“I’ll not go back!” cried Christie, hotly.  “I’ll do slop-work and starve, before I’ll stay with such a narrow-minded, cold-hearted woman.  Come home with me at once, and let us lay our plans together.”

“No, dear; if I wouldn’t go when you first asked me, much less will I go now, for I’ve done you harm enough already.  I never can thank you for your great goodness to me, never tell you what it has been to me.  We must part now; but some day I’ll come back and show you that I’ve not forgotten how you loved and helped and trusted me, when all the others cast me off.”

Vain were Christie’s arguments and appeals.  Rachel was immovable, and all her friend could win from her was a promise to send word, now and then, how things prospered with her.

“And, Rachel, I charge you to come to me in any strait, no matter what it is, no matter where I am; for if any thing could break my heart, it would be to know that you had gone back to the old life, because there was no one to help and hold you up.”

“I never can go back; you have saved me, Christie, for you love me, you have faith in me, and that will keep me strong and safe when you are gone.  Oh, my dear, my dear, God bless you for ever and for ever!”

Then Christie, remembering only that they were two loving women, alone in a world of sin and sorrow, took Rachel in her arms, kissed and cried over her with sisterly affection, and watched her prayerfully, as she went away to begin her hard task anew, with nothing but the touch of innocent lips upon her cheek, the baptism, of tender tears upon her forehead to keep her from despair.

Still cherishing the hope that Rachel would come back to her, Christie neither returned to Mrs. King nor sought another place of any sort, but took home work from a larger establishment, and sat sewing diligently in her little room, waiting, hoping, longing for her friend.  But month after month went by, and no word, no sign came to comfort her.  She would not doubt, yet she could not help fearing, and in her nightly prayer no petition was more fervently made than that which asked the Father of both saint and sinner to keep poor Rachel safe, and bring her back in his good time.

Never had she been so lonely as now, for Christie had a social heart, and, having known the joy of a cordial friendship even for a little while, life seemed very barren to her when she lost it.  No new friend took Rachel’s place, for none came to her, and a feeling of loyalty kept her from seeking one.  But she suffered for the want of genial society, for all the tenderness of her nature seemed to have been roused by that brief but most sincere affection.  Her hungry heart clamored for the happiness that was its right, and grew very heavy as she watched friends or lovers walking in the summer twilight when she took her evening stroll.  Often her eyes followed some humble pair, longing to bless and to be blessed by the divine passion whose magic beautifies the little milliner and her lad with the same tender grace as the poet and the mistress whom he makes immortal in a song.  But neither friend nor lover came to Christie, and she said to herself, with a sad sort of courage: