So cheerily she spoke, so confident she looked, that the lost expression passed from Christie’s face, and hand in hand they went away together,—­two types of the sad sisterhood standing on either shore of the dark river that is spanned by a Bridge of Sighs.

Rachel led her friend toward the city, and, coming to the mechanics’ quarter, stopped before the door of a small, old house.

“Just knock, say ‘Rachel sent me,’ and you’ll find yourself at home.”

“Stay with me, or let me go with you.  I can’t lose you again, for I need you very much,” pleaded Christie, clinging to her friend.

“Not so much as that poor girl dying all alone.  She’s waiting for me, and I must go.  But I’ll write soon; and remember, Christie, I shall feel as if I had only paid a very little of my debt if you go back to the sad old life, and lose your faith and hope again.  God bless and keep you, and when we meet next time let me find a happier face than this.”

Rachel kissed it with her heart on her lips, smiled her brave sweet smile, and vanished in the mist.

Pausing a moment to collect herself, Christie recollected that she had not asked the name of the new friend whose help she was about to ask.  A little sign on the door caught her eye, and, bending down, she managed to read by the dim light of the street lamp these words: 

“C.  Wilkins, Clear-Starcher. 
“Laces done up in the best style.”

Too tired to care whether a laundress or a lady took her in, she knocked timidly, and, while she waited for an answer to her summons, stood listening to the noises within.

A swashing sound as of water was audible, likewise a scuffling as of flying feet; some one clapped hands, and a voice said, warningly, “Into your beds this instant minute or I’ll come to you!  Andrew Jackson, give Gusty a boost; Ann Lizy, don’t you tech Wash’s feet to tickle ’em.  Set pretty in the tub, Victory, dear, while ma sees who’s rappin’.”

“C.  Wilkins, clear Starcher.”

Then heavy footsteps approached, the door opened wide, and a large woman appeared, with fuzzy red hair, no front teeth, and a plump, clean face, brightly illuminated by the lamp she carried.

“If you please, Rachel sent me.  She thought you might be able”—­

Christie got no further, for C. Wilkins put out a strong bare arm, still damp, and gently drew her in, saying, with the same motherly tone as when addressing her children, “Come right in, dear, and don’t mind the clutter things is in.  I’m givin’ the children their Sat’day scrubbin’, and they will slop and kite ’round, no matter ef I do spank ’em.”

Talking all the way in such an easy, comfortable voice that Christie felt as if she must have heard it before, Mrs. Wilkins led her unexpected guest into a small kitchen, smelling suggestively of soap-suds and warm flat-irons.  In the middle of this apartment was a large tub; in the tub a chubby child sat, sucking a sponge and staring calmly at the new-comer with a pair of big blue eyes, while little drops shone in the yellow curls and on the rosy shoulders.