be ef you'd
only (beat six eggs, yolks and whites together). But ef you can't,
and feel that you need (two cups of sugar), only speak to Uncle, and
ef he says (a squeeze of fresh lemon), go, my dear, and take my
blessin' with you (not forgettin' to cover with a piece of paper)."

Christie's laugh echoed through the kitchen; and the old lady smiled
benignly, quite unconscious of the cause of the girl's merriment.

"I shall ask Uncle to-night, and I know he won't object. Then I
shall write to see if Mrs. Flint has a room for me, where I can stay
till I get something to do. There is plenty of work in the world,
and I'm not afraid of it; so you'll soon hear good news of me.
Don't look sad, for you know I never could forget you, even if I
should become the greatest lady in the land." And Christie left the
prints of two floury but affectionate hands on the old lady's
shoulders, as she kissed the wrinkled face that had never worn a
frown to her.

Full of hopeful fancies, Christie salted the pans and buttered the
dough in pleasant forgetfulness of all mundane affairs, and the
ludicrous dismay of Aunt Betsey, who followed her about rectifying
her mistakes, and watching over her as if this sudden absence of
mind had roused suspicions of her sanity.

"Uncle, I want to go away, and get my own living, if you please,"
was Christie's abrupt beginning, as they sat round the evening fire.

"Hey! what's that?" said Uncle Enos, rousing from the doze he was
enjoying, with a candle in perilous proximity to his newspaper and
his nose.

Christie repeated her request, and was much relieved, when, after a
meditative stare, the old man briefly answered:

"Wal, go ahead."

"I was afraid you might think it rash or silly, sir."

"I think it's the best thing you could do; and I like your good
sense in pupposin' on't."

"Then I may really go?"

"Soon's ever you like. Don't pester me about it till you're ready;
then I'll give you a little suthing to start off with." And Uncle
Enos returned to "The Farmer's Friend," as if cattle were more
interesting than kindred.

Christie was accustomed to his curt speech and careless manner; had
expected nothing more cordial; and, turning to her aunt, said,
rather bitterly:

"Didn't I tell you he'd be glad to have me go? No matter! When I've
done something to be proud of, he will be as glad to see me back
again." Then her voice changed, her eyes kindled, and the firm lips
softened with a smile. "Yes, I'll try my experiment; then I'll get
rich; found a home for girls like myself; or, better still, be a
Mrs. Fry, a Florence Nightingale, or"--

"How are you on't for stockin's, dear?"

Christie's castles in the air vanished at the prosaic question; but,
after a blank look, she answered pleasantly:

"Thank you for bringing me down to my feet again, when I was soaring
away too far and too fast. I'm poorly off, ma'am; but if you are
knitting these for me, I shall certainly start on a firm
foundation." And, leaning on Aunt Betsey's knee, she patiently
discussed the wardrobe question from hose to head-gear.

"Don't you think you could be contented any way, Christie, ef I make
the work lighter, and leave you more time for your books and
things?" asked the old lady, loth to lose the one youthful element
in her quiet life.

"No, ma'am, for I can't find what I want here," was the decided
answer.

"What do you want, child?"

"Look in the fire, and I'll try to show you."

The old lady obediently turned her spectacles that way; and Christie
said in a tone half serious, half playful:

"Do you see those two logs? Well that one smouldering dismally away
in the corner is what my life is now; the other blazing and singing
is what I want my life to be."

"Bless me, what an idee! They are both a-burnin' where they are put,
and both will be ashes to-morrow; so what difference doos it make?"

Christie smiled at the literal old lady; but, following the fancy
that pleased her, she added earnestly:

"I know the end is the same; but it does make a difference how they
turn to ashes, and how I spend my life. That log, with its one dull
spot of fire, gives neither light nor warmth, but lies sizzling
despondently among the cinders. But the other glows from end to end
with cheerful little flames that go singing up the chimney with a
pleasant sound. Its light fills the room and shines out into the
dark; its warmth draws us nearer, making the hearth the cosiest
place in the house, and we shall all miss the friendly blaze when it
dies. Yes," she added, as if to herself, "I hope my life may be like
that, so that, whether it be long or short, it will be useful and
cheerful while it lasts, will be missed when it ends, and leave
something behind besides ashes."

Though she only half understood them, the girl's words touched the
kind old lady, and made her look anxiously at the eager young face
gazing so wistfully into the fire.

"A good smart blowin' up with the belluses would make the green
stick burn most as well as the dry one after a spell. I guess
contentedness is the best bellus for young folks, ef they would only
think so."

"I dare say you are right, Aunty; but I want to try for myself; and
if I fail, I'll come back and follow your advice. Young folks always
have discontented fits, you know. Didn't you when you were a girl?"

"Shouldn't wonder ef I did; but Enos came along, and I forgot 'em."

"My Enos has not come along yet, and never may; so I'm not going to
sit and wait for any man to give me independence, if I can earn it
for myself." And a quick glance at the gruff, gray old man in the
corner plainly betrayed that, in Christie's opinion, Aunt Betsey
made a bad bargain when she exchanged her girlish aspirations for a
man whose soul was in his pocket.

"Jest like her mother, full of hifalutin notions, discontented, and
sot in her own idees. Poor capital to start a fortin' on."

Christie's eye met that of her uncle peering over the top of his
paper with an expression that always tried her patience. Now it was
like a dash of cold water on her enthusiasm, and her face fell as
she asked quickly:

"How do you mean, sir?"

"I mean that you are startin' all wrong; your redic'lus notions
about independence and self-cultur won't come to nothin' in the long
run, and you'll make as bad a failure of your life as your mother
did of her'n."

"Please, don't say that to me; I can't bear it, for I shall never
think her life a failure, because she tried to help herself, and
married a good man in spite of poverty, when she loved him! You call
that folly; but I'll do the same if I can; and I'd rather have what
my father and mother left me, than all the money you are piling up,
just for the pleasure of being richer than your neighbors."

"Never mind, dear, he don't mean no harm!" whispered Aunt Betsey,
fearing a storm.

But though Christie's eyes had kindled and her color deepened, her
voice was low and steady, and her indignation was of the inward
sort.

"Uncle likes to try me by saying such things, and this is one reason
why I want to go away before I get sharp and bitter and distrustful
as he is. I don't suppose I can make you understand my feeling, but
I'd like to try, and then I'll never speak of it again;" and,
carefully controlling voice and face, Christie slowly added, with a
look that would have been pathetically eloquent to one who could
have understood the instincts of a strong nature for light and
freedom: "You say I am discontented, proud and ambitious; that's
true, and I'm glad of it. I am discontented, because I can't help
feeling that there is a better sort of life than this dull one made
up of everlasting work, with no object but money. I can't starve my
soul for the sake of my body, and I mean to get out of the treadmill
if I can. I'm proud, as you call it, because I hate dependence where
there isn't any love to make it bearable. You don't say so in words,
but I know you begrudge me a home, though you will call me
ungrateful when I'm gone. I'm willing to work, but I want work that
I can put my heart into, and feel that it does me good, no matter
how hard it is. I only ask for a chance to be a useful, happy woman,
and I don't think that is a bad ambition. Even if I only do what my
dear mother did, earn my living honestly and happily, and leave a
beautiful example behind me, to help one other woman as hers helps
me, I shall be satisfied."

Christie's voice faltered over the last words, for the thoughts and
feelings which had been working within her during the last few days
had stirred her deeply, and the resolution to cut loose from the old
life had not been lightly made. Mr. Devon had listened behind his
paper to this unusual outpouring with a sense of discomfort which
was new to him. But though the words reproached and annoyed, they
did not soften him, and when Christie paused with tearful eyes, her
uncle rose, saying, slowly, as he lighted his candle:

"Ef I'd refused to let you go before, I'd agree to it now; for you
need breakin' in, my girl, and you are goin' where you'll get it, so
the sooner you're off the better for all on us. Come, Betsey, we may
as wal leave, for we can't understand the wants of her higher nater,
as Christie calls it, and we've had lecterin' enough for one night."
And with a grim laugh the old man quitted the field, worsted but in
good order.

"There, there, dear, hev a good cry, and forgit all about it!"
purred Aunt Betsey, as the heavy footsteps creaked away, for the
good soul had a most old-fashioned and dutiful awe of her lord and
master.

"I shan't cry but act; for it is high time I was off. I've stayed
for your sake; now I'm more trouble than comfort, and away I go.
Good-night, my dear old Aunty, and don't look troubled, for I'll be
a lamb while I stay."

Having kissed the old lady, Christie swept her work away, and sat
down to write the letter which was the first step toward freedom.
When it was done, she drew nearer, to her friendly confidante the
fire, and till late into the night sat thinking tenderly of the
past, bravely of the present, hopefully of the future. Twenty-one
to-morrow, and her inheritance a head, a heart, a pair of hands;
also the dower of most New England girls, intelligence, courage, and
common sense, many practical gifts, and, hidden under the reserve
that soon melts in a genial atmosphere, much romance and enthusiasm,
and the spirit which can rise to heroism when the great moment
comes.

Christie was one of that large class of women who, moderately
endowed with talents, earnest and true-hearted, are driven by
necessity, temperament, or principle out into the world to find
support, happiness, and homes for themselves. Many turn back
discouraged; more accept shadow for substance, and discover their
mistake too late; the weakest lose their purpose and themselves; but
the strongest struggle on, and, after danger and defeat, earn at
last the best success this world can give us, the possession of a
brave and cheerful spirit, rich in self-knowledge, self-control,
self-help. This was the real desire of Christie's heart; this was to
be her lesson and reward, and to this happy end she was slowly yet
surely brought by the long discipline of life and labor.

Sitting alone there in the night, she tried to strengthen herself
with all the good and helpful memories she could recall, before she
went away to find her place in the great unknown world. She thought
of her mother, so like herself, who had borne the commonplace life
of home till she could bear it no longer. Then had gone away to
teach, as most country girls are forced to do. Had met, loved, and
married a poor gentleman, and, after a few years of genuine
happiness, untroubled even by much care and poverty, had followed
him out of the world, leaving her little child to the protection of
her brother.

Christie looked back over the long, lonely years she had spent in
the old farm-house, plodding to school and church, and doing her
tasks with kind Aunt Betsey while a child; and slowly growing into
girlhood, with a world of romance locked up in a heart hungry for
love and a larger, nobler life.

She had tried to appease this hunger in many ways, but found little
help. Her father's old books were all she could command, and these
she wore out with much reading. Inheriting his refined tastes, she
found nothing to attract her in the society of the commonplace and
often coarse people about her. She tried to like the buxom girls
whose one ambition was to "get married," and whose only subjects of
conversation were "smart bonnets" and "nice dresses." She tried to
believe that the admiration and regard of the bluff young farmers
was worth striving for; but when one well-to-do neighbor laid his
acres at her feet, she found it impossible to accept for her life's
companion a man whose soul was wrapped up in prize cattle and big
turnips.

Uncle Enos never could forgive her for this piece of folly, and
Christie plainly saw that one of three things would surely happen,
if she lived on there with no vent for her full heart and busy mind.
She would either marry Joe Butterfield in sheer desperation, and
become a farmer's household drudge; settle down into a sour
spinster, content to make butter, gossip, and lay up money all her
days; or do what poor Matty Stone had done, try to crush and curb
her needs and aspirations till the struggle grew too hard, and then
in a fit of despair end her life, and leave a tragic story to haunt
their quiet river.

To escape these fates but one way appeared; to break loose from this
narrow life, go out into the world and see what she could do for
herself. This idea was full of enchantment to the eager girl, and,
after much earnest thought, she had resolved to try it.

"If I fail, I can come back," she said to herself, even while she
scorned the thought of failure, for with all her shy pride she was
both brave and ardent, and her dreams were of the rosiest sort.

"I won't marry Joe; I won't wear myself out in a district-school for
the mean sum they give a woman; I won't delve away here where I'm
not wanted; and I won't end my life like a coward, because it is
dull and hard. I'll try my fate as mother did, and perhaps I may
succeed as well." And Christie's thoughts went wandering away into
the dim, sweet past when she, a happy child, lived with loving
parents in a different world from that.

Lost in these tender memories, she sat till the old moon-faced clock
behind the door struck twelve, then the visions vanished, leaving
their benison behind them.

As she glanced backward at the smouldering fire, a slender spire of
flame shot up from the log that had blazed so cheerily, and shone
upon her as she went. A good omen, gratefully accepted then, and
remembered often in the years to come.






CHAPTER II.

SERVANT.





A FORTNIGHT later, and Christie was off. Mrs. Flint had briefly
answered that she had a room, and that work was always to be found
in the city. So the girl packed her one trunk, folding away splendid
hopes among her plain gowns, and filling every corner with happy
fancies, utterly impossible plans, and tender little dreams, so
lovely at the time, so pathetic to remember, when contact with the
hard realities of life has collapsed our bright bubbles, and the
frost of disappointment nipped all our morning glories in their
prime. The old red stage stopped at Enos Devon's door, and his niece
crossed the threshold after a cool handshake with the master of the
house, and a close embrace with the mistress, who stood pouring out
last words with spectacles too dim for seeing. Fat Ben swung up the
trunk, slammed the door, mounted his perch, and the ancient vehicle
swayed with premonitory symptoms of departure.

Then something smote Christie's heart. "Stop!" she cried, and
springing out ran back into the dismal room where the old man sat.
Straight up to him she went with outstretched hand, saying steadily,
though her face was full of feeling:

"Uncle, I'm not satisfied with that good-bye. I don't mean to be
sentimental, but I do want to say, 'Forgive me!' I see now that I
might have made you sorry to part with me, if I had tried to make
you love me more. It's too late now, but I'm not too proud to
confess when I'm wrong. I want to part kindly; I ask your pardon; I
thank you for all you've done for me, and I say good-bye
affectionately now."

Mr. Devon had a heart somewhere, though it seldom troubled him; but
it did make itself felt when the girl looked at him with his dead
sister's eyes, and spoke in a tone whose unaccustomed tenderness was
a reproach.

Conscience had pricked him more than once that week, and he was glad
to own it now; his rough sense of honor was touched by her frank
expression, and, as he answered, his hand was offered readily.

"I like that, Kitty, and think the better of you for't. Let bygones
be bygones. I gen'lly got as good as I give, and I guess I deserved
some on't. I wish you wal, my girl, I heartily wish you wal, and
hope you won't forgit that the old house ain't never shet aginst
you."

Christie astonished him with a cordial kiss; then bestowing another
warm hug on Aunt Niobe, as she called the old lady in a tearful
joke, she ran into the carriage, taking with her all the sunshine of
the place.

Christie found Mrs. Flint a dreary woman, with "boarders" written
all over her sour face and faded figure. Butcher's bills and house
rent seemed to fill her eyes with sleepless anxiety; thriftless
cooks and saucy housemaids to sharpen the tones of her shrill voice;
and an incapable husband to burden her shoulders like a modern "Old
man of the sea."

A little room far up in the tall house was at the girl's disposal
for a reasonable sum, and she took possession, feeling very rich
with the hundred dollars Uncle Enos gave her, and delightfully
independent, with no milk-pans to scald; no heavy lover to elude; no
humdrum district school to imprison her day after day.

For a week she enjoyed her liberty heartily, then set about finding
something to do. Her wish was to be a governess, that being the
usual refuge for respectable girls who have a living to get. But
Christie soon found her want of accomplishments a barrier to success
in that line, for the mammas thought less of the solid than of the
ornamental branches, and wished their little darlings to learn
French before English, music before grammar, and drawing before
writing.

So, after several disappointments, Christie decided that her
education was too old-fashioned for the city, and gave up the idea
of teaching. Sewing she resolved not to try till every thing else
failed; and, after a few more attempts to get writing to do, she
said to herself, in a fit of humility and good sense: "I'll begin at
the beginning, and work my way up. I'll put my pride in my pocket,
and go out to service. Housework I like, and can do well, thanks to
Aunt Betsey. I never thought it degradation to do it for her, so why
should I mind doing it for others if they pay for it? It isn't what
I want, but it's better than idleness, so I'll try it!"

Full of this wise resolution, she took to haunting that purgatory of
the poor, an intelligence office. Mrs. Flint gave her a
recommendation, and she hopefully took her place among the ranks of
buxom German, incapable Irish, and "smart" American women; for in
those days foreign help had not driven farmers' daughters out of the
field, and made domestic comfort a lost art.

At first Christie enjoyed the novelty of the thing, and watched with
interest the anxious housewives who flocked in demanding that rara
avis, an angel at nine shillings a week; and not finding it,
bewailed the degeneracy of the times. Being too honest to profess
herself absolutely perfect in every known branch of house-work, it
was some time before she suited herself. Meanwhile, she was
questioned and lectured, half engaged and kept waiting, dismissed
for a whim, and so worried that she began to regard herself as the
incarnation of all human vanities and shortcomings.

"A desirable place in a small, genteel family," was at last offered
her, and she posted away to secure it, having reached a state of
desperation and resolved to go as a first-class cook rather than sit
with her hands before her any longer.

A well-appointed house, good wages, and light duties seemed things
to be grateful for, and Christie decided that going out to service
was not the hardest fate in life, as she stood at the door of a
handsome house in a sunny square waiting to be inspected.

Mrs. Stuart, having just returned from Italy, affected the artistic,
and the new applicant found her with a Roman scarf about her head, a
rosary like a string of small cannon balls at her side, and azure
draperies which became her as well as they did the sea-green
furniture of her marine boudoir, where unwary walkers tripped over
coral and shells, grew sea-sick looking at pictures of tempestuous
billows engulfing every sort of craft, from a man-of-war to a
hencoop with a ghostly young lady clinging to it with one hand, and
had their appetites effectually taken away by a choice collection of
water-bugs and snakes in a glass globe, that looked like a jar of
mixed pickles in a state of agitation.

MRS. STUART.

Madame was intent on a water-color copy of Turner's "Rain, Wind, and
Hail," that pleasing work which was sold upsidedown and no one found
it out. Motioning Christie to a seat she finished some delicate
sloppy process before speaking. In that little pause Christie
examined her, and the impression then received was afterward
confirmed.

Mrs. Stuart possessed some beauty and chose to think herself a queen
of society. She assumed majestic manners in public and could not
entirely divest herself of them in private, which often produced
comic effects. Zenobia troubled about fish-sauce, or Aspasia
indignant at the price of eggs will give some idea of this lady when
she condescended to the cares of housekeeping.

Presently she looked up and inspected the girl as if a new servant
were no more than a new bonnet, a necessary article to be ordered
home for examination. Christie presented her recommendation, made
her modest little speech, and awaited her doom.

Mrs. Stuart read, listened, and then demanded with queenly brevity:

"Your name?"

"Christie Devon."

"Too long; I should prefer to call you Jane as I am accustomed to
the name."

"As you please, ma'am."

"Your age?"

"Twenty-one."

"You are an American?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Mrs. Stuart gazed into space a moment, then delivered the following
address with impressive solemnity:

"I wish a capable, intelligent, honest, neat, well-conducted person
who knows her place and keeps it. The work is light, as there are
but two in the family. I am very particular and so is Mr. Stuart. I
pay two dollars and a half, allow one afternoon out, one service on
Sunday, and no followers. My table-girl must understand her duties
thoroughly, be extremely neat, and always wear white aprons."

"I think I can suit you, ma'am, when I have learned the ways of the
house," meekly replied Christie.

Mrs. Stuart looked graciously satisfied and returned the paper with
a gesture that Victoria might have used in restoring a granted
petition, though her next words rather marred the effect of the
regal act, "My cook is black."

"I have no objection to color, ma'am."

An expression of relief dawned upon Mrs. Stuart's countenance, for
the black cook had been an insurmountable obstacle to all the Irish
ladies who had applied. Thoughtfully tapping her Roman nose with the
handle of her brush Madame took another survey of the new applicant,
and seeing that she looked neat, intelligent, and respectful, gave a
sigh of thankfulness and engaged her on the spot.

Much elated Christie rushed home, selected a bag of necessary
articles, bundled the rest of her possessions into an empty closet
(lent her rent-free owing to a profusion of cockroaches), paid up
her board, and at two o'clock introduced herself to Hepsey Johnson,
her fellow servant.

Hepsey was a tall, gaunt woman, bearing the tragedy of her race
written in her face, with its melancholy eyes, subdued expression,
and the pathetic patience of a wronged dumb animal. She received
Christie with an air of resignation, and speedily bewildered her
with an account of the duties she would be expected to perform.

A long and careful drill enabled Christie to set the table with but
few mistakes, and to retain a tolerably clear recollection of the
order of performances. She had just assumed her badge of servitude,
as she called the white apron, when the bell rang violently and
Hepsey, who was hurrying away to "dish up," said:

"It's de marster. You has to answer de bell, honey, and he likes it
done bery spry."

Christie ran and admitted an impetuous, stout gentleman, who
appeared to be incensed against the elements, for he burst in as if
blown, shook himself like a Newfoundland dog, and said all in one
breath:

"You're the new girl, are you? Well, take my umbrella and pull off
my rubbers."

"Sir?"

Mr. Stuart was struggling with his gloves, and, quite unconscious of
the astonishment of his new maid, impatiently repeated his request.

"Take this wet thing away, and pull off my overshoes. Don't you see
it's raining like the very deuce!"

Christie folded her lips together in a peculiar manner as she knelt
down and removed a pair of muddy overshoes, took the dripping
umbrella, and was walking away with her agreeable burden when Mr.
Stuart gave her another shock by calling over the banister:

"I'm going out again; so clean those rubbers, and see that the boots
I sent down this morning are in order."

"Yes, sir," answered Christie meekly, and immediately afterward
startled Hepsey by casting overshoes and umbrella upon the kitchen
floor, and indignantly demanding:

"Am I expected to be a boot-jack to that man?"

"I 'spects you is, honey."

"Am I also expected to clean his boots?"

"Yes, chile. Katy did, and de work ain't hard when you gits used to
it."

"It isn't the work; it's the degradation; and I won't submit to it."

Christie looked fiercely determined; but Hepsey shook her head,
saying quietly as she went on garnishing a dish:

"Dere's more 'gradin' works dan dat, chile, and dem dat's bin
'bliged to do um finds dis sort bery easy. You's paid for it, honey;
and if you does it willin, it won't hurt you more dan washin' de
marster's dishes, or sweepin' his rooms."

"There ought to be a boy to do this sort of thing. Do you think it's
right to ask it of me?" cried Christie, feeling that being servant
was not as pleasant a task as she had thought it.

"Dunno, chile. I'se shore I'd never ask it of any woman if I was a
man, 'less I was sick or ole. But folks don't seem to 'member dat
we've got feelin's, and de best way is not to mind dese ere little
trubbles. You jes leave de boots to me; blackin' can't do dese ole
hands no hurt, and dis ain't no deggydation to me now; I's a free
woman."

"Why, Hepsey, were you ever a slave?" asked the girl, forgetting her
own small injury at this suggestion of the greatest of all wrongs.

"All my life, till I run away five year ago. My ole folks, and eight
brudders and sisters, is down dere in de pit now; waitin' for the
Lord to set 'em free. And He's gwine to do it soon, soon!" As she
uttered the last words, a sudden light chased the tragic shadow from
Hepsey's face, and the solemn fervor of her voice thrilled
Christie's heart. All her anger died out in a great pity, and she
put her hand on the woman's shoulder, saying earnestly:

"I hope so; and I wish I could help to bring that happy day at
once!"

For the first time Hepsey smiled, as she said gratefully, "De Lord
bress you for dat wish, chile." Then, dropping suddenly into her
old, quiet way, she added, turning to her work:

"Now you tote up de dinner, and I'll be handy by to 'fresh your mind
'bout how de dishes goes, for missis is bery 'ticular, and don't
like no 'stakes in tendin'."

Thanks to her own neat-handed ways and Hepsey's prompting through
the slide, Christie got on very well; managed her salver
dexterously, only upset one glass, clashed one dish-cover, and
forgot to sugar the pie before putting it on the table; an omission
which was majestically pointed out, and graciously pardoned as a
first offence.

By seven o'clock the ceremonial was fairly over, and Christie
dropped into a chair quite tired out with frequent pacings to and
fro. In the kitchen she found the table spread for one, and Hepsey
busy with the boots.

"Aren't you coming to your dinner, Mrs. Johnson?" she asked, not
pleased at the arrangement.

"When you's done, honey; dere's no hurry 'bout me. Katy liked dat
way best, and I'se used ter waitin'."

"But I don't like that way, and I won't have it. I suppose Katy
thought her white skin gave her a right to be disrespectful to a
woman old enough to be her mother just because she was black. I
don't; and while I'm here, there must be no difference made. If we
can work together, we can eat together; and because you have been a
slave is all the more reason I should be good to you now."

If Hepsey had been surprised by the new girl's protest against being
made a boot-jack of, she was still more surprised at this sudden
kindness, for she had set Christie down in her own mind as "one ob
dem toppin' smart ones dat don't stay long nowheres." She changed
her opinion now, and sat watching the girl with a new expression on
her face, as Christie took boot and brush from her, and fell to work
energetically, saying as she scrubbed:

"I'm ashamed of complaining about such a little thing as this, and
don't mean to feel degraded by it, though I should by letting you do
it for me. I never lived out before: that's the reason I made a
fuss. There's a polish, for you, and I'm in a good humor again; so
Mr. Stuart may call for his boots whenever he likes, and we'll go to
dinner like fashionable people, as we are."

There was something so irresistible in the girl's hearty manner,
that Hepsey submitted at once with a visible satisfaction, which
gave a relish to Christie's dinner, though it was eaten at a kitchen
table, with a bare-armed cook sitting opposite, and three rows of
burnished dish-covers reflecting the dreadful spectacle.

After this, Christie got on excellently, for she did her best, and
found both pleasure and profit in her new employment. It gave her
real satisfaction to keep the handsome rooms in order, to polish
plate, and spread bountiful meals. There was an atmosphere of ease
and comfort about her which contrasted agreeably with the shabbiness
of Mrs. Flint's boarding-house, and the bare simplicity of the old
home. Like most young people, Christie loved luxury, and was
sensible enough to see and value the comforts of her situation, and
to wonder why more girls placed as she was did not choose a life
like this rather than the confinements of a sewing-room, or the
fatigue and publicity of a shop.

She did not learn to love her mistress, because Mrs. Stuart
evidently considered herself as one belonging to a superior race of
beings, and had no desire to establish any of the friendly relations
that may become so helpful and pleasant to both mistress and maid.
She made a royal progress through her dominions every morning,
issued orders, found fault liberally, bestowed praise sparingly, and
took no more personal interest in her servants than if they were
clocks, to be wound up once a day, and sent away the moment they got
out of repair.

Mr. Stuart was absent from morning till night, and all Christie ever
knew about him was that he was a kind-hearted, hot-tempered, and
very conceited man; fond of his wife, proud of the society they
managed to draw about them, and bent on making his way in the world
at any cost.

If masters and mistresses knew how skilfully they are studied,
criticised, and imitated by their servants, they would take more
heed to their ways, and set better examples, perhaps. Mrs. Stuart
never dreamed that her quiet, respectful Jane kept a sharp eye on
all her movements, smiled covertly at her affectations, envied her
accomplishments, and practised certain little elegancies that struck
her fancy.

Mr. Stuart would have become apoplectic with indignation if he had
known that this too intelligent table-girl often contrasted her
master with his guests, and dared to think him wanting in good
breeding when he boasted of his money, flattered a great man, or
laid plans to lure some lion into his house. When he lost his
temper, she always wanted to laugh, he bounced and bumbled about so
like an angry blue-bottle fly; and when he got himself up
elaborately for a party, this disrespectful hussy confided to Hepsey
her opinion that "master was a fat dandy, with nothing to be vain of
but his clothes,"--a sacrilegious remark which would have caused her
to be summarily ejected from the house if it had reached the august
ears of master or mistress.

"My father was a gentleman; and I shall never forget it, though I do
go out to service. I've got no rich friends to help me up, but,
sooner or later, I mean to find a place among cultivated people; and
while I'm working and waiting, I can be fitting myself to fill that
place like a gentlewoman, as I am."

With this ambition in her mind, Christie took notes of all that went
on in the polite world, of which she got frequent glimpses while
"living out." Mrs. Stuart received one evening of each week, and on
these occasions Christie, with an extra frill on her white apron,
served the company, and enjoyed herself more than they did, if the
truth had been known.

While helping the ladies with their wraps, she observed what they
wore, how they carried themselves, and what a vast amount of
prinking they did, not to mention the flood of gossip they talked
while shaking out their flounces and settling their topknots.

Later in the evening, when she passed cups and glasses, this
demure-looking damsel heard much fine discourse, saw many famous
beings, and improved her mind with surreptitious studies of the rich
and great when on parade. But her best time was after supper, when,
through the crack of the door of the little room where she was
supposed to be clearing away the relics of the feast, she looked and
listened at her ease; laughed at the wits, stared at the lions,
heard the music, was impressed by the wisdom, and much edified by
the gentility of the whole affair.

After a time, however, Christie got rather tired of it, for there
was an elegant sameness about these evenings that became intensely
wearisome to the uninitiated, but she fancied that as each had his
part to play he managed to do it with spirit. Night after night the
wag told his stories, the poet read his poems, the singers warbled,
the pretty women simpered and dressed, the heavy scientific was duly
discussed by the elect precious, and Mrs. Stuart, in amazing
costumes, sailed to and fro in her most swan-like manner; while my
lord stirred up the lions he had captured, till they roared their
best, great and small.

"Good heavens! why don't they do or say something new and
interesting, and not keep twaddling on about art, and music, and
poetry, and cosmos? The papers are full of appeals for help for the
poor, reforms of all sorts, and splendid work that others are doing;
but these people seem to think it isn't genteel enough to be spoken
of here. I suppose it is all very elegant to go on like a set of
trained canaries, but it's very dull fun to watch them, and Hepsey's
stories are a deal more interesting to me."

Having come to this conclusion, after studying dilettanteism through
the crack of the door for some months, Christie left the "trained
canaries" to twitter and hop about their gilded cage, and devoted
herself to Hepsey, who gave her glimpses into another sort of life
so bitterly real that she never could forget it.

HEPSEY.

Friendship had prospered in the lower regions, for Hepsey had a
motherly heart, and Christie soon won her confidence by bestowing
her own. Her story was like many another; yet, being the first
Christie had ever heard, and told with the unconscious eloquence of
one who had suffered and escaped, it made a deep impression on her,
bringing home to her a sense of obligation so forcibly that she
began at once to pay a little part of the great debt which the white
race owes the black.

Christie loved books; and the attic next her own was full of them.
To this store she found her way by a sort of instinct as sure as
that which leads a fly to a honey-pot, and, finding many novels, she
read her fill. This amusement lightened many heavy hours, peopled
the silent house with troops of friends, and, for a time, was the
joy of her life.

Hepsey used to watch her as she sat buried in her book when the
day's work was done, and once a heavy sigh roused Christie from the
most exciting crisis of "The Abbot."

"What's the matter? Are you very tired, Aunty?" she asked, using the
name that came most readily to her lips.

"No, honey; I was only wishin' I could read fast like you does. I's
berry slow 'bout readin' and I want to learn a heap," answered
Hepsey, with such a wistful look in her soft eyes that Christie shut
her book, saying briskly:

"Then I'll teach you. Bring out your primer and let's begin at
once."

"Dear chile, it's orful hard work to put learnin' in my ole head,
and I wouldn't 'cept such a ting from you only I needs dis sort of
help so bad, and I can trust you to gib it to me as I wants it."

Then in a whisper that went straight to Christie's heart, Hepsey
told her plan and showed what help she craved.

For five years she had worked hard, and saved her earnings for the
purpose of her life. When a considerable sum had been hoarded up,
she confided it to one whom she believed to be a friend, and sent
him to buy her old mother. But he proved false, and she never saw
either mother or money. It was a hard blow, but she took heart and
went to work again, resolving this time to trust no one with the
dangerous part of the affair, but when she had scraped together
enough to pay her way she meant to go South and steal her mother at
the risk of her life.

"I don't want much money, but I must know little 'bout readin' and
countin' up, else I'll get lost and cheated. You'll help me do dis,
honey, and I'll bless you all my days, and so will my old mammy, if
I ever gets her safe away."

With tears of sympathy shining on her cheeks, and both hands
stretched out to the poor soul who implored this small boon of her,
Christie promised all the help that in her lay, and kept her word
religiously.

From that time, Hepsey's cause was hers; she laid by a part of her
wages for "ole mammy," she comforted Hepsey with happy prophecies of
success, and taught with an energy and skill she had never known
before. Novels lost their charms now, for Hepsey could give her a
comedy and tragedy surpassing any thing she found in them, because
truth stamped her tales with a power and pathos the most gifted
fancy could but poorly imitate.

The select receptions upstairs seemed duller than ever to her now,
and her happiest evenings were spent in the tidy kitchen, watching
Hepsey laboriously shaping A's and B's, or counting up on her worn
fingers the wages they had earned by months of weary work, that she
might purchase one treasure,--a feeble, old woman, worn out with
seventy years of slavery far away there in Virginia.

For a year Christie was a faithful servant to her mistress, who
appreciated her virtues, but did not encourage them; a true friend
to poor Hepsey, who loved her dearly, and found in her sympathy and
affection a solace for many griefs and wrongs. But Providence had
other lessons for Christie, and when this one was well learned she
was sent away to learn another phase of woman's life and labor.

While their domestics amused themselves with privy conspiracy and
rebellion at home, Mr. and Mrs. Stuart spent their evenings in
chasing that bright bubble called social success, and usually came
home rather cross because they could not catch it.

On one of these occasions they received a warm welcome, for, as they
approached the house, smoke was seen issuing from an attic window,
and flames flickering behind the half-drawn curtain. Bursting out of
the carriage with his usual impetuosity, Mr. Stuart let himself in
and tore upstairs shouting "Fire!" like an engine company.

In the attic Christie was discovered lying dressed upon her bed,
asleep or suffocated by the smoke that filled the room. A book had
slipped from her hand, and in falling had upset the candle on a
chair beside her; the long wick leaned against a cotton gown hanging
on the wall, and a greater part of Christie's wardrobe was burning
brilliantly.

"I forbade her to keep the gas lighted so late, and see what the
deceitful creature has done with her private candle!" cried Mrs.
Stuart with a shrillness that roused the girl from her heavy sleep
more effectually than the anathemas Mr. Stuart was fulminating
against the fire.

Sitting up she looked dizzily about her. The smoke was clearing
fast, a window having been opened; and the tableau was a striking
one. Mr. Stuart with an excited countenance was dancing frantically
on a heap of half-consumed clothes pulled from the wall. He had not
only drenched them with water from bowl and pitcher, but had also
cast those articles upon the pile like extinguishers, and was
skipping among the fragments with an agility which contrasted with
his stout figure in full evening costume, and his besmirched face,
made the sight irresistibly ludicrous.

Mrs. Stuart, though in her most regal array, seemed to have left her
dignity downstairs with her opera cloak, for with skirts gathered
closely about her, tiara all askew, and face full of fear and anger,
she stood upon a chair and scolded like any shrew.

The comic overpowered the tragic, and being a little hysterical with
the sudden alarm, Christie broke into a peal of laughter that sealed
her fate.

"Look at her! look at her!" cried Mrs. Stuart gesticulating on her
perch as if about to fly. "She has been at the wine, or lost her
wits. She must go, Horatio, she must go! I cannot have my nerves
shattered by such dreadful scenes. She is too fond of books, and it
has turned her brain. Hepsey can watch her to-night, and at dawn she
shall leave the house for ever."

"Not till after breakfast, my dear. Let us have that in comfort I
beg, for upon my soul we shall need it," panted Mr. Stuart, sinking
into a chair exhausted with the vigorous measures which had quenched
the conflagration.

Christie checked her untimely mirth, explained the probable cause of
the mischief, and penitently promised to be more careful for the
future.

Mr. Stuart would have pardoned her on the spot, but Madame was
inexorable, for she had so completely forgotten her dignity that she
felt it would be impossible ever to recover it in the eyes of this
disrespectful menial. Therefore she dismissed her with a lecture
that made both mistress and maid glad to part.

She did not appear at breakfast, and after that meal Mr. Stuart paid
Christie her wages with a solemnity which proved that he had taken a
curtain lecture to heart. There was a twinkle in his eye, however,
as he kindly added a recommendation, and after the door closed
behind him Christie was sure that he exploded into a laugh at the
recollection of his last night's performance.

This lightened her sense of disgrace very much, so, leaving a part
of her money to repair damages, she packed up her dilapidated
wardrobe, and, making Hepsey promise to report progress from time to
time, Christie went back to Mrs. Flint's to compose her mind and be
ready à la Micawber "for something to turn up."






CHAPTER III.

ACTRESS.





FEELING that she had all the world before her where to choose, and
that her next step ought to take her up at least one round higher on
the ladder she was climbing, Christie decided not to try going out
to service again. She knew very well that she would never live with
Irish mates, and could not expect to find another Hepsey. So she
tried to get a place as companion to an invalid, but failed to
secure the only situation of the sort that was offered her, because
she mildly objected to waiting on a nervous cripple all day, and
reading aloud half the night. The old lady called har an
"impertinent baggage," and Christie retired in great disgust,
resolving not to be a slave to anybody.

Things seldom turn out as we plan them, and after much waiting and
hoping for other work Christie at last accepted about the only
employment which had not entered her mind.

Among the boarders at Mrs. Flint's were an old lady and her pretty
daughter, both actresses at a respectable theatre. Not stars by any
means, but good second-rate players, doing their work creditably and
earning an honest living. The mother had been kind to Christie in
offering advice, and sympathizing with her disappointments. The
daughter, a gay little lass, had taken Christie to the theatre
several times, there to behold her in all the gauzy glories that
surround the nymphs of spectacular romance.

To Christie this was a great delight, for, though she had pored over
her father's Shakespeare till she knew many scenes by heart, she had
never seen a play till Lucy led her into what seemed an enchanted
world. Her interest and admiration pleased the little actress, and
sundry lifts when she was hurried with her dresses made her grateful
to Christie.

The girl's despondent face, as she came in day after day from her
unsuccessful quest, told its own story, though she uttered no
complaint, and these friendly souls laid their heads together, eager
to help her in their own dramatic fashion.

"I've got it! I've got it! All hail to the queen!" was the cry that
one day startled Christie as she sat thinking anxiously, while
sewing mock-pearls on a crown for Mrs. Black.

Looking up she saw Lucy just home from rehearsal, going through a
series of pantomimic evolutions suggestive of a warrior doing battle
with incredible valor, and a very limited knowledge of the noble art
of self-defence.

"What have you got? Who is the queen?" she asked, laughing, as the
breathless hero lowered her umbrella, and laid her bonnet at
Christie's feet.

"You are to be the Queen of the Amazons in our new spectacle, at
half a dollar a night for six or eight weeks, if the piece goes
well."

"No!" cried Christie, with a gasp.

"Yes!" cried Lucy, clapping her hands; and then she proceeded to
tell her news with theatrical volubility. "Mr. Sharp, the manager,
wants a lot of tallish girls, and I told him I knew of a perfect
dear. He said: 'Bring her on, then,' and I flew home to tell you.
Now, don't look wild, and say no. You've only got to sing in one
chorus, march in the grand procession, and lead your band in the
terrific battle-scene. The dress is splendid! Red tunic, tiger-skin
over shoulder, helmet, shield, lance, fleshings, sandals, hair down,
and as much cork to your eyebrows as you like."

Christie certainly did look wild, for Lucy had burst into the room
like a small hurricane, and her rapid words rattled about the
listeners' ears as if a hail-storm had followed the gust. While
Christie still sat with her mouth open, too bewildered to reply,
Mrs. Black said in her cosey voice:

"Try it, me dear, it's just what you'll enjoy, and a capital
beginning I assure ye; for if you do well old Sharp will want you
again, and then, when some one slips out of the company, you can
slip in, and there you are quite comfortable. Try it, me dear, and
if you don't like it drop it when the piece is over, and there's no
harm done."

"It's much easier and jollier than any of the things you are after.
We'll stand by you like bricks, and in a week you'll say it's the
best lark you ever had in your life. Don't be prim, now, but say
yes, like a trump, as you are," added Lucy, waving a pink satin
train temptingly before her friend.

"I will try it!" said Christie, with sudden decision, feeling that
something entirely new and absorbing was what she needed to expend
the vigor, romance, and enthusiasm of her youth upon.

With a shriek of delight Lucy swept her off her chair, and twirled
her about the room as excitable young ladies are fond of doing when
their joyful emotions need a vent. When both were giddy they
subsided into a corner and a breathless discussion of the important
step.

Though she had consented, Christie had endless doubts and fears, but
Lucy removed many of the former, and her own desire for pleasant
employment conquered many of the latter. In her most despairing
moods she had never thought of trying this. Uncle Enos considered
"play-actin'" as the sum of all iniquity. What would he say if she
went calmly to destruction by that road? Sad to relate, this
recollection rather strengthened her purpose, for a delicious sense
of freedom pervaded her soul, and the old defiant spirit seemed to
rise up within her at the memory of her Uncle's grim prophecies and
narrow views.

"Lucy is happy, virtuous, and independent, why can't I be so too if
I have any talent? It isn't exactly what I should choose, but any
thing honest is better than idleness. I'll try it any way, and get a
little fun, even if I don't make much money or glory out of it."

So Christie held to her resolution in spite of many secret
misgivings, and followed Mrs. Black's advice on all points with a
docility which caused that sanguine lady to predict that she would
be a star before she knew where she was.

"Is this the stage? How dusty and dull it is by daylight!" said
Christie next day, as she stood by Lucy on the very spot where she
had seen Hamlet die in great anguish two nights before.

"Bless you, child, it's in curl-papers now, as I am of a morning.
Mr. Sharp, here's an Amazon for you."

As she spoke, Lucy hurried across the stage, followed by Christie,
wearing any thing but an Amazonian expression just then.

"Ever on before?" abruptly asked, a keen-faced, little man, glancing
with an experienced eye at the young person who stood before him
bathed in blushes.

"No, sir."

"Do you sing?"

"A little, sir."

"Dance, of course?"

"Yes, sir."

"Just take a turn across the stage, will you? Must walk well to lead
a march."

As she went, Christie heard Mr. Sharp taking notes audibly:

"Good tread; capital figure; fine eye. She'll make up well, and
behave herself, I fancy."

A strong desire to make off seized the girl; but, remembering that
she had presented herself for inspection, she controlled the
impulse, and returned to him with no demonstration of displeasure,
but a little more fire in "the fine eye," and a more erect carriage
of the "capital figure."

"All right, my dear. Give your name to Mr. Tripp, and your mind to
the business, and consider yourself engaged,"--with which
satisfactory remark the little man vanished like a ghost.

"Lucy, did you hear that impertinent 'my dear'?" asked Christie,
whose sense of propriety had received its first shock.

"Lord, child, all managers do it. They don't mean any thing; so be
resigned, and thank your stars he didn't say 'love' and 'darling,'
and kiss you, as old Vining used to," was all the sympathy she got.

Having obeyed orders, Lucy initiated her into the mysteries of the
place, and then put her in a corner to look over the scenes in which
she was to appear. Christie soon caught the idea of her part,--not a
difficult matter, as there were but few ideas in the whole piece,
after which she sat watching the arrival of the troop she was to
lead. A most forlorn band of warriors they seemed, huddled together,
and looking as if afraid to speak, lest they should infringe some
rule; or to move, lest they be swallowed up by some unsuspected
trap-door.

Presently the ballet-master appeared, the orchestra struck up, and
Christie found herself marching and counter-marching at word of
command. At first, a most uncomfortable sense of the absurdity of
her position oppressed and confused her; then the ludicrous contrast
between the solemn anxiety of the troop and the fantastic evolutions
they were performing amused her till the novelty wore off; the
martial music excited her; the desire to please sharpened her wits;
and natural grace made it easy for her to catch and copy the steps
and poses given her to imitate. Soon she forgot herself, entered
into the spirit of the thing, and exerted every sense to please, so
successfully that Mr. Tripp praised her quickness at comprehension,
Lucy applauded heartily from a fairy car, and Mr. Sharp popped his
head out of a palace window to watch the Amazon's descent from the
Mountains of the Moon.

When the regular company arrived, the troop was dismissed till the
progress of the play demanded their reappearance. Much interested in
the piece, Christie stood aside under a palm-tree, the foliage of
which was strongly suggestive of a dilapidated green umbrella,
enjoying the novel sights and sounds about her.

Yellow-faced gentlemen and sleepy-eyed ladies roamed languidly about
with much incoherent jabbering of parts, and frequent explosions of
laughter. Princes, with varnished boots and suppressed cigars,
fought, bled, and died, without a change of countenance. Damsels of
unparalleled beauty, according to the text, gaped in the faces of
adoring lovers, and crocheted serenely on the brink of annihilation.
Fairies, in rubber-boots and woollen head-gear, disported themselves
on flowery barks of canvas, or were suspended aloft with hooks in
their backs like young Hindoo devotees. Demons, guiltless of hoof or
horn, clutched their victims with the inevitable "Ha! ha!" and
vanished darkly, eating pea-nuts. The ubiquitous Mr. Sharp seemed to
pervade the whole theatre; for his voice came shrilly from above or
spectrally from below, and his active little figure darted to and
fro like a critical will-o-the-wisp.

The grand march and chorus in the closing scene were easily
accomplished; for, as Lucy bade her, Christie "sung with all her
might," and kept step as she led her band with the dignity of a
Boadicea. No one spoke to her; few observed her; all were intent on
their own affairs; and when the final shriek and bang died away
without lifting the roof by its din, she could hardly believe that
the dreaded first rehearsal was safely over.

A visit to the wardrobe-room to see her dress came next; and here
Christie had a slight skirmish with the mistress of that department
relative to the length of her classical garments. As studies from
the nude had not yet become one of the amusements of the elite of
Little Babel, Christie was not required to appear in the severe
simplicity of a costume consisting of a necklace, sandals, and a bit
of gold fringe about the waist, but was allowed an extra inch or two
on her tunic, and departed, much comforted by the assurance that her
dress would not be "a shock to modesty," as Lucy expressed it.

"Now, look at yourself, and, for my sake, prove an honor to your
country and a terror to the foe," said Lucy, as she led her protégée
before the green-room mirror on the first night of "The Demon's
Daughter, or The Castle of the Sun!! The most Magnificent Spectacle
ever produced upon the American Stage!!!"

Christie looked, and saw a warlike figure with glittering helmet,
shield and lance, streaming hair and savage cloak. She liked the
picture, for there was much of the heroic spirit in the girl, and
even this poor counterfeit pleased her eye and filled her fancy with
martial memories of Joan of Arc, Zenobia, and Britomarte.

"Go to!" cried Lucy, who affected theatrical modes of speech. "Don't
admire yourself any longer, but tie up your sandals and come on. Be
sure you rush down the instant I cry, 'Demon, I defy thee!' Don't
break your neck, or pick your way like a cat in wet weather, but
come with effect, for I want that scene to make a hit."

CHRISTIE AS QUEEN OF THE AMAZONS.

Princess Caremfil swept away, and the Amazonian queen climbed to her
perch among the painted mountains, where her troop already sat like
a flock of pigeons shining in the sun. The gilded breast-plate rose
and fell with the quick beating of her heart, the spear shook with
the trembling of her hand, her lips were dry, her head dizzy, and
more than once, as she waited for her cue, she was sorely tempted to
run away and take the consequences.

But the thought of Lucy's good-will and confidence kept her, and
when the cry came she answered with a ringing shout, rushed down the
ten-foot precipice, and charged upon the foe with an energy that
inspired her followers, and quite satisfied the princess struggling
in the demon's grasp.

With clashing of arms and shrill war-cries the rescuers of innocence
assailed the sooty fiends who fell before their unscientific blows
with a rapidity which inspired in the minds of beholders a suspicion
that the goblins' own voluminous tails tripped them up and gallantry
kept them prostrate. As the last groan expired, the last agonized
squirm subsided, the conquerors performed the intricate dance with
which it appears the Amazons were wont to celebrate their victories.
Then the scene closed with a glare of red light and a "grand
tableau" of the martial queen standing in a bower of lances, the
rescued princess gracefully fainting in her arms, and the vanquished
demon scowling fiercely under her foot, while four-and-twenty
dishevelled damsels sang a song of exultation, to the barbaric music
of a tattoo on their shields.

All went well that night, and when at last the girls doffed crown
and helmet, they confided to one another the firm opinion that the
success of the piece was in a great measure owing to their talent,
their exertions, and went gaily home predicting for themselves
careers as brilliant as those of Siddons and Rachel.

It would be a pleasant task to paint the vicissitudes and victories
of a successful actress; but Christie was no dramatic genius born to
shine before the world and leave a name behind her. She had no
talent except that which may be developed in any girl possessing the
lively fancy, sympathetic nature, and ambitious spirit which make
such girls naturally dramatic. This was to be only one of many
experiences which were to show her her own weakness and strength,
and through effort, pain, and disappointment fit her to play a
nobler part on a wider stage.

For a few weeks Christie's illusions lasted; then she discovered
that the new life was nearly as humdrum as the old, that her
companions were ordinary men and women, and her bright hopes were
growing as dim as her tarnished shield. She grew unutterably weary
of "The Castle of the Sun," and found the "Demon's Daughter" an
unmitigated bore. She was not tired of the profession, only
dissatisfied with the place she held in it, and eager to attempt a
part that gave some scope for power and passion.

Mrs. Black wisely reminded her that she must learn to use her wings
before she tried to fly, and comforted her with stories of
celebrities who had begun as she was beginning, yet who had suddenly
burst from their grub-like obscurity to adorn the world as splendid
butterflies.

"We'll stand by you, Kit; so keep up your courage, and do your best.
Be clever to every one in general, old Sharp in particular, and when
a chance comes, have your wits about you and grab it. That's the way
to get on," said Lucy, as sagely as if she had been a star for
years.

"If I had beauty I should stand a better chance," sighed Christie,
surveying herself with great disfavor, quite unconscious that to a
cultivated eye the soul of beauty was often visible in that face of
hers, with its intelligent eyes, sensitive mouth, and fine lines
about the forehead, making it a far more significant and attractive
countenance than that of her friend, possessing only piquant
prettiness.

"Never mind, child; you've got a lovely figure, and an actress's
best feature,--fine eyes and eyebrows. I heard old Kent say so, and
he's a judge. So make the best of what you've got, as I do,"
answered Lucy, glancing at her own comely little person with an air
of perfect resignation.

Christie laughed at the adviser, but wisely took the advice, and,
though she fretted in private, was cheerful and alert in public.
Always modest, attentive, and obliging, she soon became a favorite
with her mates, and, thanks to Lucy's good offices with Mr. Sharp,
whose favorite she was, Christie got promoted sooner than she
otherwise would have been.

A great Christmas spectacle was brought out the next season, and
Christie had a good part in it. When that was over she thought there
was no hope for her, as the regular company was full and a different
sort of performance was to begin. But just then her chance came, and
she "grabbed it." The first soubrette died suddenly, and in the
emergency Mr. Sharp offered the place to Christie till he could fill
it to his mind. Lucy was second soubrette, and had hoped for this
promotion; but Lucy did not sing well. Christie had a good voice,
had taken lessons and much improved of late, so she had the
preference and resolved to stand the test so well that this
temporary elevation should become permanent.

She did her best, and though many of the parts were distasteful to
her she got through them successfully, while now and then she had
one which she thoroughly enjoyed. Her Tilly Slowboy was a hit, and a
proud girl was Christie when Kent, the comedian, congratulated her
on it, and told her he had seldom seen it better done.

To find favor in Kent's eyes was an honor indeed, for he belonged to
the old school, and rarely condescended to praise modern actors. His
own style was so admirable that he was justly considered the first
comedian in the country, and was the pride and mainstay of the old
theatre where he had played for years. Of course he possessed much
influence in that little world, and being a kindly man used it
generously to help up any young aspirant who seemed to him
deserving.

He had observed Christie, attracted by her intelligent face and
modest manners, for in spite of her youth there was a native
refinement about her that made it impossible for her to romp and
flirt as some of her mates did. But till she played Tilly he had not
thought she possessed any talent. That pleased him, and seeing how
much she valued his praise, and was flattered by his notice, he gave
her the wise but unpalatable advice always offered young actors.
Finding that she accepted it, was willing to study hard, work
faithfully, and wait patiently, he predicted that in time she would
make a clever actress, never a great one.

Of course Christie thought he was mistaken, and secretly resolved to
prove him a false prophet by the triumphs of her career. But she
meekly bowed to his opinion; this docility pleased him, and he took
a paternal sort of interest in her, which, coming from the powerful
favorite, did her good service with the higher powers, and helped
her on more rapidly than years of meritorious effort.

Toward the end of that second season several of Dickens's dramatized
novels were played, and Christie earned fresh laurels. She loved
those books, and seemed by instinct to understand and personate the
humor and pathos of many of those grotesque creations. Believing she
had little beauty to sacrifice, she dressed such parts to the life,
and played them with a spirit and ease that surprised those who had
considered her a dignified and rather dull young person.

"I'll tell you what it is, Sharp, that girl is going to make a
capital character actress. When her parts suit, she forgets herself
entirely and does admirably well. Her Miggs was nearly the death of
me to-night. She's got that one gift, and it's a good one. You 'd
better give her a chance, for I think she'll be a credit to the old
concern."

Kent said that,--Christie heard it, and flew to Lucy, waving Miggs's
cap for joy as she told the news.

"What did Mr. Sharp say?" asked Lucy, turning round with her face
half "made up."

"He merely said 'Hum,' and smiled. Wasn't that a good sign?" said
Christie, anxiously.

"Can't say," and Lucy touched up her eyebrows as if she took no
interest in the affair.

Christie's face fell, and her heart sunk at the thought of failure;
but she kept up her spirits by working harder than ever, and soon
had her reward. Mr. Sharp's "Hum" did mean yes, and the next season
she was regularly engaged, with a salary of thirty dollars a week.

It was a grand step, and knowing that she owed it to Kent, Christie
did her utmost to show that she deserved his good opinion. New
trials and temptations beset her now, but hard work and an innocent
nature kept her safe and busy. Obstacles only spurred her on to
redoubled exertion, and whether she did well or ill, was praised or
blamed, she found a never-failing excitement in her attempts to
reach the standard of perfection she had set up for herself. Kent
did not regret his patronage. Mr. Sharp was satisfied with the
success of the experiment, and Christie soon became a favorite in a
small way, because behind the actress the public always saw a woman
who never "forgot the modesty of nature."

But as she grew prosperous in outward things, Christie found herself
burdened with a private cross that tried her very much. Lucy was no
longer her friend; something had come between them, and a steadily
increasing coldness took the place of the confidence and affection
which had once existed. Lucy was jealous for Christie had passed her
in the race. She knew she could not fill the place Christie had
gained by favor, and now held by her own exertions, still she was
bitterly envious, though ashamed to own it.

Christie tried to be just and gentle, to prove her gratitude to her
first friend, and to show that her heart was unchanged. But she
failed to win Lucy back and felt herself injured by such unjust
resentment. Mrs. Black took her daughter's part, and though they
preserved the peace outwardly the old friendliness was quite gone.

Hoping to forget this trouble in excitement Christie gave herself
entirely to her profession, finding in it a satisfaction which for a
time consoled her.

But gradually she underwent the sorrowful change which comes to
strong natures when they wrong themselves through ignorance or
wilfulness.

Pride and native integrity kept her from the worst temptations of
such a life, but to the lesser ones she yielded, growing selfish,
frivolous, and vain,--intent on her own advancement, and careless by
what means she reached it. She had no thought now beyond her art, no
desire beyond the commendation of those whose opinion was
serviceable, no care for any one but herself.

Her love of admiration grew by what it fed on, till the sound of
applause became the sweetest music to her ear. She rose with this
hope, lay down with this satisfaction, and month after month passed
in this feverish life, with no wish to change it, but a growing
appetite for its unsatisfactory delights, an ever-increasing
forgetfulness of any higher aspiration than dramatic fame.

"Give me joy, Lucy, I'm to have a benefit next week! Everybody else
has had one, and I've played for them all, so no one seemed to
begrudge me my turn when dear old Kent proposed it," said Christie,
coming in one night still flushed and excited with the good news.

"What shall you have?" asked Lucy, trying to look pleased, and
failing decidedly.

"'Masks and Faces.' I've always wanted to play Peg. and it has good
parts for you and Kent, and St. George I chose it for that reason,
for I shall need all the help I can get to pull me through, I dare
say."

The smile vanished entirely at this speech, and Christie was
suddenly seized with a suspicion that Lucy was not only jealous of
her as an actress, but as a woman. St. George was a comely young
actor who usually played lovers' parts with Christie, and played
them very well, too, being possessed of much talent, and a
gentleman. They had never thought of falling in love with each
other, though St. George wooed and won Christie night after night in
vaudeville and farce. But it was very easy to imagine that so much
mock passion had a basis of truth, and Lucy evidently tormented
herself with this belief.

"Why didn't you choose Juliet: St. George would do Romeo so well?"
said Lucy, with a sneer.

"No, that is beyond me. Kent says Shakespeare will never be my line,
and I believe him. I should think you'd be satisfied with 'Masks and
Faces,' for you know Mabel gets her husband safely back in the end,"
answered Christie, watching the effect of her words.

"As if I wanted the man! No, thank you, other people's leavings
won't suit me," cried Lucy, tossing her head, though her face belied
her words.

"Not even though he has 'heavenly eyes,' 'distracting legs,' and 'a
melting voice?'" asked Christie maliciously, quoting Lucy's own
rapturous speeches when the new actor came.

"Come, come, girls, don't quarrel. I won't 'ave it in me room.
Lucy's tired to death, and it's not nice of you, Kitty, to come and
crow over her this way," said Mamma Black, coming to the rescue, for
Lucy was in tears, and Christie looking dangerous.

"It's impossible to please you, so I'll say good-night," and
Christie went to her room with resentment burning hotly in her
heart.

As she crossed the chamber her eye fell on her own figure reflected
in the long glass, and with a sudden impulse she tinned up the gas,
wiped the rouge from her cheeks, pushed back her hair, and studied
her own face intently for several moments. It was pale and jaded
now, and all its freshness seemed gone; hard lines had come about
the mouth, a feverish disquiet filled the eyes, and on the forehead
seemed to lie the shadow of a discontent that saddened the whole
face. If one could believe the testimony of that countenance things
were not going well with Christie, and she owned it with a regretful
sigh, as she asked herself, "Am I what I hoped I should be? No, and
it is my fault. If three years of this life have made me this, what
shall I be in ten? A fine actress perhaps, but how good a woman?"

With gloomy eyes fixed on her altered face she stood a moment
struggling with herself. Then the hard look returned, and she spoke
out defiantly, as if in answer to some warning voice within herself.
"No one cares what I am, so why care myself? Why not go on and get
as much fame as I can? Success gives me power if it cannot give me
happiness, and I must have some reward for my hard work. Yes! a gay
life and a short one, then out with the lights and down with the
curtain!"

But in spite of her reckless words Christie sobbed herself to sleep
that night like a child who knows it is astray, yet cannot see the
right path or hear its mother's voice calling it home.

On the night of the benefit, Lucy was in a most exasperating mood,
Christie in a very indignant one, and as they entered their
dressing-room they looked as if they might have played the Rival
Queens with great effect. Lucy offered no help and Christie asked
none, but putting her vexation resolutely out of sight fixed her
mind on the task before her.

As the pleasant stir began all about her, actress-like, she felt her
spirits rise, her courage increase with every curl she fastened up,
every gay garment she put on, and soon smiled approvingly at
herself, for excitement lent her cheeks a better color than rouge,
her eyes shone with satisfaction, and her heart beat high with the
resolve to make a hit or die.

Christie needed encouragement that night, and found it in the hearty
welcome that greeted her, and the full house, which proved how kind
a regard was entertained for her by many who knew her only by a
fictitious name. She felt this deeply, and it helped her much, for
she was vexed with many trials those before the footlights knew
nothing of.

The other players were full of kindly interest in her success, but
Lucy took a naughty satisfaction in harassing her by all the small
slights and unanswerable provocations which one actress has it in
her power to inflict upon another.

Christie was fretted almost beyond endurance, and retaliated by an
ominous frown when her position allowed, threatening asides when a
moment's by-play favored their delivery, and angry protests whenever
she met Lucy off the stage.

But in spite of all annoyances she had never played better in her
life. She liked the part, and acted the warm-hearted, quick-witted,
sharp-tongued Peg with a spirit and grace that surprised even those
who knew her best. Especially good was she in the scenes with
Triplet, for Kent played the part admirably, and cheered her on with
many an encouraging look and word. Anxious to do honor to her patron
and friend she threw her whole heart into the work; in the scene
where she comes like a good angel to the home of the poor
play-wright, she brought tears to the eyes of her audience; and when
at her command Triplet strikes up a jig to amuse the children she
"covered the buckle" in gallant style, dancing with all the
frolicsome abandon of the Irish orange-girl who for a moment forgot
her grandeur and her grief.

That scene was her best, for it is full of those touches of nature
that need very little art to make them effective; and when a great
bouquet fell with a thump at Christie's feet, as she paused to bow
her thanks for an encore, she felt that she had reached the height
of earthly bliss.

In the studio scene Lucy seemed suddenly gifted with unsuspected
skill; for when Mabel kneels to the picture, praying her rival to
give her back her husband's heart, Christie was amazed to see real
tears roll down Lucy's cheeks, and to hear real love and longing
thrill her trembling words with sudden power and passion.

"That is not acting. She does love St. George, and thinks I mean to
keep him from her. Poor dear! I'll tell her all about it to-night,
and set her heart at rest," thought Christie; and when Peg left the
frame, her face expressed the genuine pity that she felt, and her
voice was beautifully tender as she promised to restore the stolen
treasure.

Lucy felt comforted without knowing why, and the piece went smoothly
on to its last scene. Peg was just relinquishing the repentant
husband to his forgiving wife with those brave words of hers, when a
rending sound above their heads made all look up and start back; all
but Lucy, who stood bewildered. Christie's quick eye saw the
impending danger, and with a sudden spring she caught her friend
from it. It was only a second's work, but it cost her much; for in
the act, down crashed one of the mechanical contrivances used in a
late spectacle, and in its fall stretched Christie stunned and
senseless on the stage.

A swift uprising filled the house with tumult; a crowd of actors
hurried forward, and the panic-stricken audience caught glimpses of
poor Peg lying mute and pallid in Mabel's arms, while Vane wrung his
hands, and Triplet audibly demanded, "Why the devil somebody didn't
go for a doctor?"

Then a brilliant view of Mount Parnassus, with Apollo and the Nine
Muses in full blast, shut the scene from sight, and soon Mr. Sharp
appeared to ask their patience till the after-piece was ready, for
Miss Douglas was too much injured to appear again. And with an
unwonted expression of feeling, the little man alluded to "the
generous act which perhaps had changed the comedy to a tragedy and
robbed the beneficiary of her well-earned reward at their hands."

All had seen the impulsive spring toward, not from, the danger, and
this unpremeditated action won heartier applause than Christie ever
had received for her best rendering of more heroic deeds.

But she did not hear the cordial round they gave her. She had said
she would "make a hit or die;" and just then it seemed as if she had
done both, for she was deaf and blind to the admiration and the
sympathy bestowed upon her as the curtain fell on the first, last
benefit she ever was to have.






CHAPTER IV.

GOVERNESS.





MR. PHILIP FLETCHER.

DURING the next few weeks Christie learned the worth of many things
which she had valued very lightly until then. Health became a boon
too precious to be trifled with; life assumed a deeper significance
when death's shadow fell upon its light, and she discovered that
dependence might be made endurable by the sympathy of unsuspected
friends.

Lucy waited upon her with a remorseful devotion which touched her
very much and won entire forgiveness for the past, long before it
was repentantly implored. All her comrades came with offers of help
and affectionate regrets. Several whom she had most disliked now
earned her gratitude by the kindly thoughtfulness which filled her
sick-room with fruit and flowers, supplied carriages for the
convalescent, and paid her doctor's bill without her knowledge.

Thus Christie learned, like many another needy member of the gay
profession, that though often extravagant and jovial in their way of
life, these men and women give as freely as they spend, wear warm,
true hearts under their motley, and make misfortune only another
link in the bond of good-fellowship which binds them loyally
together.

Slowly Christie gathered her energies after weeks of suffering, and
took up her life again, grateful for the gift, and anxious to be
more worthy of it. Looking back upon the past she felt that she had
made a mistake and lost more than she had gained in those three
years. Others might lead that life of alternate excitement and hard
work unharmed, but she could not. The very ardor and insight which
gave power to the actress made that mimic life unsatisfactory to the
woman, for hers was an earnest nature that took fast hold of
whatever task she gave herself to do, and lived in it heartily while
duty made it right, or novelty lent it charms. But when she saw the
error of a step, the emptiness of a belief, with a like earnestness
she tried to retrieve the one and to replace the other with a better
substitute.

In the silence of wakeful nights and the solitude of quiet days, she
took counsel with her better self, condemned the reckless spirit
which had possessed her, and came at last to the decision which
conscience prompted and much thought confirmed.

"The stage is not the place for me," she said. "I have no genius to
glorify the drudgery, keep me from temptation, and repay me for any
sacrifice I make. Other women can lead this life safely and happily:
I cannot, and I must not go back to it, because, with all my past
experience, and in spite of all my present good resolutions, I
should do no better, and I might do worse. I'm not wise enough to
keep steady there; I must return to the old ways, dull but safe, and
plod along till I find my real place and work."

Great was the surprise of Lucy and her mother when Christie told her
resolution, adding, in a whisper, to the girl, "I leave the field
clear for you, dear, and will dance at your wedding with all my
heart when St. George asks you to play the 'Honeymoon' with him, as
I'm sure he will before long."

Many entreaties from friends, as well as secret longings, tried and
tempted Christie sorely, but she withstood them all, carried her
point, and renounced the profession she could not follow without
self-injury and self-reproach. The season was nearly over when she
was well enough to take her place again, but she refused to return,
relinquished her salary, sold her wardrobe, and never crossed the
threshold of the theatre after she had said good-bye.

Then she asked, "What next?" and was speedily answered. An
advertisement for a governess met her eye, which seemed to combine
the two things she most needed just then,--employment and change of
air.

"Mind you don't mention that you've been an actress or it will be
all up with you, me dear," said Mrs. Black, as Christie prepared to
investigate the matter, for since her last effort in that line she
had increased her knowledge of music, and learned French enough to
venture teaching it to very young pupils.

"I'd rather tell in the beginning, for if you keep any thing back
it's sure to pop out when you least expect or want it. I don't
believe these people will care as long as I'm respectable and teach
well," returned Christie, wishing she looked stronger and rosier.

"You'll be sorry if you do tell," warned Mrs. Black, who knew the
ways of the world.

"I shall be sorry if I don't," laughed Christie, and so she was, in
the end.

"L. N. Saltonstall" was the name on the door, and L. N.
Saltonstall's servant was so leisurely about answering Christie's
meek solo on the bell, that she had time to pull out her
bonnet-strings half-a-dozen times before a very black man in a very
white jacket condescended to conduct her to his mistress.

A frail, tea-colored lady appeared, displaying such a small
proportion of woman to such a large proportion of purple and fine
linen, that she looked as if she was literally as well as
figuratively "dressed to death."

Christie went to the point in a business-like manner that seemed to
suit Mrs. Saltonstall, because it saved so much trouble, and she
replied, with a languid affability:

"I wish some one to teach the children a little, for they are
getting too old to be left entirely to nurse. I am anxious to get to
the sea-shore as soon as possible, for they have been poorly all
winter, and my own health has suffered. Do you feel inclined to try
the place? And what compensation do you require?"

Christie had but a vague idea of what wages were usually paid to
nursery governesses, and hesitatingly named a sum which seemed
reasonable to her, but was so much less than any other applicant had
asked, that Mrs. Saltonstall began to think she could not do better
than secure this cheap young person, who looked firm enough to
manage her rebellious son and heir, and well-bred enough to begin
the education of a little fine lady. Her winter had been an
extravagant one, and she could economize in the governess better
perhaps than elsewhere; so she decided to try Christie, and get out
of town at once.

"Your terms are quite satisfactory, Miss Devon, and if my brother
approves, I think we will consider the matter settled. Perhaps you
would like to see the children? They are little darlings, and you
will soon be fond of them, I am sure."

A bell was rung, an order given, and presently appeared an
eight-year old boy, so excessively Scotch in his costume that he
looked like an animated checkerboard; and a little girl, who
presented the appearance of a miniature opera-dancer staggering
under the weight of an immense sash.

"Go and speak prettily to Miss Devon, my pets, for she is coming to
play with you, and you must mind what she says," commanded mamma.

The pale, fretful-looking little pair went solemnly to Christie's
knee, and stood there staring at her with a dull composure that
quite daunted her, it was so sadly unchildlike.

"What is your name, dear?" she asked, laying her hand on the young
lady's head.

"Villamena Temmatina Taltentall. You mustn't touch my hair; it's
just turled," was the somewhat embarrassing reply.

"Mine's Louy 'Poleon Thaltensthall, like papa's," volunteered the
other young person, and Christie privately wondered if the
possession of names nearly as long as themselves was not a burden to
the poor dears.

Feeling that she must say something, she asked, in her most
persuasive tone:

"Would you like to have me come and teach you some nice lessons out
of your little books?"

If she had proposed corporal punishment on the spot it could not
have caused greater dismay. Wilhelmina cast herself upon the floor
passionately, declaring that she "touldn't tuddy," and Saltonstall,
Jr., retreated precipitately to the door, and from that refuge
defied the whole race of governesses and "nasty lessons" jointly.

"There, run away to Justine. They are sadly out of sorts, and quite
pining for sea-air," said mamma, with both hands at her ears, for
the war-cries of her darlings were piercing as they departed,
proclaiming their wrongs while swarming up stairs, with a skirmish
on each landing.

With a few more words Christie took leave, and scandalized the sable
retainer by smiling all through the hall, and laughing audibly as
the door closed. The contrast of the plaid boy and beruffled girl's
irritability with their mother's languid affectation, and her own
unfortunate efforts, was too much for her. In the middle of her
merriment she paused suddenly, saying to herself:

"I never told about my acting. I must go back and have it settled."
She retraced a few steps, then turned and went on again, thinking,
"No; for once I'll be guided by other people's advice, and let well
alone."

A note arrived soon after, bidding Miss Devon consider herself
engaged, and desiring her to join the family at the boat on Monday
next.

At the appointed time Christie was on board, and looked about for
her party. Mrs. Saltonstall appeared in the distance with her family
about her, and Christie took a survey before reporting herself.
Madame looked more like a fashion-plate than ever, in a mass of
green flounces, and an impressive bonnet flushed with poppies and
bristling with wheat-ears. Beside her sat a gentleman, rapt in a
newspaper, of course, for to an American man life is a burden till
the daily news have been absorbed. Mrs. Saltonstall's brother was
the possessor of a handsome eye without softness, thin lips without
benevolence, but plenty of will; a face and figure which some
thirty-five years of ease and pleasure had done their best to polish
and spoil, and a costume without flaw, from his aristocratic boots
to the summer hat on his head.

The little boy more checkered and the little girl more operatic than
before, sat on stools eating bonbons, while a French maid and the
African footman hovered in the background.

MRS. SALTONSTALL AND FAMILY.

Feeling very much like a meek gray moth among a flock of
butterflies, Christie modestly presented herself.

"Good morning," said Madame with a nod, which, slight as it was,
caused a great commotion among the poppies and the wheat; "I began
to be anxious about you. Miss Devon, my brother, Mr. Fletcher."

The gentleman bowed, and as Christie sat down he got up, saying, as
he sauntered away with a bored expression:

"Will you have the paper, Charlotte? There's nothing in it."

As Mrs. Saltonstall seemed going to sleep and she felt delicate
about addressing the irritable infants in public, Christie amused
herself by watching Mr. Fletcher as he roamed listlessly about, and
deciding, in her usual rash way, that she did not like him because
he looked both lazy and cross, and ennui was evidently his bosom
friend. Soon, however, she forgot every thing but the shimmer of the
sunshine on the sea, the fresh wind that brought color to her pale
cheeks, and the happy thoughts that left a smile upon her lips. Then
Mr. Fletcher put up his glass and stared at her, shook his head, and
said, as he lit a cigar:

"Poor little wretch, what a time she will have of it between
Charlotte and the brats!"

But Christie needed no pity, and thought herself a fortunate young
woman when fairly established in her corner of the luxurious
apartments occupied by the family. Her duties seemed light compared
to those she had left, her dreams were almost as bright as of old,
and the new life looked pleasant to her, for she was one of those
who could find little bits of happiness for herself and enjoy them
heartily in spite of loneliness or neglect.

One of her amusements was studying her companions, and for a time
this occupied her, for Christie possessed penetration and a feminine
fancy for finding out people.

Mrs. Saltonstall's mission appeared to be the illustration of each
new fashion as it came, and she performed it with a devotion worthy
of a better cause. If a color reigned supreme she flushed herself
with scarlet or faded into primrose, made herself pretty in the
bluest of blue gowns, or turned livid under a gooseberry colored
bonnet. Her hat-brims went up or down, were preposterously wide or
dwindled to an inch, as the mode demanded. Her skirts were rampant
with sixteen frills, or picturesque with landscapes down each side,
and a Greek border or a plain hem. Her waists were as pointed as
those of Queen Bess or as short as Diana's; and it was the opinion
of those who knew her that if the autocrat who ruled her life
decreed the wearing of black cats as well as of vegetables, bugs,
and birds, the blackest, glossiest Puss procurable for money would
have adorned her head in some way.

Her time was spent in dressing, driving, dining and dancing; in
skimming novels, and embroidering muslin; going to church with a
velvet prayer-book and a new bonnet; and writing to her husband when
she wanted money, for she had a husband somewhere abroad, who so
happily combined business with pleasure that he never found time to
come home. Her children were inconvenient blessings, but she loved
them with the love of a shallow heart, and took such good care of
their little bodies that there was none left for their little souls.
A few days' trial satisfied her as to Christie's capabilities, and,
relieved of that anxiety, she gave herself up to her social duties,
leaving the ocean and the governess to make the summer wholesome and
agreeable to "the darlings."

Mr. Fletcher, having tried all sorts of pleasure and found that,
like his newspaper, there was "nothing in it," was now paying the
penalty for that unsatisfactory knowledge. Ill health soured his
temper and made his life a burden to him. Having few resources
within himself to fall back upon, he was very dependent upon other
people, and other people were so busy amusing themselves, they
seemed to find little time or inclination to amuse a man who had
never troubled himself about them. He was rich, but while his money
could hire a servant to supply each want, gratify each caprice, it
could not buy a tender, faithful friend to serve for love, and ask
no wages but his comfort.

He knew this, and felt the vain regret that inevitably comes to
those who waste life and learn the value of good gifts by their
loss. But he was not wise or brave enough to bear his punishment
manfully, and lay the lesson honestly to heart. Fretful and
imperious when in pain, listless and selfish when at ease, his one
aim in life now was to kill time, and any thing that aided him in
this was most gratefully welcomed.

For a long while he took no more notice of Christie than if she had
been a shadow, seldom speaking beyond the necessary salutations, and
merely carrying his finger to his hat-brim when he passed her on the
beach with the children. Her first dislike was softened by pity when
she found he was an invalid, but she troubled herself very little
about him, and made no romances with him, for all her dreams were of
younger, nobler lovers.

Busied with her own affairs, the days though monotonous were not
unhappy. She prospered in her work and the children soon believed in
her as devoutly as young Turks in their Prophet. She devised
amusements for herself as well as for them; walked, bathed, drove,
and romped with the little people till her own eyes shone like
theirs, her cheek grew rosy, and her thin figure rounded with the
promise of vigorous health again.

Christie was at her best that summer, physically speaking, for
sickness had refined her face, giving it that indescribable
expression which pain often leaves upon a countenance as if in
compensation for the bloom it takes away. The frank eyes had a
softer shadow in their depths, the firm lips smiled less often, but
when it came the smile was the sweeter for the gravity that went
before, and in her voice there was a new undertone of that subtle
music, called sympathy, which steals into the heart and nestles
there.

She was unconscious of this gracious change, but others saw and felt
it, and to some a face bright with health, intelligence, and modesty
was more attractive than mere beauty. Thanks to this and her quiet,
cordial manners, she found friends here and there to add charms to
that summer by the sea.

The dashing young men took no more notice of her than if she had
been a little gray peep on the sands; not so much, for they shot
peeps now and then, but a governess was not worth bringing down. The
fashionable belles and beauties were not even aware of her
existence, being too entirely absorbed in their yearly husband-hunt
to think of any one but themselves and their prey. The dowagers had
more interesting topics to discuss, and found nothing in Christie's
humble fortunes worthy of a thought, for they liked their gossip
strong and highly flavored, like their tea.

But a kind-hearted girl or two found her out, several lively old
maids, as full of the romance of the past as ancient novels, a
bashful boy, three or four invalids, and all the children, for
Christie had a motherly heart and could find charms in the plainest,
crossest baby that ever squalled.

Of her old friends she saw nothing, as her theatrical ones were off
on their vacations, Hepsey had left her place for one in another
city, and Aunt Betsey seldom wrote.

But one day a letter came, telling her that the dear old lady would
never write again, and Christie felt as if her nearest and dearest
friend was lost. She had gone away to a quiet spot among the rocks
to get over her first grief alone, but found it very hard to check
her tears, as memory brought back the past, tenderly recalling every
kind act, every loving word, and familiar scene. She seldom wept,
but when any thing did unseal the fountains that lay so deep, she
cried with all her heart, and felt the better for it.

With the letter crumpled in her hand, her head on her knees, and her
hat at her feet, she was sobbing like a child, when steps startled
her, and, looking up, she saw Mr. Fletcher regarding her with an
astonished countenance from under his big sun umbrella.

Something in the flushed, wet face, with its tremulous lips and
great tears rolling down, seemed to touch even lazy Mr. Fletcher,
for he furled his umbrella with unusual rapidity, and came up,
saying, anxiously:

"My dear Miss Devon, what's the matter? Are you hurt? Has Mrs. S.
been scolding? Or have the children been too much for you?"

"No; oh, no! it's bad news from home," and Christie's head went down
again, for a kind word was more than she could bear just then.

"Some one ill, I fancy? I'm sorry to hear it, but you must hope for
the best, you know," replied Mr. Fletcher, really quite exerting
himself to remember and present this well-worn consolation.

"There is no hope; Aunt Betsey's dead!"

"Dear me! that's very sad."

Mr. Fletcher tried not to smile as Christie sobbed out the
old-fashioned name, but a minute afterward there were actually tears
in his eyes, for, as if won by his sympathy, she poured out the
homely little story of Aunt Betsey's life and love, unconsciously
pronouncing the kind old lady's best epitaph in the unaffected grief
that made her broken words so eloquent.

For a minute Mr. Fletcher forgot himself, and felt as he remembered
feeling long ago, when, a warm-hearted boy, he had comforted his
little sister for a lost kitten or a broken doll. It was a new
sensation, therefore interesting and agreeable while it lasted, and
when it vanished, which it speedily did, he sighed, then shrugged
his shoulders and wished "the girl would stop crying like a
water-spout."

"It's hard, but we all have to bear it, you know; and sometimes I
fancy if half the pity we give the dead, who don't need it, was
given to the living, who do, they'd bear their troubles more
comfortably. I know I should," added Mr. Fletcher, returning to his
own afflictions, and vaguely wondering if any one would cry like
that when he departed this life.

Christie minded little what he said, for his voice was pitiful and
it comforted her. She dried her tears, put back her hair, and
thanked him with a grateful smile, which gave him another pleasant
sensation; for, though young ladies showered smiles upon him with
midsummer radiance, they seemed cool and pale beside the sweet
sincerity of this one given by a girl whose eyes were red with
tender tears.

"That's right, cheer up, take a little run on the beach, and forget
all about it," he said, with a heartiness that surprised himself as
much as it did Christie.

"I will, thank you. Please don't speak of this; I'm used to bearing
my troubles alone, and time will help me to do it cheerfully."

"That's brave! If I can do any thing, let me know; I shall be most
happy." And Mr. Fletcher evidently meant what he said.

Christie gave him another grateful "Thank you," then picked up her
hat and went away along the sands to try his prescription; while Mr.
Fletcher walked the other way, so rapt in thought that he forgot to
put up his umbrella till the end of his aristocratic nose was burnt
a deep red.

That was the beginning of it; for when Mr. Fletcher found a new
amusement, he usually pursued it regardless of consequences.
Christie took his pity for what it was worth, and thought no more of
that little interview, for her heart was very heavy. But he
remembered it, and, when they met on the beach next day, wondered
how the governess would behave. She was reading as she walked, and,
with a mute acknowledgment of his nod, tranquilly turned a page and
read on without a pause, a smile, or change of color.

Mr. Fletcher laughed as he strolled away; but Christie was all the
more amusing for her want of coquetry, and soon after he tried her
again. The great hotel was all astir one evening with bustle, light,
and music; for the young people had a hop, as an appropriate
entertainment for a melting July night. With no taste for such
folly, even if health had not forbidden it, Mr. Fletcher lounged
about the piazzas, tantalizing the fair fowlers who spread their
nets for him, and goading sundry desperate spinsters to despair by
his erratic movements. Coming to a quiet nook, where a long window
gave a fine view of the brilliant scene, he found Christie leaning
in, with a bright, wistful face, while her hand kept time to the
enchanting music of a waltz.

"Wisely watching the lunatics, instead of joining in their antics,"
he said, sitting down with a sigh.

Christie looked around and answered, with the wistful look still in
her eyes:

"I'm very fond of that sort of insanity; but there is no place for
me in Bedlam at present."

"I daresay I can find you one, if you care to try it. I don't
indulge myself." And Mr. Fletcher's eye went from the rose in
Christie's brown hair to the silvery folds of her best gown, put on
merely for the pleasure of wearing it because every one else was in
festival array.

She shook her head. "No, thank you. Governesses are very kindly
treated in America; but ball-rooms like that are not for them. I
enjoy looking on, fortunately; so I have my share of fun after all."

"I shan't get any complaints out of her. Plucky little soul! I
rather like that," said Mr. Fletcher to himself; and, finding his
seat comfortable, the corner cool, and his companion pleasant to
look at, with the moonlight doing its best for her, he went on
talking for his own satisfaction.

Christie would rather have been left in peace; but fancying that he
did it out of kindness to her, and that she had done him injustice
before, she was grateful now, and exerted herself to seem so; in
which endeavor she succeeded so well that Mr. Fletcher proved he
could be a very agreeable companion when he chose. He talked well;
and Christie was a good listener. Soon interest conquered her
reserve, and she ventured to ask a question, make a criticism, or
express an opinion in her own simple way. Unconsciously she piqued
the curiosity of the man; for, though he knew many lovely, wise, and
witty women, he had never chanced to meet with one like this before;
and novelty was the desire of his life. Of course he did not find
moonlight, music, and agreeable chat as delightful as she did; but
there was something animating in the fresh face opposite, something
flattering in the eager interest she showed, and something most
attractive in the glimpses unconsciously given him of a nature
genuine in its womanly sincerity and strength. Something about this
girl seemed to appeal to the old self, so long neglected that he
thought it dead. He could not analyze the feeling, but was conscious
of a desire to seem better than he was as he looked into those
honest eyes; to talk well, that he might bring that frank smile to
the lips that grew either sad or scornful when he tried worldly
gossip or bitter satire; and to prove himself a man under all the
elegance and polish of the gentleman.

He was discovering then, what Christie learned when her turn came,
that fine natures seldom fail to draw out the finer traits of those
who approach them, as the little witch-hazel wand, even in the hand
of a child, detects and points to hidden springs in unsuspected
spots. Women often possess this gift, and when used worthily find it
as powerful as beauty; for, if less alluring, it is more lasting and
more helpful, since it appeals, not to the senses, but the souls of
men.

Christie was one of these; and in proportion as her own nature was
sound and sweet so was its power as a touchstone for the genuineness
of others. It was this unconscious gift that made her wonder at the
unexpected kindness she found in Mr. Fletcher, and this which made
him, for an hour or two at least, heartily wish he could live his
life over again and do it better.

After that evening Mr. Fletcher spoke to Christie when he met her,
turned and joined her sometimes as she walked with the children, and
fell into the way of lounging near when she sat reading aloud to an
invalid friend on piazza or sea-shore. Christie much preferred to
have no auditor but kind Miss Tudor; but finding the old lady
enjoyed his chat she resigned herself, and when he brought them new
books as well as himself, she became quite cordial.

Everybody sauntered and lounged, so no one minded the little group
that met day after day among the rocks. Christie read aloud, while
the children revelled in sand, shells, and puddles; Miss Tudor spun
endless webs of gay silk and wool; and Mr. Fletcher, with his hat
over his eyes, lay sunning himself like a luxurious lizard, as he
watched the face that grew daily fairer in his sight, and listened
to the pleasant voice that went reading on till all his ills and
ennui seemed lulled to sleep as by a spell.

A week or two of this new caprice set Christie to thinking. She knew
that Uncle Philip was not fond of "the darlings;" it was evident
that good Miss Tudor, with her mild twaddle and eternal knitting,
was not the attraction, so she was forced to believe that he came
for her sake alone. She laughed at herself for this fancy at first;
but not possessing the sweet unconsciousness of those heroines who
can live through three volumes with a burning passion before their
eyes, and never see it till the proper moment comes, and Eugene goes
down upon his knees, she soon felt sure that Mr. Pletcher found her
society agreeable, and wished her to know it.

Being a mortal woman, her vanity was flattered, and she found
herself showing that she liked it by those small signs and symbols
which lovers' eyes are so quick to see and understand,--an artful
bow on her hat, a flower in her belt, fresh muslin gowns, and the
most becoming arrangement of her hair.

"Poor man, he has so few pleasures I'm sure I needn't grudge him
such a small one as looking at and listening to me if he likes it,"
she said to herself one day, as she was preparing for her daily
stroll with unusual care. "But how will it end? If he only wants a
mild flirtation he is welcome to it; but if he really cares for me,
I must make up my mind about it, and not deceive him. I don't
believe he loves me: how can he? such an insignificant creature as I
am."

Here she looked in the glass, and as she looked the color deepened
in her cheek, her eyes shone, and a smile would sit upon her lips,
for the reflection showed her a very winning face under the
coquettish hat put on to captivate.

"Don't be foolish, Christie! Mind what you do, and be sure vanity
doesn't delude you, for you are only a woman, and in tilings of this
sort we are so blind and silly. I'll think of this possibility
soberly, but I won't flirt, and then which ever way I decide I shall
have nothing to reproach myself with."

Armed with this virtuous resolution, Christie sternly replaced the
pretty hat with her old brown one, fastened up a becoming curl,
which of late she had worn behind her ear, and put on a pair of
stout, rusty boots, much fitter for rocks and sand than the smart
slippers she was preparing to sacrifice. Then she trudged away to
Miss Tudor, bent on being very quiet and reserved, as became a meek
and lowly governess.

But, dear heart, how feeble are the resolutions of womankind! When
she found herself sitting in her favorite nook, with the wide, blue
sea glittering below, the fresh wind making her blood dance in her
veins, and all the earth and sky so full of summer life and
loveliness, her heart would sing for joy, her face would shine with
the mere bliss of living, and underneath all this natural content
the new thought, half confessed, yet very sweet, would whisper,
"Somebody cares for me."

If she had doubted it, the expression of Mr. Fletcher's face that
morning would have dispelled the doubt, for, as she read, he was
saying to himself: "Yes, this healthful, cheery, helpful creature is
what I want to make life pleasant. Every thing else is used up; why
not try this, and make the most of my last chance? She does me good,
and I don't seem to get tired of her. I can't have a long life, they
tell me, nor an easy one, with the devil to pay with my vitals
generally; so it would be a wise thing to provide myself with a
good-tempered, faithful soul to take care of me. My fortune would
pay for loss of time, and my death leave her a bonny widow. I won't
be rash, but I think I'll try it,"

With this mixture of tender, selfish, and regretful thoughts in his
mind, it is no wonder Mr. Fletchcr's eyes betrayed him, as he lay
looking at Christie. Never had she read so badly, for she could not
keep her mind on her book. It would wander to that new and
troublesome fancy of hers; she could not help thinking that Mr.
Fletcher must have been a handsome man before he was so ill;
wondering if his temper was very bad, and fancying that he might
prove both generous and kind and true to one who loved and served
him well. At this point she was suddenly checked by a slip of the
tongue that covered her with confusion.

She was reading "John Halifax," and instead of saying "Phineas
Fletcher" she said Philip, and then colored to her forehead, and
lost her place. Miss Tudor did not mind it, but Mr. Fletcher
laughed, and Christie thanked Heaven that her face was half hidden
by the old brown hat.

Nothing was said, but she was much relieved to find that Mr.
Fletcher had joined a yachting party next day and he would be away
for a week. During that week Christie thought over the matter, and
fancied she had made up her mind. She recalled certain speeches she
had heard, and which had more weight with her than she suspected.
One dowager had said to another: "P. F. intends to marry, I assure
you, for his sister told me so, with tears in her eyes. Men who have
been gay in their youth make very good husbands when their wild oats
are sowed. Clara could not do better, and I should be quite content
to give her to him."

"Well, dear, I should be sorry to see my Augusta his wife, for
whoever he marries will be a perfect slave to him. His fortune would
be a nice thing if he did not live long; but even for that my
Augusta shall not be sacrificed," returned the other matron whose
Augusta had vainly tried to captivate "P. F.," and revenged herself
by calling him "a wreck, my dear, a perfect wreck."

At another time Christie heard some girls discussing the eligibility
of several gentlemen, and Mr. Fletcher was considered the best match
among; them.

"You can do any thing you like with a husband a good deal older than
yourself. He's happy with his business, his club, and his dinner,
and leaves you to do what you please; just keep him comfortable and
he'll pay your bills without much fuss," said one young thing who
had seen life at twenty.

"I'd take him if I had the chance, just because everybody wants him.
Don't admire him a particle, but it will make a jolly stir whenever
he does marry, and I wouldn't mind having a hand in it," said the
second budding belle.

"I'd take him for the diamonds alone. Mamma says they are splendid,
and have been in the family for ages. He won't let Mrs. S. wear
them, for they always go to the eldest son's wife. Hope he'll choose
a handsome woman who will show them off well," said a third sweet
girl, glancing at her own fine neck.

"He won't; he'll take some poky old maid who will cuddle him when he
is sick, and keep out of his way when he is well. See if he don't."

"I saw him dawdling round with old Tudor, perhaps he means to take
her: she's a capital nurse, got ill herself taking care of her
father, you know."

"Perhaps he's after the governess; she's rather nice looking, though
she hasn't a bit of style."

"Gracious, no! she's a dowdy thing, always trailing round with a
book and those horrid children. No danger of his marrying her." And
a derisive laugh seemed to settle that question beyond a doubt.

"Oh, indeed!" said Christie, as the girls went trooping out of the
bath-house, where this pleasing chatter had been carried on
regardless of listeners. She called them "mercenary, worldly,
unwomanly flirts," and felt herself much their superior. Yet the
memory of their gossip haunted her, and had its influence upon her
decision, though she thought she came to it through her own good
judgment and discretion.

"If he really cares for me I will listen, and not refuse till I know
him well enough to decide. I'm tired of being alone, and should
enjoy ease and pleasure so much. He's going abroad for the winter,
and that would be charming. I'll try not to be worldly-minded and
marry without love, but it does look tempting to a poor soul like
me."

So Christie made up her mind to accept, if this promotion was
offered her; and while she waited, went through so many alternations
of feeling, and was so harassed by doubts and fears that she
sometimes found herself wishing it had never occurred to her.

Mr. Pletcher, meantime, with the help of many meditative cigars, was
making up his mind. Absence only proved to him how much he needed a
better time-killer than billiards, horses, or newspapers, for the
long, listless days seemed endless without the cheerful governess to
tone him up, like a new and agreeable sort of bitters. A gradually
increasing desire to secure this satisfaction had taken possession
of him, and the thought of always having a pleasant companion, with
no nerves, nonsense, or affectation about her, was an inviting idea
to a man tired of fashionable follies and tormented with the ennui
of his own society.

The gossip, wonder, and chagrin such a step would cause rather
pleased his fancy; the excitement of trying almost the only thing as
yet untried allured him; and deeper than all the desire to forget
the past in a better future led him to Christie by the nobler
instincts that never wholly die in any soul. He wanted her as he had
wanted many other things in his life, and had little doubt that he
could have her for the asking. Even if love was not abounding,
surely his fortune, which hitherto had procured him all he wished
(except health and happiness) could buy him a wife, when his friends
made better bargains every day. So, having settled the question, he
came home again, and every one said the trip had done him a world of
good.

Christie sat in her favorite nook one bright September morning, with
the inevitable children hunting hapless crabs in a pool near by. A
book lay on her knee, but she was not reading; her eyes were looking
far across the blue waste before her with an eager gaze, and her
face was bright with some happy thought. The sound of approaching
steps disturbed her reverie, and, recognizing them, she plunged into
the heart of the story, reading as if utterly absorbed, till a
shadow fell athwart the page, and the voice she had expected to hear
asked blandly:

"What book now, Miss Devon?"

"'Jane Eyre,' sir."

Mr. Fletcher sat down just where her hat-brim was no screen, pulled
off his gloves, and leisurely composed himself for a comfortable
lounge.

"What is your opinion of Rochester?" he asked, presently.

"Not a very high one."

"Then you think Jane was a fool to love and try to make a saint of
him, I suppose?"

"I like Jane, but never can forgive her marrying that man, as I
haven't much faith in the saints such sinners make."

"But don't you think a man who had only follies to regret might
expect a good woman to lend him a hand and make him happy?"

"If he has wasted his life he must take the consequences, and be
content with pity and indifference, instead of respect and love.
Many good women do 'lend a hand,' as you say, and it is quite
Christian and amiable, I 've no doubt; but I cannot think it a fair
bargain."

Mr. Fletcher liked to make Christie talk, for in the interest of the
subject she forgot herself, and her chief charm for him was her
earnestness. But just then the earnestness did not seem to suit him,
and he said, rather sharply:

"What hard-hearted creatures you women are sometimes! Now, I fancied
you were one of those who wouldn't leave a poor fellow to his fate,
if his salvation lay in your hands."

"I can't say what I should do in such a case; but it always seemed
to me that a man should have energy enough to save himself, and not
expect the 'weaker vessel,' as he calls her, to do it for him,"
answered Christie, with a conscious look, for Mr. Fletcher's face
made her feel as if something was going to happen.

Evidently anxious to know what she would do in aforesaid case, Mr.
Fletcher decided to put one before her as speedily as possible, so
he said, in a pensive tone, and with a wistful glance:

"You looked very happy just now when I came up. I wish I could
believe that my return had any thing to do with it."

Christie wished she could control her tell-tale color, but finding
she could not, looked hard at the sea, and, ignoring his tender
insinuation, said, with suspicious enthusiasm:

"I was thinking of what Mrs. Saltonstall said this morning. She
asked me if I would like to go to Paris with her for the winter. It
has always been one of my dreams to go abroad, and I do hope I shall
not be disappointed."

Christie's blush seemed to be a truer answer than her words, and,
leaning a little nearer, Mr. Fletcher said, in his most persuasive
tone:

"Will you go to Paris as my governess, instead of Charlotte's?"

Christie thought her reply was all ready; but when the moment came,
she found it was not, and sat silent, feeling as if that "Yes" would
promise far more than she could give. Mr. Fletcher had no doubt what
the answer would be, and was in no haste to get it, for that was one
of the moments that are so pleasant and so short-lived they should
be enjoyed to the uttermost. He liked to watch her color come and
go, to see the asters on her bosom tremble with the quickened
beating of her heart, and tasted, in anticipation, the satisfaction
of the moment when that pleasant voice of hers would falter out its
grateful assent. Drawing yet nearer, he went on, still in the
persuasive tone that would have been more lover-like if it had been
less assured.

"I think I am not mistaken in believing that you care for me a
little. You must know how fond I am of you, how much I need you, and
how glad I should be to give all I have if I might keep you always
to make my hard life happy. May I, Christie?"

"You would soon tire of me. I have no beauty, no accomplishments, no
fortune,--nothing but my heart, and my hand to give the man I marry.
Is that enough?" asked Christie, looking at him with eyes that
betrayed the hunger of an empty heart longing to be fed with genuine
food.

But Mr. Fletcher did not understand its meaning; he saw the humility
in her face, thought she was overcome by the weight of the honor he
did her, and tried to reassure her with the gracious air of one who
wishes to lighten the favor he confers.

"It might not be for some men, but it is for me, because I want you
very much. Let people say what they will, if you say yes I am
satisfied. You shall not regret it, Christie; I'll do my best to
make you happy; you shall travel wherever I can go with you, have
what you like, if possible, and when we come back by and by, you
shall take your place in the world as my wife. You will fill it
well, I fancy, and I shall be a happy man. I've had my own way all
my life, and I mean to have it now, so smile, and say, 'Yes,
Philip,' like a sweet soul, as you are."

But Christie did not smile, and felt no inclination to say "Yes,
Philip," for that last speech of his jarred on her ear. The tone of
unconscious condescension in it wounded the woman's sensitive pride;
self was too apparent, and the most generous words seemed to her
like bribes. This was not the lover she had dreamed of, the brave,
true man who gave her all, and felt it could not half repay the
treasure of her innocent, first love. This was not the happiness she
had hoped for, the perfect faith, the glad surrender, the sweet
content that made all things possible, and changed this work-a-day
world into a heaven while the joy lasted.

She had decided to say "yes," but her heart said "no" decidedly, and
with instinctive loyalty she obeyed it, even while she seemed to
yield to the temptation which appeals to three of the strongest
foibles in most women's nature,--vanity, ambition, and the love of
pleasure.

"You are very kind, but you may repent it, you know so little of
me," she began, trying to soften her refusal, but sadly hindered by
a feeling of contempt.

"I know more about you than you think; but it makes no difference,"
interrupted Mr. Fletcher, with a smile that irritated Christie, even
before she understood its significance. "I thought it would at
first, but I found I couldn't get on without you, so I made up my
mind to forgive and forget that my wife had ever been an actress."

Christie had forgotten it, and it would have been well for him if he
had held his tongue. Now she understood the tone that had chilled
her, the smile that angered her, and Mr. Fletcher's fate was settled
in the drawing of a breath.

"Who told you that?" she asked, quickly, while every nerve tingled
with the mortification of being found out then and there in the one
secret of her life.

"I saw you dancing on the beach with the children one day, and it
reminded me of an actress I had once seen. I should not have
remembered it but for the accident which impressed it on my mind.
Powder, paint, and costume made 'Miss Douglas' a very different
woman from Miss Devon, but a few cautious inquiries settled the
matter, and I then understood where you got that slight soupcon of
dash and daring which makes our demure governess so charming when
with me."

As he spoke, Mr. Fletcher smiled again, and kissed his hand to her
with a dramatic little gesture that exasperated Christie beyond
measure. She would not make light of it, as he did, and submit to be
forgiven for a past she was not ashamed of. Heartily wishing she had
been frank at first, she resolved to have it out now, and accept
nothing Mr. Fletcher offered her, not even silence.

"Yes," she said, as steadily as she could, "I was an actress for
three years, and though it was a hard life it was an honest one, and
I'm not ashamed of it. I ought to have told Mrs. Saltonstall, but I
was warned that if I did it would be difficult to find a place,
people are so prejudiced. I sincerely regret it now, and shall tell
her at once, so you may save yourself the trouble."

"My dear girl, I never dreamed of telling any one!" cried Mr.
Fletcher in an injured tone. "I beg you won't speak, but trust me,
and let it be a little secret between us two. I assure you it makes
no difference to me, for I should marry an opera dancer if I chose,
so forget it, as I do, and set my mind at rest upon the other point.
I'm still waiting for my answer, you know."

"It is ready."

"A kind one, I'm sure. What is it, Christie?"

"No, I thank you."

"But you are not in earnest?"

"Perfectly so."

Mr. Fletcher got up suddenly and set his back against the rock,
saying in a tone of such unaffected surprise and disappointment that
her heart reproached her:

"NO, I THANK YOU."

"Am I to understand that as your final answer, Miss Devon?"

"Distinctly and decidedly my final answer, Mr, Pletcher."

Christie tried to speak kindly, but she was angry with herself and
him, and unconsciously showed it both in face and voice, for she was
no actress off the stage, and wanted to be very true just then as a
late atonement for that earlier want of candor.

A quick change passed over Mr. Fletcher's face; his cold eyes
kindled with an angry spark, his lips were pale with anger, and his
voice was very bitter, as he slowly said:

"I've made many blunders in my life, and this is one of the
greatest; for I believed in a woman, was fool enough to care for her
with the sincerest love I ever knew, and fancied that she would be
grateful for the sacrifice I made."

He got no further, for Christie rose straight up and answered him
with all the indignation she felt burning in her face and stirring
the voice she tried in vain to keep as steady as his own.

"The sacrifice would not have been all yours, for it is what we are,
not what we have, that makes one human being superior to another. I
am as well-b