“I’m tired of thinking only of myself.  It makes me selfish and low-spirited; for I’m not a bit interesting.  I must love somebody, and ‘love them hard,’ as children say; so why can’t you come and stay with me?  There’s room enough, and we could be so cosy evenings with our books and work.  I know you need some one to look after you, and I love dearly to take care of people.  Do come,” she would say, with most persuasive hospitality.

But Rachel always answered steadily:  “Not yet, Christie, not yet.  I ’ve got something to do before I can think of doing any thing so beautiful as that.  Only love me, dear, and some day I’ll show you all my heart, and thank you as I ought.”

So Christie was content to wait, and, meantime, enjoyed much; for, with Rachel as a friend, she ceased to care for country pleasures, found happiness in the work that gave her better food than mere daily bread, and never thought of change; for love can make a home for itself anywhere.

A very bright and happy time was this in Christie’s life; but, like most happy times, it was very brief.  Only one summer allowed for the blossoming of the friendship that budded so slowly in the spring; then the frost came and killed the flowers; but the root lived long underneath the snows of suffering, doubt, and absence.

Coming to her work late one morning, she found the usually orderly room in confusion.  Some of the girls were crying; some whispering together,—­all looking excited and dismayed.  Mrs. King sat majestically at her table, with an ominous frown upon her face.  Miss Cotton stood beside her, looking unusually sour and stern, for the ancient virgin’s temper was not of the best.  Alone, before them all, with her face hidden in her hands, and despair in every line of her drooping figure, stood Rachel,—­a meek culprit at the stern bar of justice, where women try a sister woman.

“What’s the matter?” cried Christie, pausing on the threshold.

Mrs. King and miss cotton.

Rachel shivered, as if the sound of that familiar voice was a fresh wound, but she did not lift her head; and Mrs. King answered, with a nervous emphasis that made the bugles of her head-dress rattle dismally: 

“A very sad thing, Miss Devon,—­very sad, indeed; a thing which never occurred in my establishment before, and never shall again.  It appears that Rachel, whom we all considered a most respectable and worthy girl, has been quite the reverse.  I shudder to think what the consequences of my taking her without a character (a thing I never do, and was only tempted by her superior taste as a trimmer) might have been if Miss Cotton, having suspicions, had not made strict inquiry and confirmed them.”

“That was a kind and generous act, and Miss Cotton must feel proud of it,” said Christie, with an indignant recollection of Mr. Fletcher’s “cautious inquiries” about herself.