Christie's Christmas

By Pansy

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Title: Christie's Christmas

Author: Pansy Alden


        
Release date: September 5, 2026 [eBook #79517]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Ward, Lock & Co., Limited, 1928

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79517


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHRISTIE'S CHRISTMAS ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.



[Illustration: Whirled his fingers over the keys in a fashion
 that almost took Christie's breath away.
 _Christie's Christmas_]                      [_Frontispiece_]



                           CHRISTIE'S

                           CHRISTMAS


                               BY

                             PANSY

                       [_Isabella Alden_]

             Author of "Four Girls at Chautauqua,"
      "The Chautauqua Girls at Home," "An Endless Chain,"
             "A New Graft on the Family Tree," etc.


                     WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED
                        LONDON AND MELBOURNE



  Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and London



                            CONTENTS

CHAP.

     I THE FIRST JOURNEY

    II IN THE CARS

   III PILING UP STORIES

    IV A BABY LEFT IN THE TRAIN

     V WHERE IS BABY'S MOTHER?

    VI THE UGLY-LOOKING HOUSE

   VII THE HELPER STILL

  VIII A COLLATION SERVED

    IX A NICE TALK

     X HOW IT ENDED

    XI CHRISTIE AS HOUSEKEEPER

   XII THE SURPRISE

  XIII WHAT THE LETTER SAID

   XIV IN ORDER AT LAST

    XV THE GIFT ACKNOWLEDGED

   XVI UNEXPECTED COMPANY

  XVII THE MINISTER AND THE BOYS

 XVIII ANOTHER LETTER

   XIX ANOTHER SURPRISE

    XX ENTERTAINING COMPANY

   XXI AN EXCITING TIME

  XXII LAST OF ALL



                      CHRISTIE'S CHRISTMAS


CHAPTER I

THE FIRST JOURNEY

IT began, like most Christmas days, a long while beforehand. That is,
the getting ready for it began. The truth is, it was one very warm
day in August that the plans for Christie's Christmas were formed.
They were all out under the great elm tree in the back yard, at work
trying to keep cool; so Karl said, who had his torn straw hat for a
fan, and was lying at full length under the tree. Christie was sewing,
taking quick little business-like stitches on a long seam, the baby was
pulling first at her work, and then at Karl's hat; Nettie was under the
tree too, but fast asleep, one chubby hand supporting her red cheek.
The mother of all these little Tuckers was there too, sewing another
long seam. There was ever so much to do in the Tucker family, and when
any of them sat down to rest, there were sure to be long seams to sew,
patches to set, or holes to darn.

"Karl," the mother said, "keep the flies off of Nettie, can't you? They
are eating her up."

"I must go," said Karl, but he arose on one elbow and began lazily to
fan away the flies; "I guess my half-hour is up; father said I was to
rest for half an hour, because my cheeks got so red, he was afraid I
would be sun-struck. It is awful hot out in the field. I'll tell you
where I wish I was this minute; I'd like to be in Uncle Daniel's ice
house. What a thing it must be to have ice houses and everything you
want."

"We can have an ice house just as well as not, by Christmas time," said
Christie, biting off her thread. "If I had a chance to be at Uncle
Daniel's a little while, I'd take care to see something different, from
ice houses—something that we can't 'ever' have."

As she spoke, she drew a long breath, like one whose heart was full of
things that she might say, if she would.

Karl watched her curiously from behind his hat.

"What things are there at Uncle Daniel's that you never expect to
have?" he asked at last.

"Lots of them: carpets, and nice furniture, and pictures, and books,
and a piano, oh my!" She caught her breath again, and seemed to think
it best to stop, lest she should say too much.

"I wouldn't care a fig for the carpets and furniture, but I'd like
well enough to have some of the books. A history or two, maybe, and
like enough a physical geography, but those things I mean to have some
day, without going to Uncle Daniel's. What good would it do to look at
things, if you didn't own them?"

"I think it would be nice to have one good look at them all; you could
think out how other folks live a great deal easier after that."

"Well," said Karl, after a thoughtful pause, "maybe you will have a
chance some day; it isn't so awful far to Uncle Daniel's, now that
the railroad is done. How do you know but you will go and make them a
visit?"

Over this wild suggestion, Christie laughed, and broke her thread in
her nervousness.

But the mother looked up with a significant nod of her head. "I mean
you shall, child," she said decidedly; "I meant it for a surprise, but
maybe you will like thinking it over, and planning for it, better than
the surprise. Your father and I made up our minds that we would have
you go and spend a whole day at your Uncle Daniel's, and see all the
things that you want to see so much. They've invited us often enough,
and we mean to do it."

Karl sat upright, and his cheeks were nearly as red as Christie's, and
both the children said "When?" in such loud, eager tones, that the baby
immediately said it after them, and then sat down on the grass and
laughed immoderately at his own smartness. As he had never said this
word before, Christie, even in her excitement, had to bend down and
kiss the baby's mouth.

"Well," said Mrs. Tucker, speaking slowly and impressively, "if nothing
more than we know of now happens, we have decided that you shall
spend the whole of Christmas day at your uncle's. You are to go up in
the train that passes at seven in the morning, and come back in the
six o'clock, and that will give you nine whole hours at your Uncle
Daniel's. I'm sure that will give you time to see a good many things. I
don't know what your father will say to my telling you of it, but you
do like to dream out things so well, I thought you might like to dream
over that."

"Oh my!" said Christie. Her work fell at her feet in a heap, and baby
seized it and rolled over on it, and chuckled. Then Christie said, "Oh
my!" again, this time at baby, and added, "You will scratch yourself on
that needle," and stooped and gathered up her work.

The mother went on with her wonderful story.

"We've been thinking about it for a good while, your father and I,
but it was only last night that we made our minds up squarely that
you should go, if we could bring it about, and I guess we can. I wish
it was so that you and Karl could go together, but we don't know how
to manage that now, that's a fact. And Christmas Day is Christie's
birthday, you know Karl, and besides, she is two years older than you.
Her turn ought to come first."

"Course," said Karl sturdily, but he shaded his face entirely with his
hat, and let the flies bite Nettie in peace for about a minute. What a
thing it would be to take a ride in the steam cars! No, he had never
been in them in his life. Neither had Christie, but then she was a
girl. He wondered if it could be so hard for girls as for boys.

"But mother," said Christie timidly, "it costs an awful lot of money to
ride in the cars."

"I know it does. Eighty-five cents there, and eighty-five cents back;
that's a dollar and seventy cents! It seems a good deal to spend, but
it is your birthday, and it is Christmas Day, and you've worked hard,
and father and Karl and I think you ought to go; don't we Karl?"

"Yes'm," said Karl, and if his voice trembled a little, his mother
pretended not to notice it.

"Yes," she said cheerily, "that's what we do, and we are going to work
for it. There is a great deal to be done between now and then; there's
some yeast cakes I will want to send your Aunt Louisa, and some mittens
for the baby, and if I can bring it about, I'm going to tie a comfort
for his little bed. Your Aunt Louisa said they were nice things, the
last time she was here, and your father thinks there will be a bag of
choice apples that we can put in for them. And I thought maybe Karl and
you would want to gather a few nuts for your cousins. Then they ought
to have mittens, too, or something, but I don't know as we can manage
about so much yarn. Dear me! There is a great deal to do, and only a
little time to do it in, not quite four months, I declare! How time
does go, to be sure."

Then did Christie and Karl look at each other, glances full of curious
astonishment. Nothing seemed to them to move so slowly as time.


It seemed to Christie that Christmas Day would "never" come, never in
the world!

But it did. And it found the Tucker family up very early in the
morning. A kerosene lamp was burning in every room in the lower part
of the house, by four o'clock. For wasn't the station a mile away, and
wasn't Christie to take her first ride in the cars that morning?

How pretty she looked in her trim new suit! New? Well, yes, new to her.
Who was going to know, unless she told them, that the brown travelling
dress, sack and all, was made from an old waterproof cloak that Aunt
Louisa had left there one day because it really was not worth bothering
to get it into the trunk? Aunt Louisa herself would not have recognized
it now. It had been turned, and sponged and pressed, and cut and fitted
and trimmed, with rows upon rows of machine stitching of the very
neatest sort.

How many fingers had helped to get Christie ready for her first going
out into the great world! There was Susan Briggs the tailoress, home on
a few days' visit to her mother, their next neighbour, and one evening
when she ran in to see the Tuckers, she had said:

"Why, you would have enough of that for one of those cunning little
cut-away jackets that they wear so much! Let me look at it: I do
believe I could get one out. Why, dear me! It has a large cape too;
yes, I know I could. Shall I cut it out for you, Mrs. Tucker? Oh,
nonsense! I would just as soon do it as to sit here with my hands
folded. Hand me the shears, Christie! I've got my pattern in my pocket;
I lent it to Jane Ann Wheeler, and I met her coming to bring it home,
just as I turned the corner to-night. Wasn't that fortunate? I'll tell
you what it is, Christie Tucker, we'll have a nice little cut-away
jacket for you before you know it. What are you going to trim the dress
with?"

"Oh dear me!" said Mrs. Tucker. "Don't talk to us about trimming; it
has been just as much as we could do to pucker the necessary things
together to make the dress. You see, Susan, a journey makes so many
expenses; she had to have a pair of gloves, and a new pair of shoes,
and altogether it counts up. She will have to go without trimming."

Then did Susan sit in quiet, her busy shears snipping the cloth most
skilfully, her busy brain considering the while. At last, she spoke her
thoughts.

"I'll tell you what it is, Mrs. Tucker, this goods would look
beautifully stitched on the machine; suppose we change works! If you
will do some buttonholes for me, I'll take this home and give it three
rows on mother's machine. You do make buttonholes elegantly, and I'd
rather stitch, any day, than to make them."

And the gratified mother, who would not have accepted charity to get
trimming for her daughter, was nevertheless willing to get it by
changing work. So the three rows of stitching were added, and very
pretty they looked.

Then one evening came Mrs. Briggs, Susan's mother, to sit a while with
her knitting, and tucked away in her pocket was a pretty little ruffle
of finest cambric, hemmed with the smallest of stitches, gathered in
infinitesimal puckers, and carefully fluted by Mrs. Briggs' own skilful
hands.

"There!" she said, bringing it out. "I was making ruffles for my girls,
and there was a little speck over—I promised them three apiece, you
know, and this was left over—and thinks I to myself, that will just
make Christie a ruffle to wear when she goes her first journey. So I
made it for a little Christmas present for you, child. And you must pay
me by telling me about all the wonderful things you saw on the way."

How pretty the little white ruffle was! And how pleased was Christie,
and how more than pleased was her mother. It was so nice for people to
take an interest in her Christie.

At last everything was ready. The basket of choice apples was packed,
the bag of yeast cakes was stowed away in the old-fashioned, flowered
carpet satchel that used to go on journeys by water, and journeys by
stage, a long time ago, but had never in its life taken a ride by
steam. There were other choice things in the satchel—mittens and wrist
warmers, and the gay patchwork comfort for the baby's bed; and there
was another basket for the nuts that had been gathered at just the
right time to be at their best.

"I don't know how you will ever get out of the cars, loaded down
so," Father Tucker said, looking a little anxious, "but I guess the
conductor will help you; I'll speak to him about it."

"And do be careful, Christie," said Mother Tucker; "it seems to me as
though the cars must be dangerous things, going so fast. I'm most sorry
I gave my consent to having you go off alone; it is a pretty risky
thing for a young girl like you."

"Oh, mother," said Karl, "nothing will hurt her. I wouldn't be afraid
to go to New York all alone."

"Yes, I know," said the wise little mother, regarding him with kind
motherly eyes, "but then, you are a boy, and boys are expected to take
care of themselves, and look after the girls besides."

Karl's dark cheeks flushed over this, and he answered cheerily, "Well,
I'll take good care of her; I'll go on the cars and pick her out a
seat, and settle all her baskets and bundles."

If the whole truth were told, Karl Tucker looked forward to this
performance almost as eagerly as Christie did to the journey. Every
morning he drove to the depot and sent a can of milk into the city by
the early train. And every morning Wells Burton, a boy only three or
four years older than himself, was there with his sleigh and pony to
see his sister off to school.

Karl, after his milk-can was disposed of, on the hand freight car,
had leisure to watch Wells Burton. How he took his sister's satchel
of books, and her shawl strap, and walked beside her to the steps of
the car and helped her up, and sprang gaily in after her. Then Karl
could see him through the windows, walking down the aisle of the car,
sometimes turning a seat, then settling the books and the shawl strap
on some shelf or hook that seemed to be overhead. Karl had never been
near enough to investigate how it was fixed, for his strict orders were
on no account to step on the cars.

But he had watched Wells Burton all through the fall; he knew just
how to do it, and he was burning with an eager desire to do it for
Christie. Great, then, was his disappointment when his father appeared
in his best boots, and with his great coat and heavy mittens.

"You will have two passengers, my boy, this morning," he said cheerily;
"oh yes, I'm going. I couldn't let my girl start out into the world
alone."

"Now do be careful," said mother, following her treasure out of the
door, and down the snowy path to the great wood sleigh, where the can
of milk was already tucked in among bags and blankets; "don't open the
window to look at anything, and mind and don't put your head out; I've
heard that it is dangerous. And remember all I told you to tell Louisa
and the rest; and mind and wrap the big shawl around you well when you
ride to the station. And don't you let them coax you to stay all night
for anything in the world. I shouldn't sleep a wink if you did, and I
guess maybe I'd start on foot to see what was the matter."

Between these sentences, Christie was being kissed and hugged, until
what with the bundling up, and the frosty air, and a feeling as though
she was going away off into a great cold world, and might never see any
of the dear people in the little old farmhouse any more, she felt as
though she should choke or maybe cry; and that would be almost worse!

At last they were off! The mother came in and held the baby up at the
window to watch the sleigh as it turned the corner and slipped out of
sight, and then she said:

"How Mrs. Burton stands it to let her girl go to the city every day to
school, I 'don't' see! Seems to me I should fly away with anxiety, but
there is nothing like getting used to things. Dear me! It doesn't seem
right to have the child go off on Christmas Day, but then it was her
birthday, and all. And she'll be back to supper, and be hungry enough,
I'll warrant; there'll be so many dishes, and silver, and things at
Daniel's that she can't do much eating. I'll have stewed chicken, and
biscuits smothered in cream gravy, and hot apple sauce, to surprise
her, see if I don't! Come, Nettie dear, you're the only little girl
mother has to help her to-day, and we must fly around. What I should do
if I hadn't Christie to help every day, is more than I can think. And,
thank the Lord, I haven't got to think."

But she wiped away the tears as she hurried to work, for Christie had
never been away from home before a whole day in her life. What, not
even to school? No, not even to school. It is time I told you a little
more about the Tucker family. They lived away "out West." That is, if
you live in New York, or Brooklyn, or Maine, or Boston, or New Haven,
or even in Cleveland or Cincinnati, you might call it away "out West,"
for it was in Kansas.

The Tuckers went there from New England, when Karl was a baby, and had
been working away on their bit of a farm ever since. A city had grown
up about twenty miles from them, but it had not grown where Mr. Tucker
thought it would, when he bought his little farm, and not even a school
had come within five miles of them until lately. I am not so very sure
that it would have done the Tucker children much good if there had. The
truth was, there was such hard work, and so much of it, to feed all the
mouths, and clothe the stout little bodies, that both Christie and Karl
had had to work hard all day long. You need not suppose that on this
account they did not know anything. I fancy they were almost as good
scholars as some who go to school year after year.

Mr. Tucker had taught them, in the long winter evenings, to cipher, and
had studied geography with them on a big old map of the United States,
that he had brought with him from New England. And Mrs. Tucker, who
in her New England home had been the best reader and speller in the
whole school, had taught them in both these branches very carefully.
And so, though they had not many books to read, what they had were very
carefully read, and very well understood.

Uncle Daniel lived in the handsome city that had sprung up twenty miles
farther east, and he lived an entirely different life from the Tuckers.
He was Mrs. Tucker's youngest brother, was a merchant, and had one of
the finest stores in the fine little city, and was what the western
people called a rich man. The Tuckers saw very little of them, for the
reason that twenty miles in a country where there are no railroads
are not easily gotten over, especially by busy people; and it was not
yet quite a year since the branch railroad came within a mile of the
Tucker's farm. Since then, the country around had begun to hold up its
head. A good school had been started, a neat little church had been
built, and to the church the Tucker's tramped every Sabbath day. But
the school they had not succeeded in getting time to attend.

"By next year," Mr. Tucker had said, "we must try hard for it."

He said it again that very morning on the road to the station.



CHAPTER II

IN THE CARS

IT was very pleasant riding to the station in the early light of the
winter morning. A ride of any sort was a treat to Christie. There
was always so much to do in the little home in the morning, and when
evening was closing in, that she could rarely be spared to ride to the
station with Karl; so that really for the third time in her life did
she expect to gaze on the cars!

"It isn't your first ride after the iron horse, by any means," her
father said to her. "More than a thousand miles you rode, and you stood
it well, too, were just as good as you could be, and gave mother and me
no trouble at all. In fact, you seemed to be anxious to amuse Karl, and
help him to have a good time. But you were such a little dot, I don't
suppose you remember anything about it."

"Why, father," said Karl, "she wasn't three years old then! How could
she remember it?"

"Well, I don't know; seems to me I remember my mother, and I wasn't
quite three years old when she died. But then folks remember mothers
I s'pose, longer than they do anything else. They ought to. Well,
Christie, my girl, keep your eyes open to-day, and see what you can
learn. My father used to tell me—your old grandfather, you know, who
died before you were born—he used to say to me,—

"'Learn all you can, John, about anything and everything; there is no
telling when a chance may pop up for you to use what you thought you
never "would" use.'

"It's a good rule. I practised on it once when I saw a man making a
wagon. I watched just how he fixed the wheel and the holes for the
nails, and everything, and I said, right out loud, 'It isn't anyways
likely that I shall ever make a wagon, but then I might as well know
how you do it.'

"And it wasn't a week after that we broke down going across the
prairie, your mother and me and two children. And if I hadn't known
just how to fix that wheel, we would have frozen to death likely enough
before we could get anywhere."

"Well," Christie said, laughing a little, "I don't suppose I shall ever
make a train of cars, but I'll learn how if I can."

"There's no telling," her father said, "what will come of it one day;
they are curious things, days are; like enough you may see something
to-day that will help you along all your life; and for the matter of
that, you might see plenty of things to hinder you all your life;
that's what makes such solemn business of living. Only there's one
comfort, you can shut your eyes to the evil things, and say: I won't
remember one of them; I'll have nothing to do with them. And the good
things you can mark and lay away in your mind for future use. Well,
here we are, I declare. Old Sam has trotted along pretty fast this
morning. Now, my man, you may help Christie out, and get her ticket,
and put her on the train all right, and I'll stay here and take care of
Sam."

Then did Karl's face glow! But he made a pretence of objection: "Why,
father, I can take care of Sam if you want to go."

"No, no, my boy, I can trust you to look after Christie, you'll have
plenty of time. They've got a lot of freight to load this morning, and
you can go in and find her a seat, and do it all up like a man. Sam and
I will tend to each other out here. I'll just set the satchel on the
steps there, so you can reach it easy, and then I'll drive around to
the shed."

Good, thoughtful father! Putting quietly away his own desire to see his
little girl safely launched for her first journey; putting back with
resolute hand the vague fear that Karl might not help her properly,
or might not get off the train in time, and so harm might come to
one or both of them. Well he knew that a whole army of "mights" and
"might nots" lay all along life's journey with which to make himself
miserable, and there was nothing for it but to seize the doubts with
resolute hand and hold them back so that they need not cripple the
young lives under his care.

He remembered how, when Karl climbed the tree and swung off in a daring
way among the slender-looking boughs, he had to shut his eyes and ask
God to take care of the boy, and keep the father from crying out, and
so help to make his son a coward. He felt a little bit like that this
morning. Only the memory of the apple tree helped; there were no trees
now that Karl couldn't climb.

They moved away briskly, that little man and woman; Christie running
back once to give father one more kiss, and to assure him that she
would certainly be in time for the evening train.

And once he called after her, and ran forward to tell her to say to
Uncle Daniel that he could have a cow in the spring, like the one he
wanted last fall. And then he went back to his horse, and the boy and
girl entered the depot together. Karl went forward, business written on
every line of his manly face as he called and paid for a ticket, and
stood by protectingly while Christie pinned it in the corner of her
handkerchief, and then pinned the handkerchief into her pocket. Then he
made a little heap of the basket of apples, and the basket of nuts, and
the flowered satchel and the shawl, making business-like comments the
while.

"You must have the conductor lift off these baskets for you, Christie;
they always do that for folks travelling alone. You don't have to give
up your ticket, you know; the conductor makes a little hole in it, and
then gives it back. He won't take it until you are almost at the city.
And Christie, mother said I was to remind you the last thing, not to
get off the cars until you saw Uncle Daniel, and knocked on the window
for him to come for you; mother worried about your getting off alone."

"And what," said Christie, "should I do if Uncle Daniel didn't get
there in time, and I had to get off?"

She moved closely to Karl as she spoke, and felt as though their ages
were reversed, and she were ten and he was twelve, and wished with all
her timid little heart that he was going along to take care of her. He
had seen the cars so often.

"Oh, well," her protector said reassuringly, "he will be there, of
course; he knows just how mother feels. But then if he shouldn't, you
needn't be one mite afraid; it is just as easy to step off. I shouldn't
mind it at all. I've seen Wells Burton swing himself off with his hands
in his pockets; he does it just as easy as you step down from the
back stoop. There he is now! Look, Christie, the boy just turning the
corner!"

He came leisurely down the snowy walk, whistling a merry tune; a tall,
handsome boy, dressed in a well-fitting suit of finest quality and
of city make. He nodded his head good-humouredly to a man who stood
leaning against the post, and lifted his cap politely to a lady who was
approaching from the other end.

"I wonder what he is going in for to-day?" murmured Karl, watching him
with fascinated gaze. "There isn't any school for a week; I heard him
tell Mr. Lewis so yesterday. Do you suppose he can be going just for
the fun of it?"

There was a touch of awe in Karl's voice. It seemed such a wonderful
thing for a boy but a few years older than himself to be possibly
riding around on the cars "for the fun of it," as he sometimes rode a
horse to water! As if in explanation of his wonderment, Wells Burton
spoke to the lady who had addressed him.

"No, ma'am, our people are all in town, went in yesterday to spend
Christmas at my grandfather's. I was to have gone there last evening,
but I didn't get my papa's message in time, and so came home as usual
and had to stay here all night.

"Well, no, not alone exactly. The servants are all at home, you know,
but it seemed rather lonely.

"Oh, no, they were not frightened. I telegraphed of course as soon as I
found out how it was. I thought mamma might be a trifle worried.

"No, ma'am, I walked down this morning, it is such a bore to be always
riding. Since there was nobody but myself, I thought I would have the
fun of a walk in the snow."

What wonderful talk was this! Karl, looking and listening, forgot for
the moment his own importance that morning, and actually gave a sigh.
To hear a boy so little older than himself talk so composedly about
going in town, and out of town, and spending the night alone, and
telegraphing, and dismissing the handsome sleigh and ponies for the
fun of a walk, it was almost too much! He looked over at the handsome,
well-dressed fellow with a strange wistfulness; and the grey patches
on his knees looked larger and coarser than ever before, and the red
tippet around his neck seemed almost to choke him. What a difference
there was in their lives, to be sure!

"Talk about houses," he said to Christie, speaking some of his thoughts
aloud, "you ought to see the inside of their house! I guess Uncle
Daniel's is nothing to it. Nick Barton has been there with freight,
been upstairs in three or four of their rooms, carrying heavy things,
you know. And he says it is perfectly splendid, the furniture and
everything. He was telling me about it last night; he says they've
got two pianos, or two great big music things in different rooms, and
books! Nick says there are books enough to fill the church, he should
think."

"I'd like to see the outside of their house," Christie said wistfully.
"I don't ever expect to see the inside. But Karl, in the summer, mother
said you and I would walk over that way and see all around it. Do you
suppose they will be there in the summer?"

"Of course," said Karl, "they built the new house for the summer. They
didn't mean to stay here in the winter at all. Nick told me last night;
he says they just came down to settle it, and see to things. And the
sick young man took a fancy to stay, so they all stayed. Nick said he
didn't think it would last long, but he guessed maybe they would stay
all winter."

"Is there a sick young man?"

Christie's voice was changing from wistfulness to pity.

"Yes, there is; he can't walk, only on crutches, and looks pale and
weak. And when he goes into the city, Nick says some great strong man
takes him right in his arms and lifts him into the cars, and he is
twenty years old."

"Poor young man!" said Christie.

And she envied the Burton family no more.

"There's the train!" said Karl, his voice full of suppressed
excitement. "Now, Christie, don't you touch one of those bundles. I'll
tend to them all. And Christie—" this in a lower tone—"if anything
should happen that Uncle Daniel shouldn't be there, and you shouldn't
see the conductor, this boy would help you off if you should just ask
him, and he could tell you just where to go to wait; he knows all about
the city, you see."

"Oh," said Christie, shrinking back, and clinging to Karl's tippet,
"I couldn't speak to him, Karl; I couldn't indeed. I'd rather get off
alone a great deal; and I'm most sure Uncle Daniel will be there."

"So am I. Don't worry! Now come!"

And the great moment had arrived. Karl shouldered the bundles with the
air of one used to carrying many things, set them skilfully on the
steps of the platform, then came down again for Christie, piloted her
safely through the car, found a seat for her, discovered that there was
a convenient little wire house above the seat where shawls and parcels
were placed, arranged hers for her, and in fact did everything that an
experienced traveller could have done for her comfort. He had not used
his eyes for nothing.

But now a brakeman was shouting "All aboard!" And he must leave her to
herself. He bent down for one last word just as Wells Burton sauntered
in with the air of an old traveller who had lingered outside until the
latest moment:

"Remember, Christie, if anything 'should' happen—which there won't, it
isn't likely—I shouldn't be afraid to ask that boy about things; he
looks good-natured. And, Christie, mind and come home to-night, even if
you have to walk."

There was a sudden clanging of the bell, a final howl from the
locomotive, a jerk which almost threw Christie from her seat, and they
were really off. How swiftly the trees and barns and fences flew past
them! Everything seemed to be afraid of them, and hurrying to get out
of their way. What a queer noise the cars made! And they shook so! As
though they were angry, Christie thought. She and Karl had often tried
to imagine what riding in the cars felt like, but they certainly had
never succeeded.

By degrees, as she became accustomed to the strange motion, our little
traveller gained courage to look about her. She had a great desire to
act like other people, and in order to do this, it would be necessary
to find out how other people acted. Opposite her sat a man with grey
hair, and gold spectacles, and a very large gold watch. Christie liked
to look at him.

"He is good," she said to herself. "I know he is. I wonder if he's
somebody's grandpa going home for Christmas. I suppose he doesn't look
like my grandpa out in New York, but I wish he did. I suppose he is
taking his grandchildren some nice presents, books, maybe. I wish he
would come over here and sit, and tell me about them."

This thought made her look directly in front of her, to see who had the
seat which she wanted for her old gentleman. It was a young man with
a pale, discontented face. He seemed to be in a great hurry, for he
looked at his watch three times during the few minutes that Christie
watched him. Yet when a lady who sat in front of him suddenly turned
and ask him to please tell her what time it was, he started as though
he were not used to being spoken to, and said: "What? I beg your
pardon. Oh, the time! I really do not know, but I'll see." And out came
the watch again.

How could Christie help giggling? It did seem so funny to her. She did
not mean he should hear her, but he did, for he darted at her a quick
annoyed look, which, however, softened when he saw what a shy, ashamed
little thing it was.

Now Christie was not used to strangers, and felt almost afraid to
speak. But she had been brought up to be careful of other people's
feelings, and she was afraid she had hurt this young man. She slipped
forward on her seat and touched his arm. Her voice trembled a little:

"If you please, sir," she said, "I hope you will forgive me for
laughing. I couldn't help it; it seemed so funny to look at such a
lovely watch as that without knowing what it said. But I did not mean
to be rude. Mother would be ashamed of me."

If the young man had been bewildered when the lady spoke to him, he was
too much astonished now to say a word. He just stared for a minute at
the burning cheeks, as though he felt like saying:

"What in the world can you be talking about?"

At last he spoke.

"There is no harm done, my little friend. I had already forgotten that
you laughed. My thoughts were too busy about other things, and too sad
to pay much attention to watches, or to think of anything but getting
over the ground as fast as possible."

"We go very fast," said Christie earnestly.

She wanted to comfort the young man, his voice sounded so sad.

He smiled faintly.

"Do you think so? It seems to me that we almost creep."

Christie caught her breath to keep from expressing too great surprise.
It seemed to her that they almost flew.

He saw the astonishment on her face, and explained:

"A hundred miles from here I have a very sick friend. If I could get
to her in time, I think I might help her. Do you wonder that the train
seems to me to move very slowly?"

"No, sir," said Christie, with great sympathetic eyes. "If mother were
sick, I should want to fly."

She sat back after that, and the young man took a telegram from his
pocket, and seemed to study it. Then he took a newspaper, and seemed to
others to be reading it, but Christie saw that part of the time it was
upside down. She felt very sorry for him, and could not help glancing
at him occasionally with a tender smile on her face; especially as he
smiled back, and seemed to like her sympathy.



CHAPTER III

PILING UP STORIES

CHRISTIE had other travelling companions who interested her very much.

At the first stopping place a lady with a little fellow hardly out
of babyhood came and took the seat just behind her. She had to twist
herself around to get a view of the baby as he sat in a corner of the
seat, but he was so pretty that she could hardly keep her eyes away
from him. He had wonderful large blue eyes, and a laughing face, and he
kept bobbing up and down, and making pretty little sounds out of his
rosebud mouth, and once he smiled on her, as though he hadn't the least
objection in the world to being better acquainted.

But Christie did not dare to go near him, for he was beautifully
dressed, and his mamma looked as though she might be very particular
about his friends. So the little girl who had left a baby at home
looked the other way and tried very hard to forget how much she wanted
to kiss the baby behind her.

The cars were quite full, but Christie thought that most of the people
looked as though they had been obliged to get up too early and had not
had a good breakfast.

"They feel cross," she said to herself, "or else they feel afraid. I
wonder if there is anything to be afraid of."

Thinking which, she looked over at Wells Burton, the boy who went on
the train every morning to the city. He surely ought to know by this
time whether there was any cause for fear. He had his hands in his
pockets, and was looking out of the window and whistling. He did not
look in the least afraid, neither did he look cross.

What a thing it would be to know him, and have him tell about all the
wonders that he saw in the city every day! He had been to the State
House she had heard, and Karl said the stage-driver said that the
Governor was a friend of Mr. Burton, and had been out to see him.

How much Christie would like to hear something about the Governor
from one who had actually heard him talk. She knew quite a good deal
concerning this Governor. Her father admired him very much, and said he
was one of the grandest temperance men in the State. And once when he
went to the city to see about selling his corn, he had a story to tell
about having seen the Governor standing in the door of his home, and a
fine-looking man her father said he was.

Christie had a burning desire to see a real governor; or, failing in
that—as of course she expected—to hear things about him: how he acted,
and what he said, and all those nice pleasant things which she believed
she could tell about people if she ever had any chances.

But she must not grumble on this morning of all others in her life, she
told herself, letting the sober look go out of her face, and bringing
back the happy one. Here were plenty of chances. What a long story she
could tell Karl about these people in the cars. And there was that baby
cooing and jumping, and—why, yes, the darling was actually throwing
kisses at her.

The train stopped again. It was a very accommodating train; it seemed
to stop every few minutes to pick up passengers along the road when
there was no station in sight. Some junction was yelled out, but the
brakeman talked in Choctaw, and of course Christie did not understand
him.

A gentleman came in, glanced up and down the well-filled car, then
dropped into the seat beside Christie. "I suppose you will let me sit
with you?" he said.

His voice was very pleasant she thought and his face was bright with
smiles.

Christie made haste to say, "Yes, sir."

Then he began to talk with her, or rather to her, for Christie said
very little. He pointed out a log cabin as they flew past it, and told
her the queerest little history about its being built there by a boy
less than sixteen years old, for his mother. And how he worked day and
night, and earned money enough to send away to Maine for her, and how
he supported her. And how they lived in a nice pleasant house, and had
cows and horses, and the mother made butter, and sold it at the highest
price in market, and how she said,—

"It can't help but be good butter, I have such a dear good boy."

Christie listened and exclaimed and enjoyed. What a thing to tell
father and mother and Karl! She felt that she was piling up stories to
last all the rest of the winter evenings. She was very sorry when her
pleasant friend arose at the very next station only a mile away, and
bade her good morning as politely as though she had been a grown-up
lady. She wished so much that she knew his name. It would be awkward to
be always calling him "the gentleman with bright eyes that looked right
through you." That seemed to be the only way she could describe him.

She noticed that he stopped at Wells Burton's seat and shook hands with
him. It was quite likely that Wells knew who he was.

"Now, if I only knew Wells Burton," she told herself, "I might ask him,
but then I don't, and it isn't likely that I ever shall."

The pretty baby had gone to sleep; she could not amuse herself with
him, and so she turned to the window again just as they were passing a
country road down which was flying a coach filled with a merry party,
who realizing that the train was beating them, all swung their hats
and cheered them on. That was fun for a little time, and then as they
whizzed along, she spied a comical sight that entertained her still
more. But as the on-flying train left all these interesting scenes in
the rear, Christie at last thought of her father's advice, and she
began to see if she could learn to make a car.

She twisted her head about, and looked up and down and around her in
so many ways that at last, the sad-faced young man began to watch her.
She was studying the long rope that ran through the top of the car,
wondering what it was for, when he spoke to her.

"That rope is to be pulled to stop the train. If you should chance to
want it stopped for any reason, all you would have to do would be to
give that a violent pull. But I earnestly hope you won't do it, for it
seems to me that we stop quite often enough."

"I am 'sure' I won't," Christie said, laughing a little, though really
she felt somewhat startled at the bare idea of "her" stopping a train.

Not ten minutes after that it stopped again. What for? Nobody seemed
to know. There was no station, not even so much as a shed; there was
nobody to get on or off, yet there that ridiculous train stood, as
though it had reached the end of its journey and did not care how soon
the passengers hopped out in the snow. Then you should have heard the
people grumble. Christie was astonished; she did not know that grown
people were ever so cross. It made her laugh to see the watches bob
out, while the faces which looked at them seemed to grow crosser every
minute.

"What in the world are we stopping here for?" asked the pale-faced
young man with such anxiety in his face that Christie felt very sorry
for him. "What is the matter, sir?" This question he asked of a
gentleman who had been out on the platform looking about him.

"Don't know, sir; can't find out. If the officials know, they mean to
keep it to themselves. Still, I guess we are going on soon; I saw signs
of moving."

However, they did not move. The next person who thought it was his duty
to attend to matters was Wells Burton. How he happened to sit still for
so long, I'm sure I don't know. He sauntered out and looked about him.
Christie turned herself in her seat to get a view from the door. What
a long level stretch of road lay behind them! How queerly the track
looked! Two long black snakes surrounded on every side by snow.

She wished she could get a nearer view. She had been charged not to
step off the train, and on no account to put her head out of the
window. But what was to hinder her stepping down to that closed door,
and getting a nearer view of the snakes? She slipped quietly from her
seat and went. It looked fully as queer as she thought it would. Wells
Burton stood on the lower step of the car, also gazing about him, not
at the track, but at the train-men, who seemed to be trying to decide
whether it was worth while to go on. Suddenly they concluded that they
would.

The engine gave a snort to express its approval of the plan, several
passengers who had been standing on the track jumped back again on the
car, and came in to see about their seats. Then the wheels began to
turn slowly round. Still Wells Burton stood on that lowest step with
his hands in his pockets. Christie looked at him, and a little shiver
ran through her while she thought if that were Karl, she should surely
be tempted to reach out and pull at his coat. How "could" the boy be so
foolish? Why did not his mother make him promise not to do so?

He was coming in now; and it was quite time, for the train was well
under way. How did it happen? Nobody knew. Wells Burton least of all.
And Christie, who stood looking on all the while, could never give a
clear account of that part of it. She only knew that the boy she was
watching with such anxiety, turned carelessly on his heel, hands still
in his pockets, and the next instant was lying a dreadful heap on the
ground and the train was scudding on, and nobody but she, Christie
Tucker, knew anything about it. She had just one thought in her
mind—What if it were Karl?

She gave one little squeal, which the engine swallowed so that nobody
heard, and the next second she did what made all the people in the car
think that the quiet-faced, well-behaved little girl had suddenly gone
crazy. She gave a quick little hop, very much as she had done many a
time to reach the lowest bough of the apple tree, and caught that rope
whose use she had just learned, and never surely was harder pull given
to it than her stout little body managed at that moment.

In an instant the car was full of excitement.

"What—what—what does that mean?" asked the fat man who had been the
last to enter the train.

The handsome old gentleman looked at her gravely through his gold
spectacles, and the pale-faced man who had taught her about the rope
said hastily:

"Why, my child, you ought not to have done that. What in the world do
you want?"

All this happened, of course, in a few seconds.

And before Christie could catch her frightened breath to explain, in
came the conductor looking like a summer thunder-cloud. "What does all
this mean?" he asked gruffly. "Who pulled that rope?"

Christie took time to be glad that the train was actually stopping,
before she explained in a quick, frightened voice, "Oh, sir, he fell
just as he was stepping on the train again, and he lies in the road. Do
you think it killed him?"

"Who fell? What are you talking about?" said the conductor, his quick
eye roving over the car in search of missing passengers. "Was it the
boy who sat in that seat?"

But before Christie could think of stammering out a "Yes, sir," he had
turned from her and rushed out of the car, and the train which had
almost stopped, began to move slowly backward.

I'm sure you can imagine better than I can tell you how they all acted
then. How they crowded around that end door, and all tried to see out
from a space that would accommodate only two; and there was nothing to
see! How they crowded around Christie, and asked questions!

"How did it happen?" Christie did not know; she was still trembling
over the thought that it "had" happened. "What was he out there for?"
Christie did not know. In her heart she believed it was because he was
a very foolish boy, but that she did not like to say. "Was he hurt
much?" Christie did not know; she wished very much that she did.

"Is he your brother, my child?" This the handsome faced old gentleman
asked her.

"No, sir," said Christie; she knew so much, at least. Then she told who
he was.

"Ah, indeed!" the gentleman said. "A son of Warren H. Burton," he
supposed. He had heard of him.

Then there was a sudden bustle, and a scurrying to get out of the way,
and a turning over of car seats to make a bed; for they were bringing
the poor fellow in. Christie was relieved to find, as they passed her
seat, that his eyes were wide-open, and that though he looked very
pale, he gazed about him like one who was curious to see what the
people thought of all this, and seemed just a little vexed over their
curiosity.

"Oh, no; he isn't badly hurt," the conductor said, as having fixed the
boy into a seat, and made him as comfortable as possible, he came down
the aisle on his way out. "He has a sprained ankle that will shut him
up for a few weeks, and a bruise or two, nothing serious, I think. How
he escaped so easily is more than I can imagine. I thought of course he
was killed. It is a bad habit, this standing on the car steps; I wonder
his father doesn't forbid it."

"That is just what I wonder," thought Christie; and she ventured to
glance in the direction of the turned seat.

Wells Burton was looking right at her, and—why! was it possible he was
motioning to her?

Her cheeks began to grow pink. What if she should walk over there to
him, and he should stare at her and say, "What do 'you' want, little
girl?" and it should turn out that he had not thought of such a thing
as motioning her. If anything of this kind should happen, Christie felt
that she must certainly sink through the floor.

But he kept looking at her, and she felt almost sure that he was
nodding his head at her.

Poor Christie! It had not begun to take so much courage to pull that
bell rope, as it did to think of walking down the aisle and stopping
to see if that boy possibly wanted her. In fact, she had pulled the
bell without thinking about it at all. But this was different; and her
cheeks began to grow very hot, and she wondered whether mother would
be ashamed of her for going, or for not going. What would all the
passengers think of her for marching down there to talk to a boy whom
she had told them she never spoke to in her life?

"I 'won't' go," she told herself, not a step. "Why would he be
motioning to me? Of course he isn't."

And having settled this to her satisfaction, what did Christie do in
the course of the next two minutes, but walk meekly down that aisle,
and stand before the turned seats.

"I thought you motioned to me," she said gently. "Is there anything I
can do to help you?"

"I should say you have done considerable in that line already," he
answered heartily. "How came you to think of anything so sensible as
stopping the train? Most any girl I know would have yelled like a
screech owl, and danced up and down a few times, and then finished
up by fainting dead away, before anybody had found out what was the
matter. How came you to act so differently from the usual style?"

"I didn't know that was the way to do," Christie said, a little glimmer
of a laugh in her grey eyes. "Are you much hurt?"

"Not so very. My ankle is sprained, they say, and I feel somewhat
as though I was a hundred and fifty years old, and had enjoyed the
rheumatism for about half a century. Sit down here, and let us talk
about it."

So Christie sat down on the extreme edge of the farther seat.

"I wish I could do something to help the pain," she said. "If your
ankle is broken, it ought to be set, and I almost think that the man
who sits in the seat right before mine, is a doctor."

"The ankle will keep until we get to the city. We are half-way there by
this time, though we seem to have plenty of hindrances this morning. I
say, how many trains of cars have you stopped in your life?"

"I never did such a thing before," Christie said, her eyes dancing now,
"and I had just promised that I wouldn't stop this one, but you see
there wasn't anything else to do."

"Well, I'll tell you what 'I' think: I think it was about as plucky
a thing to do as I ever heard of in my life. Hallo, we are stopping
again! This train has got so used to stopping that it can't go more
than a mile without trying it. Can this be the junction? Just take a
look out, will you, and report?"

"There are four rows of tracks instead of two," said Christie, "and
they go criss-cross."

"Then it is the switch!" Wells exclaimed, and there was such a peculiar
sound to his voice, that Christie turned from the window to look at him.

"The switch!" she repeated. "What does that mean?"

"It means that the express train passes us here, and that just about
now she is rushing over those rails where I lay a few minutes ago. Here
she comes!"



CHAPTER IV

A BABY LEFT IN THE TRAIN

A ROAR of machinery, a succession of dizzying flashes past the window,
then sudden relief from the deafening noise, and the express train had
gone on its way.

Christie looked at Wells Burton. His face was very grave, and she
thought it a trifle paler than before.

"Did you know that?" he asked, nodding his head in the direction of the
departed train.

"Did I know what?"

"That the express train was almost due, and would come thundering over
me so soon?"

Christie shivered. "I did not know anything about the express train,"
she said.

"Well, you could not have done any quicker work if you had known. It is
queer I didn't think of it. I thought of almost everything else while I
lay there; it was the queerest thing that ever happened to me. I can't
think how it happened. I've stood on that very step fifty times this
winter, and never thought of such a thing as slipping. I suppose there
was ice on my boots. Nice-looking boot, isn't it?" he said, glancing
down at it. "The conductor made short work of getting it off, with that
sharp knife of his. Look here, I don't know why I keep talking about
boots and things, instead of trying to thank you, and show my gratitude
in some way. Boys don't know how to do that sort of thing, anyhow. You
ought to see my mamma; or she ought to see you. Mothers know how to say
what they feel."

"I don't want to be thanked," said Christie, her cheeks flushing, "I
didn't do anything."

"No, only saved my life, and showed more pluck and common sense, and
quick wit than any fourteen girls put together ever had before. You
see, if you had wasted twenty-five seconds, this train couldn't have
run back to pick me up, without running into the express; and I should
just have had to lie there and be crushed. I couldn't move, any more
than if I had been dead; in fact, I was dead, when they picked me up,
fainted, you know. But before I fainted, I knew just what had happened,
and where I was, and what was likely to happen next. I didn't think of
this express that had just rushed by, but I thought of the up train,
due in half an hour, and I knew there wasn't a house nor a shed within
a mile. Did you ever come to a place where you thought you could see
pretty plainly that you were not going to live but a few minutes more?"

"Once I was very sick indeed," Christie said, "and the doctor gave me
up, and mother thought I was dying; and they told me that I couldn't
live but a few minutes."

"And what did you do?"

The blood rolled in waves over Christie's face and neck. It was rather
hard to talk to a strange boy who might laugh at her, about one of the
most solemn experiences of her life. She was not used to talking with
boys, only Karl, and he never asked such straight-out questions about
things, and waited for answers. Something must be said; and what should
be said but the truth? Was she ashamed of it? Christie wondered.

She dropped her grey eyes, and her voice was low but clear as she said:
"I prayed."

There was no sound of a laugh or a sneer in answer.

"Yes," he said, nodding his head as though he understood, "so did I.
I wonder if they all do when they get into downright trouble? I have
heard that people did, bad men, you know, and all sorts of people. It
seems sort of mean, and—well, I don't suppose girls use such words, but
what we boys would call sneaking. Don't you think so?"

But Christie, in her confusion, did not understand him. Did he mean
that boys would call it "sneaking" to pray? "What is?"

"Why, living along all your life without thinking of such a thing as
praying until just when you get into trouble, and then praying with all
your might, and getting helped out, and going on just the same as you
did before."

"Oh," said Christie, relieved, "why, yes, I think that would be mean,
but then, real honest people don't do it."

"They don't? What 'do' they do then? Weren't you honest?"

"Yes," said Christie gravely, "I was, but I didn't go on just as I did
before; everything was just as different as could be."

"What do you mean? What was different?"

"Why, I myself. I didn't feel the same, nor do the same. I don't think
I can explain what I mean."

"Didn't you pray to get well?"

"A little; and I prayed to be made ready to die if I 'was' to die, and
to—not to be afraid, you know."

"Well?"

"And pretty soon the feeling afraid all went away, and I didn't think
it made much difference whether I got well or not; and for days and
days nobody thought I would."

"But you did get well?"

"Oh, yes, I did, of course, or else I should not be here now."

And at this point Christie could not help giving a little laugh.

Wells did not laugh at all. He looked grave and perplexed.

"That is just what I said," he repeated. "You prayed to be gotten out
of trouble, and you got out, and then things went on as before."

"But things didn't go on as before," persisted Christie. "I asked not
to be afraid to die, to have a heart given to me that could trust Jesus
anyhow, whether He wanted me to live or die. And I got it; so of course
things were different."

"You got it!"

"Why, yes. All in a minute everything seemed changed. I can't tell you
how, but then I know it was so."

"When was that?"

"That I was sick? It was a year ago last December, just a little bit
before Christmas."

"And the difference lasts?"

"Oh, yes, it lasts," said Christie, with a curious little smile. "Every
day when I'm working, it all comes back, you know, in a quick little
think."

She began to think that this was the strangest boy to talk she had ever
heard of. He was even stranger than some of the boys in story books.

"Well," he said, after a few moments of silence, "I prayed to be made
ready to die too; for when this train rattled off, I didn't see any
other way. It didn't seem probable that anybody would come along that
lonesome road on Christmas Day in time to save me, and I meant to be
honest, but I didn't think of such a thing as its lasting if I got out
of the scrape."

Christie looked puzzled.

"How could it last to take you to Heaven, if it wouldn't last any when
you were not to go to Heaven yet?" she asked.

And then Wells Burton laughed, though the pain in his ankle immediately
made heavy wrinkles come back into his face.

"It looks like playing a very poor game, I'll own," he said, "but I
thought I meant it."

"But if you really did mean it, you gave yourself away to Him, and if
you are honest, how can you take yourself back?"

To this he made no answer for several seconds, and, indeed, what he
said next can hardly be called an answer:

"Then you are a Christian!"

The red came back in swift waves to Christie's cheeks. She had been
so interested as to hardly remember that the talk was partly about
herself, but this plain question which was also an exclamation, brought
back her embarrassment.

"I think I am," she said hesitatingly, and then ashamed of such
witnessing, added boldly: "Yes, I 'know' I am."

"And I know that I am not," he said, with a little laugh.

After a few minutes of silence, during which Christie was wondering
whether the proper thing to do now would be to go back to her seat, he
spoke again:

"Isn't it time we were introduced? I know you very well indeed. You are
Christie Tucker, aren't you? And the boy whom I meet at the station
almost every morning, who will not look at me nor give me a chance to
speak to him, is your brother Karl. I asked the stage-driver all about
him. What is the use in his not speaking to me?"

"He is only ten," said Christie in apology.

"And I am only fourteen, or half-way between that and fifteen. What
difference does four or five years make? When I get to be forty, it
won't hinder our being good friends because he is only thirty-five or
so. There are not so many people to be friendly with up there where we
live that we can afford to waste any of them. I looked over at your
class that day I stayed to Sunday-school, and thought you were having a
nice time."

"We were," said Christie with animation. "Mr. Keith is splendid."

Wells made a gesture of disagreement.

"I don't like ministers as a rule," he said; "they always pitch into a
fellow so."

"I don't know what that is," said Christie simply, "but every one likes
Mr. Keith—that is, every one but bad men; of course they don't like
him because he makes them remember that they are bad, and they want to
forget it."

"Do you suppose that is the reason why I don't like him?" Wells asked
with a comical little look.

And then, his face growing grave, "I'll tell you a queer thing, though.
Back there, while I lay across those rails and thought I was done with
things, I didn't even think of mamma in the sense that I wanted her
there that minute—the only one that I thought of was this Mr. Keith. I
wished for him, not to pull me off of the track, you know, which would
have been the reasonable thing to do if he had been there, but to pray
for me; and I never saw him but twice in my life.

"I'll tell you what made me think of that though. Do you remember a
Sunday when they thought that Olin boy was going to die? Well, I was in
church that Sunday, and Mr. Keith prayed for him; and I thought then if
I were going to die, I should like to have Mr. Keith pray for me.

"Aren't we going most uncommonly slow? By the way my foot twinges, I
should say we had been about seventeen hours so far reaching the city,
and we must be twelve or fourteen miles away yet. I declare, if we are
not stopping again! What for, I'd like to know? There is no station
here."

What for, indeed? That question seemed to be on the faces of all the
passengers. Christie looked out of the window; so did everybody else
except Wells Burton, who could not lift himself up to do so.

"Where is it?" he asked.

"It is nowhere," answered Christie with a little laugh. "We seem to
be just in the road. There isn't a house to be seen, and there is
snow everywhere where there isn't mud. No, I don't think there is any
station; at least, I don't see any depot."

"I know there isn't a station nor a depot," said Wells, confidently,
"unless it has been built since last night."

"What's the matter sir?" This last to a man who had been out to hear
the news.

"Track washed away," said the man, using as few words as possible, and
looking gloomy.

"Washed away! Why, how much of it?"

"More than I know; some say half a mile, and some say five miles;
enough of it to keep us standing here longer than we want to, I guess."

"Where is 'here?' Are we near the station?"

"No, two miles out."

"And is it right here that the track has washed?"

"No, half a mile or so up the track; they sent signals down to us."

"Thank you, sir," said Wells, and the man moved on.

"Here's a go!" the boy said gravely. "Or no, it isn't, it's a
standstill; and that's slang I suppose. My mother hates slang, and so
does yours I presume, mothers all do; I beg your pardon for using it,
but I do wonder how long we are to be stopped here! If it is going to
be long, I'm afraid I shall wish for a surgeon to cut off my foot."

"Does it pain you very much?" asked Christie sympathetically.

"Well, I've had things that felt pleasanter. These heavy rains and
then the thaw have played the mischief with the railroad track; father
said he was afraid there would be trouble. But I just wish they had
waited until after Christmas. I'm afraid you and I will be late to our
Christmas dinner."

"I'm sorry for that poor man," said Christie, twisting herself to get
a glimpse of the sad-faced young man who had his watch in his hand at
this moment. "There is a sick friend whom he thinks he could help if he
could only get there in time; see how troubled he looks."

"Poor fellow!" said Wells sympathetically.

But the next moment Christie's attention was turned elsewhere. She
turned herself completely around, and gazed up and down the car.
Finally, she stood up on tiptoe for a moment.

"What's the trouble?" asked Wells. "Lost something?"

But by way of answer, she turned toward him, her face full of anxiety,
and asked: "Where is that baby's mother?"

"What baby? The lady with a baby got off at the last station."

"Why, no, she didn't; I see the baby as plain as can be, lying on the
little bed she made for him; he is fast asleep, but I don't see her
anywhere?"

"I tell you she got off," said Wells, growing earnest. "I happened to
be looking right at her; I noticed her particularly because she had
a shawl like mamma's, and I wondered if she looked like mamma, and I
stared at her a good deal to find out. Oh, yes, she stepped off the
cars and stepped into a mud puddle and got her feet wet, and looked
cross. I raised myself up to see her do it and hurt my foot by the
means, and then I looked cross."

"Then," said Christie, her face full of anxiety, not to say terror,
"then she has left her baby!"

Unlikely as it sounds, this appeared to be the case. In the course of a
few minutes, somebody else began to be interested in the same thought;
that was no other person than the baby himself. He began to rub his
eyes, and yawn and twist about on his narrow bed in a very dangerous
way. At last, he was only held on by the cane of a gentleman who built
a fence before baby by holding up the cane. Then he looked about him in
a savage manner, and asked,—

"Where is this child's mother?"

Where indeed! That was just what baby wanted to know, and he began to
give warning little whimpers which said: "I'll cry in a way to astonish
you, if somebody doesn't come and attend to me very soon."

What was to be done? Christie looked about her very much startled, and
discovered that there was but one lady on the car; she was young and
pretty, dressed in velvet, and looked as though she thought babies were
a mistake and a nuisance.

"Madam," said the man with the cane, glowering at her, "do you know
anything about the child's mother?"

"How should I?" answered the velvet-dressed lady, and she immediately
went back to her "Seaside Library" book.

Then the baby gave a warning yell.

Christie started up. "That baby is afraid," she said to Wells. "The
next thing he will cry so hard that nobody can stop him; I'm going over
there."

"Do you know him?" asked Wells, looking at the baby as though he would
much rather undertake to pacify a cross dog.

"Oh, no; I don't know who he is at all. But he begins to cry as though
he was afraid, and if it was our baby at home, I don't know what I
should do."

With this rather mixed up sentence, she hurried away, and in another
moment was bending over the baby who had not fully decided whether to
be angry or grieved over the strange treatment he was receiving. He had
his lips in a dreadful pucker, and the squeal he was prepared to give
would, I think, have astonished all the people. But he changed his mind
when he saw Christie, and gave her an astonished stare, and made no
objection when she raised him with cooing words, and cuddled his face
to hers.

"Is he your brother?" inquired the gentleman with the cane. "You
shouldn't leave him alone in that way; it is very careless. He might
have rolled off and knocked his brains out."

"Oh, no, sir," said Christie, who by this time could not help smiling
to think how many people she was expected to claim as relatives. "I
don't know who he is, poor baby! And I can't think what has become of
his mother." Then she kissed him.



CHAPTER V

WHERE IS BABY'S MOTHER?

THAT is just what baby did not know, and in spite of the kiss, he made
up his mind to cry. It was very distressing. Christie walked up and
down in the bit of a space, and cuddled the poor fellow and whispered
loving words to him, and cooed a lullaby into his ear, but he would
have none of them. He wanted just one thing, and that was his mother's
face.

The gentlemen began to interest themselves in the matter, though the
velvet-dressed young lady was still deep in her "Seaside Library," only
taking time to dart a frown at baby for being so noisy, and another
asked who had been with the child, and what had become of her. And
Wells told his story about seeing her leave the car at the last station.

"A case of desertion," said one man, looking severely at Christie, as
though she might be the cause. But she looked back at him out of very
cross eyes, and was glad that she did. The idea of any mother deserting
her baby!

Presently came the conductor, and two or three people tried to talk to
him at once.

"I noticed the lady leave the car," he said. "She asked me how much
time there would be; she has got herself left, I presume. Women are
always doing it; she stayed to tie her bonnet in another kind of knot,
or something equally important, and she is probably fuming away at the
station at this moment, calling the cars all sorts of names, as though
they were to blame for her silliness."

"And when can she get to baby, sir?"

It was Christie's eager, sorrowful voice that asked the question. She
knew now which she pitied the most, and that was baby's mother.

The conductor turned and looked at her.

"More than I know," he said shortly. "Do you belong to her? Are you the
child's nurse?"

"Oh, no, sir," said Christie, and this time she had much ado to keep
from smiling outright. "I never saw him before." But she cuddled him
to her as she spoke, and he put one fat arm around her neck and gazed
about him.

"Well," said the conductor, "he seems to take to you, and that is
fortunate. There's no telling when we will get out of this; it is a bad
mess."

Then up spoke Wells Burton. "But, conductor, the lady can get back to
her baby, can't she, on the nine o'clock accommodation?"

"When the nine o'clock accommodation comes along, I dare say she can,"
replied that gentleman in a very significant tone. "But there's no
telling when that will be."

"Why? Can't it come up before we leave here? Will it have to wait at
the last station until we go on?"

Two gentlemen asked these two questions. And Christie waited eagerly
for their answer, while baby, the most interested party, gave all his
attention to the blue ribbon on her hair, and tried to poke it in his
mouth and ruin it, ungrateful fellow that he was!

"If it doesn't have to wait any longer than until we go on, it may be
thankful," said the conductor. "The rumour is that the bridge went down
just after we crossed it; if that is so, we don't know when another
train will get over."

Then you should have heard the exclamations of dismay.

"What! The high bridge! Went 'down,' did you say? Why, it isn't twenty
minutes since we passed over! I thought you moved over very slowly—as
if things were shaky."

"Can't you get a telegram, conductor, and learn the truth of the
report?"

"Not very well, sir, while we lie here. If we ever reach another
station, we shall have a telegram, I presume. Meantime, there isn't any
particular danger of our being run over from either direction, so far
as I can see."

"And when can we hope to get on?"

It was the pale-faced young man, with his watch in his hand, who asked
this question. Christie thought his face grew paler yet as he listened
to the answer.

"Well, sir, that's telling; perhaps in half an hour, perhaps not under
two hours; we don't really know the extent of the damage yet, our men
have gone forward to discover. And they will send workmen from the
city as soon as they can, but everything is out of gear this morning.
There has been trouble in all directions, and the railroad hands can't
be everywhere at once. There's no telling what the delay will be; of
course we hope we can hurry things up."

"Dear! Dear! What a state of things."

Disheartening as it all was, Christie could not help being astonished
to see how cross the people were.

"They act exactly as though they thought the roads and the bridges
had done it on purpose to vex them," she told Wells as she obeyed the
motion of his hand and brought the baby to the turned seat in front of
him. "Do you suppose they really know of somebody who is to blame?"

"Why, no," said Wells, thoughtfully, "I presume not; they just fret and
say 'it is pretty business!' and all that sort of thing, because that
is the natural way to act when folks are disappointed. Isn't that the
way you do when things don't go to suit you?"

Christie's head drooped a little, and the pretty pink flush began to
come on her cheek. "Once I used to do it to things," she said slowly,
with a marked emphasis on the word "things." "I would slam the door
when I was cross about something, and I would scold the kitchen fire
for not burning, and I would put the wood down on the hearth with a
great bang. But once I lost a penny under the carpet and I scolded
about that, but that was when I was alone.

"The minute Mrs. Briggs came in to see mother, or even the market man
stopped to see if we wanted anything, I would shut the door gently, and
lay the wood on the hearth just as softly as I could, and I worked half
an hour once, helping Susan Briggs open her desk, and never thought of
being cross, because I was ashamed, you know, to have them see me do
any other way. Now shouldn't you think these people would feel kind of
ashamed to grumble before one another?"

But the only answer that Wells seemed to have ready for this was an
absent-minded laugh; he was thinking of one part of Christie's sentence
that he wanted to have explained.

"Look here," he said, "you say you used to be cross at things. Do you
mean that you've given even that up?"

Christie gravely bowed her head. "I'm most cured of it," she said
softly. "I think it is only once in a long while now that I forget. I
was so in the habit of it that it was dreadfully hard work. You see
this was after I had begun to try to do right; and I thought if I kept
pleasant before people, there wouldn't be anything wrong in slamming
doors a little—when nobody was there to see—and in scolding the fire
because it couldn't have its feelings hurt, you know. But when I found
out that it was almost worse to do that than to be cross to people, I
tried hard to give it up."

"You are talking Greek to me," Wells said good-naturedly, but the
tone said that he was very much interested, and should really like to
understand Greek if he could. "What possible harm could there be in
slamming a door, or growling at a fire, so long as nobody heard you? I
should say it was a safe and comfortable way of working off ill-humour;
I'm sure I wish some of the peppery folks I know would try that
fashion. What made you think there was anything bad about it?"

"I didn't find it out myself," Christie said, her eyes drooping again.
"You see I got into trouble. I wanted some things that I couldn't have,
and I wanted to do some things that I couldn't do, and I thought about
them until they made me feel cross half the time. I slammed all the
doors I could, and the fire needed scolding every time I went near
it, and I—" here there was a little hesitation, and the cheeks grew
pinker—"I even got to scolding at Nettie when she was most asleep and
couldn't hear me: real hateful things I said to her, about being the
hardest baby to get to sleep that ever was born, and about taking all
my time so that I couldn't study, nor knit, nor anything. I never would
have said it to her if she had been awake, and I used to kiss her as
soon as I had tucked her in the crib, but for all that, I grumbled at
her a great deal. At last it got so bad that I knew I was getting to be
cross all the time, and I couldn't seem to stop it; and one day I told
the minister about it."

"You did!" Wells Burton's exclamation had a good deal of admiration
in it: the truth was, he began to think that Christie must be a very
brave girl. He told himself that he would rather stop twenty trains of
cars than to go to the minister and have a talk about his faults! But
Christie believed he thought she was a simpleton. Nevertheless, she
meant to tell just the truth.

"Yes, I did," she said steadily. "One day he came to see us, and mother
wasn't at home. The baby at Briggs' had burned himself and they sent
for mother, and father had gone to the mill, and there wasn't anybody
at home, only just Nettie and me, and I had been real cross to her:
I shook her a little speck, not to hurt, you know, but then it was
horrid; I felt so ashamed of myself that I cried; and just then the
minister came. He asked me right away what was the matter, and that
made me cry again, and then, you know, I almost had to tell him. It was
something he said that has helped me ever since."

"Do you mind telling me what it was?" Wells Burton's voice was so
gentle that she gave up the fancy that he was making fun of her.

"Why, it was something that I knew all the time, and I've often
wondered that I did not think of it for myself. I told him that I had
no trouble in being pleasant before people, because I would be so
ashamed to have them see me looking cross. And that I kept my words
pretty near right, but I couldn't manage my thoughts.

"And he asked me how I thought I should act if Jesus should come to our
house, as he used to at Mary and Martha's. I told him that I knew then
I should act just as well as I could. Then he asked me if I did not
remember that Jesus had come to our house, and was staying there all
the time, and heard all my thoughts, as well as my words?

"You don't know how it made me feel for a moment; I just felt scared.
It seemed to me that I could remember all the times that I had banged
the door, and rattled the wood, and Jesus looking at me! What made me
most ashamed was, that I had tried to behave myself before Mrs. Briggs,
and the other neighbours, and never minded how I behaved before Jesus.
Just as though I thought more of them than I did of Him!"

"Humph!" said Wells. "I don't pretend to understand. I don't see how
that helped you a bit. Of course, if a fellow could realize that Jesus
was listening to what he said, it would make a big difference all the
time. There are fifty thousand things a fellow says and does that he
wouldn't do for the world! But the trouble is, you 'can't' realize it.
A person that you can see and hear is very different from one that you
can't see and hear; now that's the truth, and I don't see how anybody
can say it isn't. Do you mean to have me understand that you are as
sure of Jesus being near you as you are that I sit on this seat talking
to you?"

"I'm just as 'sure' of it," Christie said with a quiet positiveness
that went a great way toward proving the truth of her words, "but then,
it is a different feeling, of course. I can't explain it to you; I
don't know how. I suppose if you were to talk with our minister, he
would make it all plain. But I know this: the more you pray, the surer
you get that Jesus stays right beside you, and listens to all you say.
I'm a 'great deal' surer of it than I used to be, and it keeps growing
surer all the time."


Meantime, you are wondering what that baby was about, and why he
endured so long a conversation that he did not understand. The truth
is, that in telling you about the conversation, I have left out the
number of times that Christie lifted him from one shoulder to the
other, and the sweet cooing words she continually put in, between her
answers, and the number of times Wells snapped his fingers for baby's
benefit, and how he took his watch from its chain, and gave it to
Christie to hold, so that the baby could see it.

But at last baby's patience was entirely gone. He would have nothing
more to do with the watch, and he pushed Christie's hand away savagely,
when she tried to pat his cheek. He had occasionally given some very
loud yells, as specimens of what he could do, and now he went at it in
earnest.

In vain Christie tossed, and cooed, and patted. He yelled the louder.
The lady with the "Seaside" story was very much annoyed. She shot angry
glances over at the perplexed little maid, and at last she said, "I
should think if you cannot keep that child quiet, it would be well for
you to let him alone."

"Perhaps the lady will take him for awhile. Your arms must be very
tired."

This was Well's suggestion, and he enjoyed the look of disgust on her
face, as she said:

"I know nothing about babies: but I think it is an imposition on the
travelling public to have one screaming in this fashion."

"Then," said Wells, "would you in this case recommend choking, or what
would you advise us to do?"

"You are a very impudent boy!" the lady said, and she went back to her
book, with red cheeks.

Christie could not help laughing a little, though she was not sure but
the lady was correct.

And the baby yelled!

Not another lady among the passengers. The last one had left the car at
that unfortunate station where the poor mother stopped. The pale-faced
young man came forward next; he did not look cross, only sorry.

"Poor fellow!" he said to the baby. "You think you are having a hard
time, I suppose, but there are worse trials in life than yours. What
would he say to me, do you think? I might take him for a walk up and
down the car and rest your arms."

But the perverse baby yelled like a lunatic the moment the thing was
attempted, and utterly refused to leave his small protector's side.

"He shows good taste," said the pale young man with a wan smile; "he
probably sees that I know very little about babies."

Then the nice old gentleman decided to show his skill. "What would he
say to a sugar-plum, do you suppose?" he asked, bending kindly over
Christie, and showing a round, white candy.

"He'll be sure to approve of that," Wells said.

But Christie hesitated, and a lovely colour glowed on her cheeks.

"If you please, sir," she said timidly, "I don't know whether his
mother would like it: they don't let some babies have candy at all.
Mother thinks it is bad for them."

"Ah! Yes," he said, "I ought to know it by this time: I'm always
getting into disgrace with my daughters by bringing the stuff to their
babies. They don't allow it at all, and you are a wise little woman to
think of it."



CHAPTER VI

THE UGLY-LOOKING HOUSE

YOU have no idea what a life that baby led them, unless you have a
little brother or sister at home. I suppose you have but little idea
how a baby can cry, who is very tired, and hungry, and a good deal
frightened; for by this time he began to think it the strangest thing
in life that his mother did not come and attend to him.

Christie took a hint from the pale young man, and began to walk up and
down the car, with baby in her arms. But he was much heavier than the
baby at home, and it took very little of this exercise to make her
young back ache.

Wells looked on sympathetically, as well as a little indignantly.
Unable to take a step, or even to twist himself about, so that he could
take the baby in his arms, he told himself that if he were that young
man, he would see if he could not carry that baby a while, and not let
a little girl tug with it all the time. Suppose he did yell, what of
it? That was no more than he was doing now, every time he thought of
it. He should like to see himself scared away by the crying of a baby!

As for the literary young lady, words could not express his contempt
for her; he showed it by curling his lip most expressively whenever he
looked in her direction. But she, having once more buried herself in
her book, lost all this.

"I know what the poor little fellow would like," said Christie,
returning to Wells, during a lull. "He is so hungry that he can't help
crying. He keeps stuffing both his little hands into his mouth; they
are always hungry when they do that. His mother had some milk in a
bottle for him, in that little satchel she carried in her hand. I saw
her offer him some once, but he wasn't hungry just then, and pushed
it away. I just wish she had left the bag when she went away, but she
carried it on her arm."

"Probably it had her pocket-book in it as well as a bottle of milk,"
Wells said. And then: "I'm sorry for the poor little chap, if he is
hungry: we all stand a fair chance to be in the same fix if we stay
here long."

"I have cookies, and things," said Christie thoughtfully, "but they
won't do for babies, you know."

"I don't know a thing about it," declared Wells. "But I should think
that folks would rather have them eat cookies than starve."

There was no denying this, so Christie only laughed, but as yet she
did not resort to cookies. She thought of the rows of milk pans ranged
on the shelves at home—if she only had one of them! She thought of the
milk-can that had started from home with them, what a pity that its
stopping place had been one station back.

Away over in the fields, no other house near it, stood what looked
like a bit of a farmhouse. Christie wondered whether they had milk
there, and whether somebody couldn't go there and try to get some. She
mentioned the wonder to Wells.

"It's a forlorn little place," he said, trying to raise himself on one
elbow to see it, frowning deeply with pain as he did so.

"I don't believe they have any milk there that is fit to drink.
Besides, how could a body get to it? They would get up to their ears in
mud. Those fields look as though they had no bottom to them. My! How
quick I would skip over there if I had the use of my feet!"

Christie could not help smiling again, at the apparent contradictions
in his words. But she kept looking out at the little house, between her
soothings of the baby.

"I most believe I will try it," she said at last. "Something has got
to be done; this baby is almost starved. I suppose that he was so busy
gazing about him this morning that he could not eat his breakfast."

"You!" said Wells, regarding her with surprise, mingled with respect.
"Why, you would stick fast in the mud. I don't believe that mother of
yours would like such doings at all."

Christie looked down at her trim new shoes; she so seldom had a new
pair that these were treasures. A little nicer they were, than any she
ever had before. She remembered, too, her mother's oft-repeated charge,
on no account to step off the train until they reached the city. Yet
she said resolutely: "My mother always likes me to do things that ought
to be done. I think I am going to try it. I don't see another person
who would be likely to go."

"Suppose you try the young lady in the velvet gown?" said Wells. "She
has almost finished her story."

Then he and Christie both laughed. Her face sobered at once, and she
began to take anxious looks through the cars. The old gentleman was not
to be thought of for a moment; his hair was too white to think of his
taking a tramp like that. There was the pale-faced man, but she looked
regretfully at his shining boots and beautiful pantaloons. The mud
would certainly ruin them; and what a plight he would be in when they
reached the city! She almost thought he would go, if she were to ask
him, but it did seem too bad to do so.

"Oh, baby, baby!" she said in a soft cooing tone. "Couldn't you
possibly lay your head on my shoulder and take a nice little nap? Then
perhaps the train will go on in a few minutes, and maybe the bridge
isn't down at all. And maybe the nine o'clock train will come in all
right, and bring your mamma, and she will have a bottle full of nice
milk for you."

But the baby was utterly disgusted with this suggestion. He put no
faith in any of it; he angrily bobbed up his head as often as Christie
tried to cuddle it in her neck. He snatched at her hair, and tried to
pull the very braids out by the roots; he scratched at her face, and in
various other ways conducted himself like a tiger.

Wells, meantime, seeing Christie glance towards the house in the
fields, with a resolution of some sort growing on her face, made a
suggestion:

"There is one thing you want to think of, whoever tramps off there,
runs the risk of having this train skip off and leave them. I dare say
we may go in a little while; trains are hardly ever detained as long
as they think they are going to be. Once, when we were East, there was
something the matter with the track, and the conductor didn't think we
could go on under three hours, and father let my sister Estelle and
I go and take a walk. And in just half an hour that train went on,
and Estelle and I had no end of a time getting with our folks again!"
concluded Wells, very wisely.

This story, like many other things in this world, had an exactly
opposite effect from what was intended.

"I shall go myself," said Christie positively.

To herself she said: "I shall never ask that poor young man to go and
run the risk of missing the train, when he is in such a hurry. And the
rest of these people look as though they wouldn't do it for anything,
and as though I would rather go three times than to ask them."

"What will you do if the train takes a notion to go on?" said Wells,
dismayed for her.

"Why," said Christie, "if this train can go on, another can come, or
go sometime, you know; and I could wait for it and take it. Would they
take my ticket on another train?"

The startled tone in which she asked this question made Wells
understand that her ticket was a matter of importance to her. He set
her mind at rest about that, and then came to the front with a new idea:

"Have you a return ticket? When were you coming back, anyhow?"

"To-night," said Christie, laughing in spite of all the troubles of the
way. "Do you suppose I shall get there in time to come back? What did
you say about a return ticket? Ought I to have one?"

"Why, that is the way they generally do," this old traveller explained,
"buy a round trip ticket, you know, it saves ten or fifteen cents.
But it is of no consequence, you can just as well buy one at the city
station if you ever get there."

Christie looked down at her ticket with a perplexed and sorrowful air;
it was not round certainly. If it ought to have been, and if anything
that she could have done about it would have saved her fifteen cents,
she was very sorry, for money was of great consequence to her.

"I did not know about it," she said meekly; and felt that she did not
yet know, and that, by and by, when things were quieter, she would ask
Wells why it was that round tickets were cheaper, and why they did not
give her one.


Meantime, the poor discouraged baby had settled into a restless
slumber; Christie had been watching his eyes shut, while she walked
slowly back and forth in the car. She did not believe he would sleep
long, he was too hungry for that. And now her resolution was formed.

"I'm going over there to try to get some milk," she said firmly. "If
somebody would make a nice little pillow of my shawl, I could lay the
poor baby down. Do you suppose the old gentleman with the gold glasses
would see that he did not roll off the seat?"

"Why do you pick him out?" asked Wells, amused over the whole thing,
and much disgusted that he could not help. "Give me the shawl; I can
roll it up. I haven't sprained my 'hands,' at least. Now lay the young
scamp down, and go and give the old gentleman our compliments, and say
that he is appointed special guard, with orders not to fall asleep at
his post, under pain of being scratched."

Christie's eyes were brim full of fun, but she went over to the old
gentleman, with a gravely gentle face, and made known her petition.

"Eh, what?" he said, coming back from some day-dream with a sigh. Oh
yes, certainly he would keep the poor little fellow from rolling off.
"But if he cries," he said anxiously, "I shall not know what to do; I
never could do anything with babies when they cried."

Christie could only hope that this one would not cry. And having
established the guard where she wanted him, she prepared to set off.

By this time Wells had another idea. He had been fumbling in his
pocket, and now drew out his handsome Russia leather pocket-book.

"Just let me furnish the funds for the youngster, won't you? Since I
can't help in any other way."

"Will I need money?" Christie asked, stopping with a startled air to
look into his face.

Her mother lived in a little house back in the fields, but she would
never think of taking money in return for a little milk to be given to
a hungry baby.

"Why, of course," said Wells. "That is, if you get any milk, which I
doubt; the house doesn't look like it from here. But you will have to
buy a pitcher, or something to put it in; they won't trust you. They'll
think you are a tramp, you know. Offer to pay them well, and the little
chap will fare a good deal better than he will if you ask a favour."

As he spoke, he held out a crisp bank note.

Christie took it slowly, with a bright glow on her cheeks. It was a
five dollar bill. She had never had so much money in her hands before:
and to tell the truth she did not quite like to have this in her hands.
She had to remind herself that the milk was not for her, and that she
certainly had not money enough of her own to pay for it, and get back
home with. Just then—wise little woman that she was—came into play some
of the good sense which her good mother had tried so hard to teach her.
She handed back the crisp new note.

"Give me something smaller, please," she said pleasantly, "I don't
like to carry so much, nor to offer it; they would think I was a very
suspicious tramp. Milk is only ten cents a quart, and a pitcher or a
tin pail does not cost much."

It was Wells' turn to blush now; he plainly saw that she had been the
more business-like of the two. And crumbling the bill in his hand, he
produced some shining silver pieces in its place, and Christie went.

Oh, but that mud was deep! How quickly were the trim new shoes
besmeared all over with a thick yellow plaster? Worse than that, they
were getting too heavy to carry; it was as much as she could do to drag
them from one bog to the other, for the road seemed to be made up of a
succession of bogs.

Once she came to a little pool of muddy water, came to it before she
saw it; splashed right in, and soaked her feet away above the ankles,
and spattered the pretty dress. Dear! Dear! If mother could see her
now! What a thing it was to go off on a Christmas ride!

It was a long walk: much longer than it had seemed from the car window.
With every step, the difficulty of getting on increased, and once she
had really to lean against a friendly post that seemed set up to mark
the lot, and try to dig the mud from her shoes. How surely they were
ruined; and they were to have been her Sunday best for a year!

There was another sad thought connected with all this: What a plight
she would be in by the time she reached Uncle Daniel's. And mother had
taken such pride in having her so neatly dressed, with a new-fashioned
jacket and all! What with the mud, and the weariness, and the anxiety,
she could hardly keep the tears from falling as they rushed into her
eyes. But she shut them back resolutely, and said aloud:

"I 'know' I am doing right. That baby will get sick if he don't have
his milk; and a baby is worth more than ten pairs of shoes and a new
dress besides."

Now she was fairly at the gate of the little ugly-looking house. In a
minute more, she would be inside.

No, she wouldn't. Bow, wow! wow! Here was a fellow who disputed the way
with her, and came suddenly towards her, as if the least that he should
think of doing was to swallow her at once.

Now it happened that Christie, unusually brave about most things, was
dreadfully afraid of a dog.

She gave a pitiful little shriek, and the next thing she knew, she was
picking herself out of the meanest-looking mud hole she had seen in
her trip. The dog had retired to a safe distance, and with his head
hung down, and his silly little tail between his legs, was receiving a
lecture from a woman with a frowzy head, and sleeves rolled up at the
elbow, who appeared in the door of the little house.

"Aren't you ashamed of yourself!" she said, shaking her head. "A decent
dog you are to be cutting up such tricks! Come along, child. What do
you want? There's no kind of need of your being afraid of that there
dog; there ain't a bigger coward in all Kansas than he is. Mercy on
me! What a fix you are in! I guess your ma, whoever she is, will give
you something to make you remember Bose. You've just about ruined your
dress. Where did you come from, anyway?"

Poor Christie, her face in a deeper glow than had been on it during
this eventful morning, limping a little on one foot, and wondering
whether this was another sprain, made her way across the stretch of mud
that still lay between her and the house, and began her story.

The open door gave her a view of quite a good-sized kitchen in which
all sorts of household work seemed to be going on at once. A smell of
cabbage came from the big pot on the stove; a smell of gingerbread came
from the open door of the oven, where a young woman knelt to examine
it, a pan of apples partly pared sat on the table, and quite close
to them tied into a chair, sat a yellow-headed baby in a pink calico
dress, and wearing a pug nose, washed-out blue eyes, and a soiled face.

He looked utterly unlike the baby in the cars, and did not once suggest
the baby at home. Yet Christie was glad to see him. Probably they had
milk, and they would have tender hearts for other babies.

"If you please," she began in a gentle explanatory tone, the woman
still standing in the door, holding it partly open, "I came from the
cars over here: the train is stopped by some trouble, and there is a
poor baby whose mother—" here she gave a little squeal and sprang past
the woman in the door, quite into the kitchen.

"For the land's sake! I believe she's crazy!" Thus much the woman said,
before she saw what was the matter. And really by the time she saw,
there was nothing the matter; the danger was over.

It was just one of those things that happen in a second, or else they
do not happen at all. There was a girl about the size of Christie whose
business it evidently was to attend to the restless, tied-up baby, and
who had been so occupied in staring at Christie that she had entirely
forgotten her duty. Baby thus left to employ his wits, discovered that
by a sudden tilting motion he could tip his chair backwards, and give
himself a ride. Moreover, I fancy, argued that this process might in
time loosen the chains that bound him to the chair; so he tried it.

Just as Christie looked that way, he had tried it for the fourth time
with such effect that the chair lost its balance, and the glowing stove
was exactly behind it! In reality the baby's head did not touch the
stove at all, because he held it up and yelled. At least that was one
reason; the other was that in less than a quarter of a second, the
chair was righted by Christie herself; for just one spring brought her
from the door to the chair.

But dear me! You should have seen the excitement which prevailed in the
little log house then. That baby was just as important as any other
baby in the world. His mother untied with nervous fingers the string
that bound him, and hugged, and kissed, and cried over him, and praised
Christie, and scolded Sarah Ann, all in one breath.

"Just to think!" she said. "If you hadn't a-seen him just at that
minute and sprung like a deer, he might a-been burned to a crisp!
Mother's precious darling Jimmy! Sarah Ann, you good for nothing young
one you, don't stand there whimpering; if you had been attending to
your business instead of staring, this wouldn't have happened. Go out
into the woodshed, do; you make me sick."

This advice was accompanied by a box on the ear; not a hard slap, in
fact, I doubt whether Sarah Ann felt it at all. But that she felt the
tongue, and was painfully ashamed, was evident her face flamed a deep
red, and her sobs came deeply drawn, as she vanished by the woodshed
door. Christie felt sorry for her, and indignant with her mother. There
was a very great difference in mothers, certainly, greater than she had
ever supposed.

The indignation gave her courage to tell her story rapidly and well.

There were a great many exclamations over it, and a great many
questions asked and answered, and Christie had to kiss the baby, which
she would not have minded at all if his face had been clean. She
had a chance to wash the mud from her face and hands, and the woman
herself carefully brushed the mud from the pretty suit, bewailing the
stains, and finding one place with a zigzag tear. It all took time, and
Christie was conscious of listening painfully for the whistle of the
departing train.

But at last, she was started on her way; her shoes exchanged for a pair
of ugly-looking boots, which the woman told her she might leave in the
bog by the railroad track, and she had the comfort of hearing it said
in a loud whisper that they were so awful worn out and good for nothing
that Josiah wouldn't care much if she did make off with them. After
that, Christie had a mind not to take them, but she looked down at the
shoes hung over her arm, which had been cleaned, and could be dried
when she reached the train, and concluded to be meek, especially since
they did not know her at all. How could they be sure that she did not
want to run away with Josiah's boots?

On her arm she had a pail of milk, which looked rich and creamy, and
she had bought a new little tin cup which the woman said they got for
Jimmy only yesterday. For the cup she paid eight cents, and for the
pail twenty-five, but they would take nothing for the milk, and there
was a good quart, Christie calculated.

On the whole, her trip back to the train was much pleasanter than the
journey out had been. She discovered that day why boys wore boots, a
thing that she had never understood before. They certainly made their
way through the mud much better than shoes.

There stood the train, without apparently having had a thought of going
away to leave her.

She set down her pail, and carefully pulled off the boots and laid them
in a sort of gully at the side of the track, then slipped into her
own wet ones, and climbed into the train. None too soon, for baby was
shrieking wildly. The old gentleman looked relieved when he saw her.

"Well, little woman," he said, "our hopes all rest on you. If you can
quiet this storm, we shall owe you a debt of gratitude."

"We've been having a first-class circus here," said Wells, "ever since
you went. You hadn't jumped the first mud puddle when he opened his
eyes and looked around him and began. That 'Seaside Library' woman over
there is going to have him sent to the house of correction as soon as
ever we reach the city. I see it in her eyes."

"Poor fellow!" said Christie: but she did not mean the old gentleman in
spectacles, nor yet Wells Burton.



CHAPTER VII

THE HELPER STILL

DO you imagine that the train soon started? Nothing seemed farther from
its thoughts.

The baby eagerly drank his milk from the bright tin cup, much occupied,
it is true, as soon as his first hunger was appeased, with gazing at
the queer shapes in its sides, but never recognizing, apparently, his
own beautiful face. But after each gaze, he would seize the cup and
take another long draught.

"I tell you he was hungry and thirsty both, I should think!" Wells
said, watching him with interest. "His mother ought to give you a great
many thanks for this."

"Poor mother!" said Christie with a sigh, and she drew the baby closer.

He settled back in her arms at last, satisfied and smiling.

"Tamed," Wells called it, and he and the old gentleman who had returned
to his own seat exchanged smiles of admiration, as Christie "mothered"
the baby, cooing him presently into quiet, restful slumber.

The shawl did duty again as a pillow, and this time, genuine sleeping
was done.

Long past nine o'clock now, and no train either came or went. The
officials seemed all to have departed, and some of the passengers. The
old gentleman kept his seat, so did the pale-faced man, so did the
disgusted young lady who had finished her book, and had now no other
occupation to indulge in but grumbling.

"How far are we from the city?" Christie questioned.

"Why, not more than a dozen miles."

"I should think some of the men who are in a hurry would try to hire a
wagon to take them in."

Wells shook his head. "I should like to see a wagon that could get
through this mud!" he explained. "You see there is no wagon road; the
old road strikes off at that junction down below, and winds around,
I don't know how many miles. I don't suppose it would be possible to
drive direct from here to the city, and the regular road is used so
little out this way now, that it must be horrid after these rains."

"Well, shouldn't you think that man over there, who is so anxious,
would try to walk? I think I could walk twelve miles if mother or the
baby was sick."

"Not in this mud, I venture. I doubt if you ever took many long walks
in such mud. Why, in some places it is knee deep! Besides, don't you
see he would stand a chance of seeing this train whisk by him when he
was about half-way. No; his best plan is to sit still and be patient."

"He doesn't look patient," said Christie. "I never saw anybody's face
look less patient than his; and I am so sorry for him I don't know
what to do. I keep thinking I wish I could do something to help him. I
wonder if it is his mother who is sick."

Wells studied him for a few minutes, and then gave it as his opinion
that it was the lady whom he meant to marry; though why he thought so,
I am sure I don't know.

The next thing that claimed attention was the sprained ankle.

"I'll tell you what it is," said Wells, "there's something going on
down there in my foot that I don't like. It gives the most horrid
tweaks of pain every few minutes that you ever heard of, and it is
swelling so that I don't believe I shall ever be able to wear a boot
again."

"It ought to be bathed," said Christie, "and bandaged; that is what
mother did when father sprained his foot once. She took cold water
and bathed and bathed it, oh, a long time! Then she made a great long
bandage, and bound it up, and it got well after a while. I think I
ought to bathe your foot."

"You!" said Wells in dismay, and looking more astonished than he had at
anything yet. "As if I should allow you to do such a thing!"

"Why not? I should think you would be very foolish not to let me. I
know how; I've done it for father, by the hour. You see it soothes the
pain, and makes the swelling go down. But I don't know what I could
put water in. How queer it is that we can get to places where we miss
all the little things that we thought we should have, of course! Now I
thought I should 'always' be where I could get a basin or a bowl to put
water in.

"If the baby had drank all the milk, I could use the pail. But I dare
not throw it away, because he might need it before his mother gets to
him."

"I should think not!" said Wells, meaning about the milk. "It costs too
much to throw away."

"Yes," said Christie gravely. "But then they did not charge me any more
than other people charge for a quart of milk."

Wells' eyes danced over this; he had not meant the cost in money, but
he said nothing.


Meantime, Christie looked up and down the car, her face thoughtful and
anxious. She was studying ways for bathing the sick foot.

Wells was secretly glad that there seemed no chance for it. He would
have liked his mother to do it, but he could not bear to think of
having his foot bathed by this trim little girl.

Suddenly Christie hopped up, her face bright, and yet doubtful, if
you can imagine the two on the same face. She saw a way to do it, if
only the "Seaside Library" woman would be good and help. It was very
unpleasant to have to ask a favour of her, but Christie was not one to
stop at unpleasant things, when they looked as though they ought to be
done.

The lady's satchel lay open at her side on the seat. She was fumbling
discontentedly through it, looking for something that she did not seem
to find.

But the thing that Christie saw was a small white pitcher lying snugly
among the napkins, empty, and waiting, apparently, for work to do.

She went over to her in haste. It would not do to take much time to
think about this thing which was so disagreeable.

"Would you be so kind as to lend me the pitcher for a little while to
keep baby's milk in? I want to fill the pail with water to bathe the
lame foot. It is beginning to swell very much, and I think that will
help it. Mother thought it helped father."

A long speech for Christie. The lady looked so "very" disagreeable that
the child felt a nervous desire to keep on talking, and not give her a
chance to make a disagreeable answer. But she came to the end of her
long sentence at last, and waited.

Wells was laughing. He was almost willing to have his ankle bathed, if
it would in any way add to the discomfort of the lady.

For what seemed to poor Christie several long minutes, she stared at
her as though she were some unpleasant curiosity that had not been seen
before, then said:

"I suppose so. What a set I have got among! The insolent boy doesn't
deserve to have his ankle bathed! If he had been sitting in the cars
as he ought, the accident would not have happened. Why can't you throw
that slop of milk away, if you want the pail?"

Christie meekly explained her fears that the baby might fancy himself
hungry when he awoke.

And at last, with a disgusted sigh, the lady took the delicate china
pitcher from its nest and passed it into Christie's keeping.

"Here," she said. "You will break it, I presume, the next thing; and it
belongs to a set. I was a simpleton to bring it, but how was I to know
there would be such a nuisance of a time?"

"Oh, thank you!" said Christie. "I will be very careful of it." And she
tripped away with a relieved face.

The old gentleman was watching. When the milk was carefully poured into
the china pitcher, what did he do but offer to take care of it!

Very grateful was Christie, for while she poured, she had wondered what
she should do with the frail china thing, in order to keep it from
bumping against the car. To be sure there was no motion now, but there
was always the hope that the cars would start.

Next the pail must be washed. For the first time in her life Christie
made her way to the water-cooler, which stood in a corner of the car,
and managed to learn how to make the water flow. Washing the pail was
an easy matter. It was a relief to come to something that she knew just
how to do, and had often done before.

She was soon at her work, a neat handkerchief doing duty as a bathing
cloth. The sock was carefully, tenderly drawn from the poor swollen
foot—not without help from Wells' knife, for the ankle was by this time
very unwilling to be touched—and the bathing began. At first Wells'
face had a flush on it that was not all caused by pain. It was such a
queer thing to have a little girl, and she a stranger to him, bathing
his foot. But the cold water felt so pleasant, and the touch of the
small hand was so gentle and skilful, that gradually a feeling of
relief and satisfaction began to steal over him.

"I did not know there was so much good in water," he said, watching her
as she steadily passed her cool cloth up and down the foot.

"Water is real wonderful," said Christie. "Mother says that half the
people in the world don't know what a splendid doctor it is. Sometimes
she uses it real hot, and it will stop a pain in a few minutes. Hot
water would be good for your foot if we could get some. I wish we
could, for I am most sure that it would make this swelling go down
faster."

"We might split some pieces off the side of the car, and start a fire.
I could whittle some off, maybe, or the old gentleman would. No, he
can't leave his pitcher of milk. But the young man hasn't anything to
do; we might try him. I have some matches in my pocket."

By this time he had to stop and laugh over the bewildered look on the
little nurse's face.

"I beg your pardon," he said, seeing the flushed cheeks. "I am afraid
it sounds like making fun of you, and that is the last thing I am
thinking of, I can tell you. I was only thinking that you had done so
many things to-day that seemed impossible, perhaps you would manage a
fire, to heat water. You can't think how nice the cold water feels. I
hate to have you down there mussing over me. You are getting drops of
water all over your pretty dress. I'm afraid among us we shall manage
to spoil all your clothes. But my foot feels fifty per cent. better.
I can tell you somebody who will be very much obliged to you for this
morning's work, and that's my mamma."

Said Christie, "Isn't it nice that the baby sleeps all this while? If
he should waken before I get your foot bandaged, I don't know what I
should do!"

The distressed tone of motherly anxiety in which she said this, set
Wells off into another laugh. He thought her the strangest little girl
he had ever seen in his life. The truth was, that he was not acquainted
with any little girls who knew how to do things which are supposed to
belong to women. But Christie had been her mother's oldest daughter,
and her only helper in the home for so many years, that she had learned
many things, and had a fashion of planning beforehand, very much as her
mother did.

"Bandaged!" repeated Wells when his laugh was over. "Why what will you
bandage it with? I should say that was about as hard to manage as a
fire."

"Oh, no! I didn't know what you meant about making a fire. I'm sure
there is fire enough in the stove. If I could make a place on the stove
to set this pail, I could have hot water; but I really 'can't' do that.
A bandage, though, from somewhere we 'must' have. You see the foot must
be bandaged now that it has been wet; mother thinks they swell more
after wetting, unless they are bound up pretty tight. I have one other
handkerchief, but it is small; still it would make a beginning, and I
suppose you have one, and the old gentleman maybe has two, men often
have; I think we can get enough to make quite a nice bandage."

"Are you really going through the car to take up a collection of
handkerchiefs for my benefit?"

Wells was so amused that he could hardly speak the words, but Christie
looked perfectly sober.

"Why not?" she said. "Anybody who had one would give it for such
a thing, you know. And it is really necessary. Mother was 'very'
particular about it when father had a sprain."

"Well! I suppose you will do it. I think you would do anything that
it happened to come into your head ought to be done. But I beg you to
ask each of the contributors for their addresses, for I shall want to
express a few handkerchiefs to them, if this train ever 'does' reach
the city."

In due course of time, Christie did just that thing. She went timidly
over to the old gentleman and told him her plan. She did not like to do
it, but it seemed the next thing to be done. And as she walked along,
she remembered that she had not liked to do one of the things that had
come to her since she stopped the train; yet they had all turned out
well, so far. Even the china pitcher was doing its duty as nicely as
though its owner had been willing to lend it.

The old gentleman was delightful. He shook out two of the largest and
finest cambric handkerchiefs that Christie had ever seen. It did seem a
pity to tear them, but he gave them up as though it was a pleasure to
him to think of their being torn in bits.

The young man was equally ready, and more able, for he opened his case,
and produced three or four, which Christie saw with joy, for she need
not now go to the owner of the pitcher.

"How are you going to fasten the pieces?" he asked, as he spread out
the handkerchiefs and prepared to help tear them. "Pins will scratch,
and besides will not make a smooth bandage. Take care, you are getting
that one too wide; bandages are nuisances unless they fit nicely. What
shall we do about the sewing? I suppose you haven't a work-box with
you?"

"Not quite," said Christie, laughing, and feeling as though she were
well acquainted with him, "but I have something that will do to sew
bandages. I had a necktie to hem for father, and I took it along for
work to-day at my uncle's. The only trouble is it is black silk, and I
ought to have white thread, but it will do."

"Of course it will do," her new friend said heartily. "Did you ever
read fairy stories? There is one about a little woman who had in her
pocket, or her mouth, or her shoes, somewhere about her, just the thing
that was wanted next. I didn't know that fairies travelled in the cars,
but I believe you must be her cousin at least.

"I wonder if you would like some help in putting this bandage on? I
have done such things before now, and I think perhaps my hands are a
little stronger than yours."

"Oh!" said Christie, relieved, and smiling. "I am so glad. I didn't
know how it would get on. I tried once to bandage father's foot, and
I did not do it well at all. But I thought I must do the best I could
this time, and maybe it would last until he got to the city. Are you a
doctor, sir?"

"Not quite; I am only studying, with the hope of being one sometime.
You did not know you were a teacher as well as a fairy, did you?"

"I?" said Christie, looking greatly astonished.

"You. I have been watching you all the morning, and I concluded just
now, that it was time I roused myself and began to think of something
besides my own great disappointment. I suppose I shall reach the city
just as soon if I help bandage that foot as though I sat here and
looked at my watch, and longed for the train to start."

The sentence ended with a little sigh, and the anxious look came back
to his pale face as he skilfully rolled the bandage into a hard little
ball.

"I am very sorry for you," said Christie gently. "I do hope you will
get to the city in time! And I can't help thinking that you will."

There was such a confident little note in her voice that he glanced at
her curiously.

"Do your fairy powers reach in that direction?" he asked, smiling just
a little. "Could you wave your wand, do you think, and make this train
start on its way?"

She shook her head, smiling, yet with a serious mouth.

"Nobody ever thought of such a thing as calling me a fairy; I'm only
Christie Tucker. But I prayed to God to let you get to the city as
quick as He could, and to let your friend get well. And I cannot help
thinking that He will do it. I 'know' He will if it is best."

"How did you find that out?"

"Why," said Christie, puzzled how to answer this, yet feeling that it
ought to be answered, "of course He will. He said so, you know. Or,
well, He said so about some people. Are not you one of them, sir?"

"One of whom?"

"One of the people who love God? He said He would make everything come
just right to the people who love Him. And He never breaks a promise,
you know."

"Look here, little woman, that lady over there who is tearing a letter
into bits, has not been very polite to you I have noticed, and I
suppose she doesn't love you nearly as well as your mother does, for
instance: but suppose you knew that her sister was very sick, and that
she was anxious to get to her; if you could, wouldn't you make this
train go on as fast as possible, so as to give her a chance to get to
the city?"

"Yes, sir," said Christie unhesitatingly, "I would, of course."

"Then you are better than God? You see He doesn't do it."

Christie considered this for a moment, then said:

"But I might make a dreadful mistake. Perhaps two trains would run into
each other, or it might be all wrong in some way. You see, God knows
how to do things, and I don't."

"Ah, but if you knew how to do things, you could plan so that it would
all come out best. This is what you say God does for those who love
Him, and I am showing you that you would do it for those who don't love
you, and are therefore making yourself out to be better than God. Don't
you see?"

Christie looked distressed. What she saw, was, that this man needed to
have somebody explain things to him. He did not disturb her faith, but
how was she going to show him that God was good to all?

She thought it over in silence, while he still rolled at the bandage,
which showed a perverse desire to twist, and needed care from her
watchful fingers all the time.

At last she said timidly, "I know there is a way to explain, but I
don't know how to do it. If you knew our minister, he could tell you.
Don't you think, though, that some people won't 'let' God do the best
for them? He wants them to choose to love Him, and then He can take
care of them and see that everything comes out all right. Our minister
told me about it.

"There was a little boy living at Mr. Briggs' that came all the way
from the Home for Little Wanderers in New York. Mr. Briggs took him to
work on the farm. His name is Johnnie, and our minister said:

"'What if Johnnie should run away, and refuse to live with Mr. Briggs,
could he be taken care of as he would have been if he had stayed with
the man who had promised him a home?'

"He said a great deal more, and made it real plain. If you could talk
with him, I know he could make you understand: but I am only a little
girl."

"You are a very good little girl," he said gently, "and whether I
understand things as you do or not, I thank you for praying for me.
That will not do me any harm, I am sure. Now we will go and see about
fitting the bandage to that sick foot."

Skilful fingers soon had the foot more comfortable than it had been
since the accident. Wells submitted to the new helper meekly, though he
made a wry face at Christie behind the piece of handkerchief that was
left from the bandage.

"I don't know about liking that man," he said to Christie when the foot
was nicely done up and resting on the cushions of the turned seat. "He
might have walked up before and helped you with that baby. He must have
seen that it was a tug for you."

"Men don't know about babies," Christie answered gravely, "but I am
glad that he knows about bandages. How nicely he did that! It looks
just as though a doctor had been here. Well, he is a doctor."

"The mischief, he is! Then I ought to have offered to pay him."

"Oh, no!" said Christie, distressed. "I don't believe he would have
liked that. He did it for kindness, not for pay. He is very pleasant,
but just as sad! He gives very long sighs, right in the midst of his
talk. I am sorry for him; sorrier than before he helped us."

"Why?"

"Because I am afraid he doesn't believe in God. He is not one of God's
people, I'm most sure: because they never talk in that way, and it
makes things a great deal harder to bear."

"Talk in what way? How do you tell people of that kind?"

"Why, he almost found fault with God! Talked as though he did not
believe that God would do the best for everybody. And you know His
children never say such things."

"Don't they? I'm sure I did not know it. I guess I am not acquainted
with many of them. I'll tell you what it is, Christie, I have a brother
whom I would like to have you make understand things if you could.
He is sick and lame, and will never be any better; and he got so by
helping somebody else, doing his duty, you know. It would be hard work
for you to make him believe that things are just right in this world.
He thinks it is awful that he doesn't get well. And I must say it seems
most too bad. He was a splendid scholar, you see, led his class in
college, and was going to make a great man, people thought; now it is
all spoiled, and he suffers all the time, and will have to, as long as
he lives."

"What hurt him?" asked Christie, her eyes full of sympathy and sorrow.

"Why, a house was burning, and he climbed a ladder when nobody else
would, and went inside, and saved a little baby: and part of the wall
fell on him and hurt his back. The doctor says he will never be any
better."

Christie's tears came outright now.

"I'm so sorry for him!" she said. "But if he only knew God, it would be
a great deal easier to bear."


What a long, long, morning it was!

The baby had his nap out, and awoke and fretted a good deal, and cried
outright for his mamma, and drank some more milk, and played with the
old gentleman's gold-headed cane, and went over to the pale-faced young
man and was entertained for a while, and cried some more, and was given
a cookie, and at last fell asleep again.

And there that train stood immovable. It began to be certain now that
there was serious trouble. Word came, through the railroad men, that
the track was injured a long distance ahead, and for that reason no
train could get out from the city to relieve them.

To add to the dreariness, it began to rain, a fierce, driving storm,
and of course the mud grew deeper every moment.

"Dear, dear!" said Christie. "I hope they don't know about it at home.
Mother will be so worried that she won't know what to do."

"It's most a wonder that your people let you start out," said Wells. "I
suppose the morning papers gave an account of the mischief done by the
rain in the night: but our folks are all away, and I, like an idiot,
never looked at a paper."

Then Christie, her cheeks somewhat red, explained that they did not
take a daily paper, that father couldn't quite afford it yet, and so
they had known nothing about trouble on the railroad.

"There is always some trouble with this road," said Wells, feeling
cross. "First it is a freshet, and then a landslide, or a washout,
or the engine gives out. I don't know how many times we have been
detained, but never so long as this. I should like to know what we are
to do for some dinner? I know I am as hungry as a wolf. I didn't eat
much breakfast this morning; it was so sort of stupid to be sitting in
that great dining-room all alone."

It was after twelve o'clock when this remark was made. The patience of
everybody in the car was exhausted, and Christie was beginning to look
anxiously at the dribble of milk left in the pitcher. What should she
do if the train did not start soon, or the mother come?

"That doctor of yours will have to plunge through the mud and get us
some more milk, or something," said Wells at last, trying to raise
himself on his elbow to get a view of the rainy world.

"What object is that!" he said, as he drew back his head. "Look,
Christie, there are two of them, and they are dragging a basket between
them that must be decidedly heavy. How are they ever going to get
through that puddle of water? And where are they bound for, do you
suppose?"

Said Christie, "It is Sarah Ann!"



CHAPTER VIII

A COLLATION SERVED

SURE enough! There she came, plodding through the mud which had grown
much deeper since morning.

The large basket that she carried seemed to weigh her down, and she
made slow progress.

"Dear, dear!" said Christie. "One of them ought to have had Josiah's
boots. I don't know how they will ever manage to get through the
puddles. Look, baby! If you were a man, you would go right out and try
to help them, wouldn't you?"

Nobody took this hint, and the two floundered along, and climbed the
high step of the car platform. Then Sarah Ann set down her basket, and
looked curiously in at the door.

"What do you want?" asked a brakeman who appeared just then, sticking
his head out of the door.

Sarah Ann spoke up boldly:

"We want the girl with the baby, who saved Jimmy from getting burned
to death; mother sent her her dinner, and some things for the rest, if
she's a mind to give 'em to 'em."

This was bewildering news to the brakeman. He looked from the girl to
the woman, with a puzzled face. He understood the word "dinner," and
there was certainly a baby in the train; but who was Jimmy, and when
was he saved from burning to death?

However, Wells Burton understood, and came to the rescue:

"It is all right, brakeman, several things have happened since you went
for a walk. The party to whom that dinner belongs is here, and I'm
inclined to think that a good many people who feel the pangs of hunger,
wish they were friends of hers."

Such fun as it was to unpack that basket!

Christie did not know before that so many things could be crowded
into a basket. Bread and butter, piles of it, a soup-plate piled high
with slices of ham, thin, and done to a crisp, and smelling, oh, so
appetizing! Sheets of gingerbread, great squares of cheese, a bowl of
doughnuts, another bowl of quince sauce, and a pail full of milk.

"Mother said you could give some to anybody you pleased," explained
Sarah Ann, who seemed to have recovered her spirits. "She said father
wouldn't grudge anything to the girl who saved Jimmy from getting hurt.
My! But I was scared!" she added, confidentially. "Whose baby is that?
Isn't he your little brother? What makes him so good with you if he
don't belong? Jimmy would yell awful if a strange girl took him. My
sakes! I hope his mother will find him. Do you mean to keep him always
if she doesn't, and bring him up for yours? Wouldn't that be funny, for
a little girl like you to adopt a baby! Oh, wouldn't it?"

What a tongue Sarah Ann had!

Wells was laughing immoderately, and pretending that it was a violent
cough, to save Sarah Ann's feelings, and no peony was ever so brilliant
as Christie's cheeks.

She tried to thank the girl for her kindness, but no words seemed to
come at her call. However, Sarah Ann was too much interested in all
that she saw around her, to mind whether she was thanked or not. She
next gave attention to Wells.

"Is that your brother?" And then without waiting for an answer. "Why
didn't he come after the milk? Oh, my! A sprain is a real mean thing,
sometimes. Jed Barker sprained his foot last summer, and he had to have
it cut off."

After this cheering bit of news, the girl who had had her head in the
oven when Christie was there, and who had been standing at one side of
the door, peeping in an abashed way, now found voice:

"Sarah Ann, you'd ought to be ashamed! Your ma told you not to let your
tongue get to running. Come out here, and let her eat her dinner, and
then you can get the dishes."

"I ain't said nothing," declared Sarah Ann, looking aggrieved.

However, she turned quickly and went out to the platform.

"There's a rare specimen of a girl for you!" said Wells. "She's a
genius, I should say. Does Jimmy look like her? If he does, I don't
wonder that you saved his life."

"I don't think she means to do anything wrong," said Christie,
hesitatingly. "It is just because she doesn't know any better. It must
have been very hard work to carry this basket through the mud."

"Wrong!" exclaimed Wells. "I should say not! On the contrary, she is
the only one of this crowd, yourself excepted, who has done anything
right since we started. Does your mother enjoy having you say, 'this
crowd,' when you mean half a dozen people? Mine considers it slang, and
I never say it any more, except on special occasions."

"I never say it at all," answered Christie, laughing.

During this time she had been engaged in unpacking the basket, and
now had the contents arranged neatly on a large clean towel which she
brought out of the flowered carpet sack. How nice it was that mother
had wrapped the cookies first in a towel! What would she think if she
knew it was doing duty as a tablecloth, and that her Christie was
serving dinner for half a dozen hungry strangers!

I don't suppose that bread and butter and ham ever tasted better.
The old gentleman declared that he was sure there never was any so
good before, and the pale young man ate quite a large piece of bread,
and smiled in gratitude. And several men, who with gloomy faces, and
hands in their pockets, strayed in from the different cars, accepted
Christie's offer of a ham sandwich with surprise and thanks.

"Would you offer some to the lady?" Christie asked in a whisper of
Wells, glancing doubtfully in her direction.

"What, the 'Seaside Library' creature? I beg that you will not misuse
language so badly as to call her a lady. I should say that I wouldn't
do any such thing. You would probably get refused for your pains. Such
a delicate person as she never eats anything more solid that a bit of
ice-cream, and a little pound cake, you may be sure."

But Christie did not laugh. Instead, she looked troubled, and after a
while, thoughtfully laid aside a delicate bit of ham, and a thin slice
of bread and butter. Diving down into her satchel again, she brought
out a piece of an old tablecloth, beautifully clean and white; the seed
cakes for Uncle Daniel's baby had been wrapped in it. On this white
cloth she laid the bread and butter, two of the seed cakes, a delicate
piece of gingerbread, and a fragment of cheese.

"I'm going to carry these to her," she said to Wells, inclining her
head as she spoke in the direction of "the lady."

"She won't take them."

"I can't help it. I shall feel ashamed of myself if I don't offer them,
and I don't like to feel ashamed of myself."

"There is something in that," Wells said, laughing yet with a look in
his eyes that said he was proud of Christie. "Go ahead; I'll keep watch
and be ready to defend you, if she is inclined to bite."

And Christie went. She had done her best, and the food certainly did
not look uninviting, but the lady had worked herself by this time into
such a state of disgust, that I think it would have been very hard for
her to be good.

She gave one disdainful glance at the ragged edges of the piece of
tablecloth, then shook her head: "No, thank you. I am not reduced to
that state yet."

Then, seeing the flaming colour in Christie's cheeks, she seemed to
struggle to make herself behave better.

"I'm not afraid of you, child," she said, "You look neat, I am sure.
But after seeing the hands and hair of the girl who brought the basket,
I could not eat a mouthful."

Not a word said Christie. She carried her bit of tablecloth back,
and laid it on the seat, covering the food from the dust; her eyes,
meantime, swimming with tears.

"How long does it take people to starve?" Wells asked fiercely of the
old gentleman who was in the act of biting a huge piece of ham.

Evidently he understood Wells' meaning, and smiled. But Christie could
not smile.

Baby, meantime, was in rollicking humour. Apparently he had resolved
that his mother was not worthy of any more tears, or frettings, and he
kept one pretty arm around Christie's neck, and ate seed cakes, and
drank milk, with delight.

On the whole, it was a very nice dinner, and the different people who
came from the other car and shared it, all agreed that "Sarah Ann"
ought to have a vote of thanks.

"I'll tell you what will be better than that," said the old gentleman,
putting his hand in his pocket; "at least we can add it to the thanks,
and make her happy. Let us take up a nice little collection for her to
get herself a pair of rubber boots to climb through the mud in," and he
dropped a shining gold bit into Christie's hand.

"And a comb to comb her hair with," added Wells as he laid a silver
dollar beside the gold piece; "you advise her to buy one, Christie,
that's a good girl."

The rough-looking men seemed equally pleased with the idea, and dropped
their fifty-cent pieces into the eager little hand, and the pale young
man actually added another gold piece.

I wish you could have seen Christie's eyes, as her hand began to grow
full! It seemed to her that she was never so happy in her life. It was
"so" splendid to give people things; she had never had that pleasure
before.

"I haven't any money," she said softly to Wells, "but I am so glad that
the rest of you have; and it is so nice in you to let me give it to
her. Just think what a lot of nice things it will buy her! I know they
are poor by the looks of the kitchen. I think it was real good in them
to send us dinner."

"So it was; and it was real good of the woman to be such an excellent
cook. I haven't had a better dinner in a long time. But I say,
Christie, what are you saving that choice bit in the cloth for? You
don't mean to relent and let the baby have it after all!"

"No," said Christie laughing, "baby must be content with seed cakes,
and milk; I know his mamma does not let him eat ham, and I am not going
to run the risk. But I thought I would keep that for a little while."

The remainder of the milk had been carefully poured into what Wells
called "the company pitcher," to be kept for baby. And Christie went
with basket and money out to Sarah Ann on the platform.

Just as she came back with her eyes full of the story of the girl's
dumb surprise, a lady was opening the opposite door and coming down the
aisle. A middle-aged lady elegantly dressed, and with a placid smile on
her face.

"I thought I must come and look after the little fairy who so kindly
furnished us with a dinner," she said brightly. "Is this the one? My
child, you did not know I had some of your dinner, did you? But that
patient brakeman out there shared his slice of bread and ham with me,
and told me the whole story. I want to see the baby. If I had heard
of him before, I should have come and tried to help. Yes, I have been
sitting in that next car all the time. But I was so stupid as to go to
sleep and lose most of the excitements. Why, Wells Burton! I wonder if
you are here?"

"Yes'm," said Wells briskly, "I'm here, Mrs. Haviland; but I did not
know that you were. Did you go to sleep before the accident and the
stopping of the train?"

"No, indeed! I stayed awake for that excitement, and heard all about
it, and the forethought of this little woman, but you see I did not
know it was you. And there seemed to be so many crowding in, and
nothing to do but stare, that I thought I wouldn't join them. And so
it was you who were hurt? My dear boy, how distressed your mother must
be!" exclaimed Mrs. Haviland, bending over him pityingly. "Where is
she, and all the rest of them, and how is it that you are spending
Christmas Day in the cars?"

There seemed no end to the questions that the handsome lady had to ask.

Christie, meantime, was engaged in watching the "Seaside Library"
woman, as I am afraid that lady will have to be called for the rest of
the story. The moment that the stranger had exclaimed:

"Why, Wells Burton!"

The lady had given a sudden surprised start, and her face had flushed
deeply. At least she knew the "name," if she did not the boy, and for
some reason, the knowledge seemed to disturb her.

Just then the stranger turned in her direction, and bowed slightly as
some people do when they know persons a little bit, and do not care to
know them any better.

Wells noticed the bow, and was ready with questions.

"Mrs. Haviland, I wonder if you are acquainted with that creature. Who
is she?"

"My dear boy, have you been travelling with her all day, without
knowing who she is? Did you ever hear of a person by the name of
Henrietta Westville?"

"I should think I had! You don't say that she is the one!"

"That is her name, my boy."

"Well! I wonder that I had not thought of it for myself. The name fits
her character precisely. Of all the cantankerous, disgusting creatures
that I ever saw, she—"

"Softly, softly, my dear Wells, what would 'mother' say to such
language as that?"

"I don't care," declared Wells, "the language doesn't begin with the
subject. Mamma is reasonable. She knows that a fellow has to boil over
once in a while. Why, Mrs. Haviland, you never heard the like of the
way in which she has conducted herself to-day."

And then Wells launched out in a description of the conduct of the
"Seaside Library" creature.

And Christie took the sleepy baby to a seat on the other side of the
car to coo him to sleep, and to wonder who this lady was, and why
Wells cared because the young woman was named Henrietta Westville, and
what he was telling the stranger about herself, for at this moment she
overheard her own name.



CHAPTER IX

A NICE TALK

THE baby went to sleep, and the strange lady continued talking with
Wells. So Christie, feeling a little lonely after so much excitement,
looked about her for amusement, and discovered that the nice old
gentleman was motioning to her.

"Come and take care of me a while, little woman," he said, making room
for her. "Between us we can catch the baby before he makes up his mind
to roll away. You must be tired looking after him. I wish his mother
knew what good care he had."

"I am used to it," explained Christie. "I take a great deal of care of
our baby, but I am sorry for his mother!"

Christie meant the mother of the baby on the cars, not the baby at home.

The old gentleman understood her.

"It is bad business," he said cheerily, "but not so bad but it might
have been worse. Suppose, for instance, you had not been in the cars,
what would baby have done then? For that matter, what would any of us
have done without our dinner? That was an excellent dinner you got up
for us. How have you enjoyed the day, on the whole?"

"Why," said Christie laughing, "I haven't had time to think. It isn't a
bit such a day as I had planned."

"I imagine not. Mine isn't, I know. Let us hear what you had planned,
and see if your expectations were any like mine."

"Oh, no!" said Christie. "They couldn't be! Why, in the first place, I
was to take my first ride in the cars. Well, I have done that, though
we didn't ride very far before we stopped."

"Just so; and we seem to find it hard work to get on again. I wonder if
this is your first ride! Well, well! You will not be likely to forget
it, will you? And where were you going?"

"Why, I expected to spend all this day at my Uncle Daniel's in the
city! I have never been there, you know, and he lives in a nice house,
and has a great many things that I wanted to see."

"Do you mind telling me the thing that you wanted to see the most?"

A shy little blush came into Christie's face, and she drooped her head.

"It was very silly, I suppose, but I wanted to see the carpet in the
parlour. It is what they call 'Brussels,' and has ferns all over it,
so natural that mother says you could most pick them; and some berries
like what mother used to gather in the woods where she lived, away off
East. I never saw such a carpet, and I can't think what it would be
like. It doesn't seem to me that they could make natural-looking ferns
out of threads of wool; and I wanted to see if I should think so. Then
she has pretty furniture in her room, all painted in flowers—roses, you
know—and pansies, and oh! a great many flowers and vines, just lovely!
I never saw anything like that, either; and I couldn't think how they
would look."

The old gentleman got out his only remaining handkerchief, and drew it
across his mouth, to hide a smile that he did not want Christie to see,
and then drew it across his eyes, for something in her voice seemed to
make the tears start.

"I understand," he said, his voice full of kindly sympathy; "and so
these were the things that you most wanted to see?"

"No, sir," said Christie; "not quite. I thought a good deal about them,
but there was one thing that I thought I should look at more than
anything else, and maybe touch."

There was a curious little note of awe in her voice as she said these
last words that made her listener bend his head curiously, and question
in tones of deepest interest:

"What was that?"

"A piano."

She spoke the words almost under her breath.

"My dear child! Did you never see a piano?"

"Oh, no, sir. My mother has, often. She used to play on one when she
was a girl, and she has told me about it often, and 'often.' I think I
know just how it looks. I can shut my eyes and see it; and I can think
a little how it sounds; at least, it seems as though I could. It isn't
like the carpet. I can't imagine that; but the music is easier. Father
has a flute. We have a carpet, of course," she added, drawing herself
up with a bit of womanly dignity, "but it is made of rags, and looks
very different from Brussels, mother says. And I can't imagine a very
great difference in 'carpets,' but I can imagine things about music,
you know."

"I know," nodded the old gentleman; and he thought to himself that he
knew several things which she didn't.

After a little he said:

"And so you are missing all these wonders, but a good many interesting
things have happened, I should think?"

Then did Christie's eyes sparkle.

"I should think there had!" she said. "I was thinking just a little
while ago that I should have enough to tell mother and father and Karl
all the rest of the winter. We have only a few books, and we have to
tell things to each other, instead of reading. Father said I was to
keep my eyes open to-day, and I guess he will think I have."

This last she said with a happy little laugh.

"I guess he will," declared the old gentleman, "and I hope he will
understand to what good purpose you have done it. What did you expect
to see in the city that would interest you?"

"Oh, I didn't know. A very great many things, I suppose, but I couldn't
imagine them. Only one: one day father, when he was in the city, saw
the Governor of the State; you know he lives there. And to go to Uncle
Daniel's, we ride past his house; and I thought, maybe, he might be in
the door, as he was when father went by, and I would see him. Father
says he is a splendid-looking man, and he is a grand temperance man,
you know, and I wanted just to have a glimpse of him, but I don't
suppose I shall."

Then the old gentleman took out his handkerchief and used it vigorously
on nose, and eyes, and even mouth.

"He isn't at home to-day," he said at last.

"Isn't he?"

There was real disappointment in Christie's voice. It was evident that
she had not quite given up her glimpse of the Governor.

"No, but you needn't care now, after having had such a nice chance to
look at him, and even talk with him."

You should have seen Christie's face then. For a moment she was quite
pale with bewilderment.

"I don't understand you," she said timidly, and in her heart she
wondered whether the nice old gentleman was a little crazy.

"Why, my dear child, it is a good while since morning, know, but my
memory is good, and I distinctly remember seeing you sit up straight in
that seat over there beside the Governor of the State, and heard him
talking to you in what seemed to be a very interesting way."

Christie sat up straight now, her eyes glowing like two stars, her
small hands clasped together, and her voice with such a ring of
wondering delight in it that Wells stopped in the middle of his
sentence to look over at her.

"Really and truly?"

That was all she said.

"Really and truly. I saw it with my own eyes. And a grand man he is;
worth knowing."

Not another word said Christie for the space of two minutes. Then she
drew a long, fluttering sigh of delight, and murmured: "What a thing to
tell father and mother and Karl."

"You like to see people of importance, do you?" the old gentleman
asked, after watching her face in amused silence for a few minutes.

"Oh, so very much! People who are grand, and splendid, and worth
knowing."

"Then I suppose you would have been interested in one of the Governor's
children, for instance, even if you did not know the boy; just for the
sake of his father?"

"Yes, indeed, I should. But he didn't have any boy with him this
morning."

"No; I was thinking of myself, and of my father, and wondering whether
you would not be interested in me for his sake."

Christie thought to herself that she was interested in him for his own
sake, but she did not like to say this, so she waited expectantly for
what would come next.

"The truth is, I belong to a very noble family: old and grand in every
way. It would be impossible to get any higher in rank than my brother
is."

Christie heard this with wondering awe, and looked timidly into the
pleasant face beaming on her. She said to herself that she had thought
all the time there was something perfectly splendid about him, but it
had not occurred to her that he belonged to such very grand people.

"My brother is a king," he said, still smiling.

Then Christie's heart began to beat loud and fast. A king! What a
wonderful experience was this! She, Christie Tucker, talking with
the brother of a king! In what country, she wondered. And oh, what
wonderful stories he could tell her if she only dared ask! Why didn't
he wear something that would show his rank? She thought they always
did. She was burning with eagerness to have him go on, yet dared not
question.

"Are you surprised?" he asked her, and then the next thing he said
almost took away her breath.

"Do you know I believe you are a relation of mine? I have been watching
you all day, and I see a strong likeness to our family. There are
certain things about us which are very much alike, and as we are
scattered all over the world, I often find relatives. I believe you are
one. In fact, unless I am very much mistaken, you are a little sister
of the King. Do you know what I mean; and isn't it so?"

Down went Christie's head, drooping lower and lower, until her face
was buried in her two hands and she was wiping away the tears. Wells
stopped again, and looked over somewhat fiercely at her companion, but
the face that was raised in a moment was bright with smiles. Christie
understood.

"I didn't, at first," she said, "but now I do. Oh, you mean King Jesus!
Yes, sir, I belong. I thought you 'truly' meant you had a brother who
was a king."

"And I certainly truly mean it, and glory in it, as I could not in
anything else. You cannot think how pleased I have been to find a new
little sister, and to see that she was copying my elder brother so
faithfully that she began to look like Him. It is all very well to be
a governor, and I am proud of our good one, but after all, what is
he compared to the King whose subjects we are? Did you ever think,
my dear, how many relatives we have whom we have never met? What a
wonderful getting acquainted there will be when we all meet in the
palace!"

"I never thought of it in that way," said Christie; "it is beautiful."

"Then there is another thing: the family resemblance is so striking
that if you watch long enough, you are almost sure to learn who belong
to it. Do you think that pale young man is a member of our family?"

Christie looked over at him thoughtfully, then shook her head.

"No, sir, I don't think he is. Why, from some things he has said, I
know he isn't."

"Poor man! Do you suppose he has been invited to join us?"

"Why, yes, sir, I suppose so, a good many times."

"And has refused! That is strange, isn't it? Look here, he will accept
somebody's invitation, won't he, if he ever gets home to the King's
palace? What if it should be yours? That would be a thing to tell the
King, some day, wouldn't it?"

Christie's face glowed, but she made no answer.

"Then there is that handsome boy. I have been thinking about him. I am
not sure, but am almost afraid that he does not belong, either."

"No, sir," said Christie, "he doesn't."

"There is certainly a great deal for you and me to do right in this
car," the old gentleman said, and added, "what about the young lady; is
she acquainted with Him, do you think?"

"No, indeed," said Christie, a touch of scorn in her voice. "It is easy
enough to see that. I think she shows it all the time."

"Ah, I don't know! Have you never disguised yourself for a whole day
so that nobody would have imagined that you were a member of the royal
family?"

"Yes, sir," said Christie humbly, "I have."

"Still, I am afraid as you say, that she does not know Him. It would be
dreadful if, through any neglect of yours or mine, she failed of ever
making His acquaintance."

Whereupon the baby awoke, and Christie went with haste to save his
precious head from the bumping that he seemed determined to give it.
But she could not get away from the words of her old new friend.

What if she ought to invite the pale young man, and the disagreeable
young lady, to join the family circle? She did not mind talking with
Wells, now, but these others were different.


By and by Mrs. Haviland bade Wells good-bye, and went back to her car,
and he motioned Christie to his side.

"I've discovered something about my fine lady," he said, a fierce look
in his eyes. "I'll tell you about it, and you will see that it is not
strange that she is so hateful; it belongs to her nature. You know I
was telling you of my sick brother? Well, before he was injured, he
was engaged to that very hateful young woman over there. Isn't that
horrid? After the fire, and it was found he would be a cripple all his
life, what did she do but write that she was sorry for him, but she
never could think of marrying a cripple. Yes," he said in answer to
Christie's look of horror, "she did just that. Why my brother cared,
is more than I can imagine; but he did: it made him sick again, and he
has never been so well, and never will be. I never saw her before, and
don't want to again. I have heard enough about her, and I am sure her
actions all match."

But this story had a very different effect on Christie from what Wells
had supposed.

"I am sorry for her now," she said. "I think maybe she feels unhappy
all the time, and that makes her cross. When things go all wrong, it
makes some people very cross and ugly, and they can't seem to help it.
One time when Karl was sick, and I was afraid he was going to die, I
felt cross all the time. Maybe she likes your brother very much, and
feels so sorry for what she has done, that she cannot be good and
happy."

"She may be as 'good' as she likes," Wells said sourly, "but I am sure
she deserves never to be happy again."

"She must be very hungry," said Christie thoughtfully. "By and by I
mean to offer her a seed cake. The dirty-faced little girl had nothing
to do with that, and I know it is clean; maybe she can eat it."

"You're a queer party," Wells said. "If I had been treated as you have,
I think I should dislike her enough to keep my distance."

"Oh, it isn't that! I suppose I dislike her—well, a good deal. But I
want to get over it, and what you told me helps me to. I want to feel
sorry for her, and ask her to be a Christian. You see, she isn't a
Christian, and that makes all the trouble. If she would get right about
that, it would make everything else straight. Anyway, I ought to invite
her, because Jesus told me to, you know; and if I give her a seed cake,
maybe I can do it better."

"Humph!" said Wells, twisting himself around until he hurt his foot,
and made deep frowns come on his forehead.

He really did not know what to think of Christie.



CHAPTER X

HOW IT ENDED

LITTLE by little that weary afternoon wore away. The rain fell
steadily, and the mud grew deeper every minute. And the grumblings of
some of the people grew louder, though all the while their courage
was kept up by having an official appear occasionally to say that
he "guessed they would get on now, pretty soon." Baby waked, and
frolicked, and fretted, and drank milk, and was trotted, and carried,
and petted, as well as Christie and the old gentleman could manage it;
and the swollen foot was bathed, and all the seed cakes were eaten,
and the pale young man walked "miles," just going up and down the car,
"like a caged lion," Wells said.

Christie pitied him so much that she went over to him at last as he
stood by the farther door of the car, and said timidly: "I think, sir,
if you would make up your mind to pray to God, you would feel so much
better! He can make it all come out right, you know, even now. Why
'won't' you ask Him?"

The young man turned toward her a despairing face. "If your mother
should die to-day, while you are sitting here in a mud hole, waiting to
get out, would it be all right?" he asked.

"I have asked Him to take care of her," said Christie, with quivering
lip, "and I mean to trust Him; I know He can do it, and I know He will,
if it is the best thing. Perhaps the lady that you want to get to is
better now."

"Perhaps my staying here in the mud all day, helped to make her better."

He said this with a very sarcastic tone, but Christie who was busy
wiping her eyes, did not look at him just then, and answered gravely:
"Yes, sir, perhaps so. God could make even 'that' help, and I cannot
keep from thinking that He has made it all right. I have prayed about
it a good deal, and I feel just as I always do, when things come right.
I wish you would pray, dear sir."

In spite of himself, a tender smile stole over the sad face, and he
looked down on her. "How could my staying here possibly help anybody?"
he asked, but his voice was more gentle.

"Oh, I don't know 'how,'" said Christie. "God does not tell His 'hows,'
you know; He just 'does' them."

"Well," he said, after another thoughtful pause, "I'll tell you one
thing, little woman, I am very much obliged to you for trying to help
and comfort me. I shall not forget it. I want you to give me your
address, and if things have all come out right as you say, I will write
you a letter; and if our sticking in the mud for a dozen hours can be
found to have helped anything along, I will be sure to tell you."

"Thank you, sir," said Christie. "And will you pray about it?"

"Ah, that I don't know."

So after all the "little woman" turned away sorrowfully. She wanted to
give the invitation, but she was not sure that she had.

While the old gentleman was entertaining baby with his gold-headed
cane, she took out the two seed cakes which she had carefully wrapped
by themselves in the bit of towel, and went over to the young lady, who
had her face turned to the window, and had not looked around for more
than an hour.

"Won't you please to eat these?" said Christie. "You must be very
hungry. Mother made them, and she is very neat and particular."

The lady turned suddenly, and behold her eyes were wet with tears! "You
are a good little thing," she said hesitatingly. "I don't think I am
hungry. You would better eat them yourself."

"Oh, no," Christie answered earnestly. "I ate bread and butter. It
wasn't 'much' sour. I would like to have you know Jesus Christ and go
to heaven. He can make you very happy."

It sounded almost rude to poor Christie, now that she had said it, but
she did not know how else to put the thought. Ever since her talk with
the old gentleman, she had felt that she ought to invite this lady; and
she had prayed about her, until she felt very sorry for her.

"You are a strange child," said the lady, but her voice was not hard
any more. And she murmured under her breath that she was sure she
needed happiness if anybody did.

Christie slipped softly away after that, but the two seed cakes were
eaten, every crumb.

And now there began to be a bustling of train-men through the cars;
ropes were pulled, and bells were rung, and a general air of something
about to happen stole over things.

"Some train is coming or going," said Wells. "I hear the rumble in the
distance."

Sure enough! It drew nearer.

"It's coming up behind us," said Wells. "Now I wonder if the next thing
on the programme is to be smashed into by the afternoon express?"

And said Christie:

"Oh, I wonder if baby's mother can be in that train?"

It was not trying to smash into anything. It came up very slowly, and
finally made a dead stop just below them. The passengers could be seen,
getting out in the mud and rain, and making all haste to the train
which was a few feet ahead of them.

"Then the bridge wasn't down?" said a passenger to a brakeman.

"No, there was a broken rail just this side of it, and the beginning of
a washout, that has kept them back."

Just then the car door opened with a sudden jerk. A shrill voice was
heard to say in tones divided between a scream and a groan, "Where is
he?" And then, "Oh, my darling, my darling!"

And Christie, who was standing with her back to the door, with the
baby in her arms, felt herself almost tipped over, in the dash which a
richly-dressed lady made to get baby.

No sooner did he have a glimpse of her than the ungrateful fellow
set up shouts of delight, and was in such a hurry to get away that
he scrambled wildly over Christie's shoulder, taking a piece of her
delicate ruffle in his eager hand.

Oh dear me! Such a time as there was! I couldn't think of trying to
describe it to you. That mother behaved herself in such a manner as to
nearly drive the lookers-on frantic. She laughed, and she cried, almost
both at once. She hugged the baby until he rebelled and scratched her
for it. She kissed him, until he cried. Then she hugged Christie, and
kissed her, until her face was too red to grow any redder. And all the
time she tried to tell her wild story, and to ask a dozen questions.

"I thought there would be a dispatch waiting for me at that office, and
I went to see. And that dreadful telegraph clerk kept me waiting, and
the first thing I knew the train was gone! Oh, I thought I should die!
I screamed and shouted; it seemed to me that the very engine would be
sorry for me and stop! Mamma's poor darling! Did he cry dreadfully? I
saw you, little girl, this morning, and saw you look at baby with a
pleasant face, and I wondered if you would try to take care of him. Oh,
such a day as this has been! Oh, baby, baby! I'll never let you out of
my arms again for a minute!"

Whereupon, baby at that moment, as if to prove to his mother how
false and foolish was her promise, gave a sudden delighted spring and
landed in Christie's arms again, hiding his pretty roguish head on her
shoulder.

So eager were the people over all this, and such long stories had they
to tell the questioning mother, that they forgot to take note of the
bustle going on in the train.

Suddenly Wells waked up to it.

"I really believe we are going on again!" he said, as he watched the
rapid movements of the brakeman. "Halloo, Brewster! Do you mean to take
us into the city in time for bed, after all?"

"Looks like it," said the brakeman, smiling good-naturedly. "We had to
wait for the mother, you know. Now we've got her, we think of going on
as soon as the up train passes."

"The up train?" said Wells. "Is it time for that? When does it come?"

"It will be along in five minutes. We are going to switch for her to
pass, then on we go."

"The up train!" echoed Christie, a sudden new dismayed thought in her
heart. "Why, isn't that the six o'clock at our station?"

"The very same. This interesting day is about done."

"Well—but that's the train I am to come home on, and father will be at
the depot to meet me. Why, I've got to go home!"

"Oh, no! They will never expect you to do such a thing as that! Less
than an hour now will take us, into the city. We'll go kiting, when we
do start. Of course your people will expect you to go on and make your
visit. Have the conductor telegraph your father that you are all right.
I'll see to it for you and if your uncle isn't at the depot, I'll take
a carriage and go there with you. I wouldn't give up my Christmas in
this fashion."

Christie thought a moment, a world of perplexity on her face, then
presently the face cleared:

"No, I thank you. I must go home; mother said be sure to come back
to-night. She didn't say a word about what I was to do if I didn't get
to Uncle Daniel's at all. She just said:

"'And, Christie, you be sure and come home to-night, whatever happens.
Don't you let them coax you to stay; tell them mother expects you. So
you see, I must go back on that very train.'"

"Of course she must," said the old gentleman, who had been listening
attentively. "She is not the sort of woman to keep her mother waiting
and watching, while she goes and makes a visit."

"Well, I declare!" grumbled Wells, not convinced, and much disgusted
at the thought of parting with his nurse. "That is the queerest way to
make a Christmas visit that I ever heard of! Here's the train! You'll
have to hurry, if you're really going to be so foolish as to go. That
train doesn't stop at places long enough for a fellow to wink."

"I'll help her off," said the pale young man, and he had his umbrella
raised before she reached the platform.

Her flowered satchel was on his arm, and there was nothing for Christie
to do but to smile her good-bye to her friends in the car, and step
down into the night and the darkness. A few steps in the mud, a strong
hand springing her to the platform of another train, a kind voice
saying,—

"Good-bye, little woman; I'll not forget!"

And Christie had parted from all the friends and acquaintances whom
she seemed to have known so long and well, and was in a strange car,
surrounded by strange and rather cross-looking people, and felt
grown-up and lonely.


"Why, is it possible that she has gone!" exclaimed the mother of the
baby, taking in the change of plan just as the car door closed after
Christie. "I thought she was going to the city. Why, I wanted to talk
with her, and take care of her. What shall I do? I must have the
child's address. Who knows her?"

Then up started the old gentleman:

"Bless my heart! I have let her slip away after all, without getting
her address. That is too bad."

"I can help you about that," said Wells, waking out of his ill-humour
to be interested. "Her name is Christie Tucker, and her father is Mr.
Jonas Tucker, a farmer who lives about two miles from Pierpont station,
where she took the train this morning. She is a friend of mine," he
added proudly.

I suppose Karl Tucker would have been very much amazed, could he have
heard that. The world had moved much faster that day than Karl Tucker
dreamed of. Or Karl Tucker's father, for the matter of that. He waited
in the rain and the darkness, for his little girl. He had spent a busy
day about the farm, and had heard no news. The two men whom he had met
and talked with a few minutes on his way to the cars, neither knew,
nor knowing, would have cared, that there had been confusion on the
railroad all day. So Mr. Tucker as he waited anxiously on the milk
platform for the coming of the up train, only knew that it was dark and
rainy, and that railroad cars were "skittish" things, and hoped that
"Daniel had put his little girl in a good seat, and that she wasn't
scared."

"Ha!" he said with a relieved sigh, as at last he folded her in his
arms and kissed her. "Father's got you again. It's been a long day for
Christmas. Come in here and let me wrap you up. We'll hurry, for it is
going to rain hard, and your mother will be anxious. Karl stayed at
home to do the chores. Don't talk any more now, my girl, only wrap up
close and duck your head down out of the driving rain, and we'll get
home in no time. Supper's waiting. A regular Christmas supper, too:
though it ain't much like your dinner I s'pose."

A silvery little laugh rang out to him from behind the old shawl, and a
muffled voice said she didn't believe it was. And they drove home with
all speed, the rain coming thicker and faster.

How the tea-kettle sang on the bright stove, and what a supper that
was! Stewed chicken, and potatoes stewed in cream, and hot apple sauce
are not bad to eat at any time, if one is hungry. But when one has had
only a small slice of "Sarah Ann's" bread for dinner, and has given
away every one of her seed cakes, I cannot begin to tell you how good
it tastes.

Then think of the story that there was to tell.

"I don't believe I can finish it before next Christmas," declared
Christie, laughing, and kissing the baby for the tenth time.

"You see I have only told you the heads of the chapters, just as Karl
always read the index of his book; but when I begin to put in the
little bits, it will take days and 'days.' Oh, father, what do you
think! I saw the Governor, and sat with him, and talked with him!"

"Well," said father, after having heard dashes at that wonderful part
of that wonderful story, "I guess you saw lots of things to-day, and
it's my opinion some other folks saw some things too. It is a great
day, I think. I'm glad she was there to take care of that boy—" and
here he put his arm around Karl—"and that baby, eh, mother?" And here
he kissed the baby.

"And you never went to Uncle Daniel's at all!" said Mrs. Tucker, with
her elbow on the table, and her hand on the teapot handle. "Well I 'am'
beat!"

And so, at last, Christie's Christmas was ended.



CHAPTER XI

CHRISTIE AS HOUSEKEEPER

IT was snow this time, instead of rain. It came down in great lovely
flakes, such as filled the baby's soul with satisfaction, and kept him
a silent watcher at the window for a longer time, I really believe,
than Baby Tucker was ever known to be quiet before.

They were alone—Christie and Karl and the baby. Father and mother
Tucker, with Nettie tucked in between them, had gone gaily off to town
some two hours before, and would get themselves caught in a snowstorm.
Occasionally Christie worried over this as she looked up from her
darning long enough to catch a glimpse of the great flakes which were
rapidly turning every ugly thing into a lovely white.

"Nettie will catch cold, I'm just afraid," she said, her voice full of
a pretty motherly anxiety for the little Tucker.

Now Karl, being a boy, could not be anxious about a person who was out
in such a jolly snowstorm, so was just the one to comfort.

"Oh, no," he said cheerily; "if the snow gets to be too much for her,
mother will duck her under the buffalo robe in a twinkling. That robe
is a splendid thing to keep the snow off, if it is about worn out. I
say, Christie, I don't suppose it ever snowed faster than this in New
York State. Do you believe it did?"

"It may not have snowed 'faster,'" Christie declared, looking up from
her darning with a critical eye, "but the difference is, it keeps at
it longer. Just think! All this lovely whiteness will be gone before
to-morrow morning."

"Yes, and everything turned to slush," said Karl, in a moment of
disconsolateness. "I shall have to drive to the depot through a mess of
dirty pudding and milk. I tell you what it is, I should like to spend
one winter where snow stayed."

"Wells Burton spent a winter in Maine once," said Christie, thus
carried back to the events of that ever-memorable journey of hers, now
two weeks in the distance.

It required the merest nothing to take her back to the wonderful day
and all its varied and beautiful, as well as troublesome experiences.
And then she lingered long, while Karl, an interested listener, asked,
ever and anon, the most appreciative of questions.

"He said the snow was three feet deep at one place where he spent a
month. Only think of it, Karl! He took a sleigh-ride every day, and
sometimes they had to leave the road because it was drifted all full of
snow, and go into the fields where a track had been broken, and they
would ride right over the tops of the fences."

"Mother has told us about that often," remarked Karl in a grave tone.
Without knowing it, he was slightly jealous of this new story-teller
whom he did not know at all, and whom Christie quoted as if he were an
old friend.

"Oh, yes, I know," Christie said soothingly. "Mother has had more
wonderful sleigh-rides than ever Wells Burton had, and more of them.
Just think of the winter when she took one the third day of November,
and another on the third day of April, and could have taken them any
time between! That was snow for you! But then it was a good while ago,
and sometimes it seems to me as though the world was changed now, and
there wasn't so much snow as that anywhere, but Wells Burton was down
there only last winter, and had these rides."

"He has got back." Karl was whittling.

He had brought some clean and delicate strips of board into the clean
kitchen, and established himself in the corner, with a large sheet of
brown paper to catch his whittlings, and was prepared to take a holiday
on this stormy afternoon, and visit with Christie. He was trying to
make a new-fashioned work-box for his mother, with sliding compartments
suited to the size of the articles to be stored within. It was a
very complicated piece of work for a boy, with only his brains and a
jack-knife, but Karl had seen one at the corner store the other day,
and had studied it carefully, thinking of several improvements while he
stood there, waiting for his sugar. So now he was at it, improvements
and all. It was a peculiarity of Karl's that he was almost sure to
think of improvements, directly he looked at a bit of work. He whittled
away carefully just then, having a delicate corner to turn, and did not
see the start with which Christie dropped her darning, nor the pleased
look in her face, as she said:

"Has he? How do you know? When did he come back? Did he speak to you,
Karl?"

"I knew it this morning, because I saw him at the station going in for
something that had been forgotten. If they want a spool of thread, they
run into the city for it! Besides, I knew it last night; Nick told me.
They came yesterday; the sick young man did not like it in the city. He
was homesick, so they just packed up and came, though Mrs. Burton sort
of wanted to stay all winter, and thought when she went in, that she
could coax the young man into liking it. There's a queer thing for you:
a fellow to be homesick for this little puckered-up town, when he could
live in a city just as well as not! I'll bet a cent that I should never
cry to come back here, if I had father and mother and all the folks
worth having, along with me. Christie, what has that baby got in his
mouth? He'll choke, I believe."

"My patience!" said Christie, dropping her darning now in haste, and
springing to the rescue.

Baby had intended to put the whole of a spool of silk into his small
mouth, and looked much inclined to resent it as Christie dived after
the silk.

"Why, baby!"—in indignation—"I'm astonished at you! You would have
choked to death. Besides, that silk is to finish Mrs. Bates' dress,
and you have gone and got it all wet. However did it get left on
the window, I wonder? Get down, baby, and go and play with Karl's
whittlings, that's a dear. There's a pretty stick you can have too. Is
he lame, Karl?"

"What, the stick? No, it isn't lame, but it is rather rough; I'm afraid
he will get splinters in his fingers. Here, baby, I'll find you a
better one."

Christie stopped to laugh. "You know I mean Wells," she said; "I
thought he would have to go on crutches. Does he walk lame?"

"Limps a little, and can't walk far, Nick said; but it wasn't a very
bad sprain. Nick said the doctor said that the cold water bandages you
put on were just the thing, and that when you got ready to set up for a
surgeon, he would take you into partnership."

"Karl!" said Christie, her face aglow with delight. "Did they truly
think it did any good?"

"Yes, they truly did. Nick said just that. I meant to have told you,
but this going to town of father's and mother's put everything else out
of my head."

"Karl, did Wells speak to you this morning?"

"No; how should he? I don't know him, and more than likely, he doesn't
want to know me."

"That is all nonsense!" Christie said, speaking with more earnestness
than usual. "He is just as nice and pleasant as he can be. And I don't
believe you gave him a chance to speak to you, or he would have done
it. You know what I told you about his saying that you never would
speak?"

Karl whittled sturdily. "That is all very well," he said at last. "And
you, being a girl, don't understand, of course. There isn't so much
difference between the look of you, all dressed up as you were, taking
a ride in the cars, and Wells Burton taking a ride in his every-day
clothes. Of course he would be nice to you, especially when the first
thing he did was to go and get into danger, and let you save his life.
But I'm another sort of fellow, I can tell you! My every-day clothes
and his don't look any more alike than sunshine and mud. If you had
seen us both this morning, you would have known what I mean."

"Clothes are not everything," Christie said, but she said it with a
little sigh.

She understood what Karl meant, better than she liked to own. A swift
glance at him, and a memory of the trim figure in his handsome,
well-fitting suit, pointed the truth for her.

"No more they ain't," said Karl, with reckless indifference to grammar,
"but for all that, a fellow feels better in clothes, I can tell you.
See here, baby, shavings were not made to eat. I say, Christie,
couldn't we get up a treat for their supper, baked potatoes or
something?"

He did not mean for the shavings' supper, as Christie very well
understood. She looked up brightly at the suggestion, the little wave
of trouble having already gone from her pleasant face.

"I guess so," she said. "That would be nice: I mean 'something' would
be nice. I don't think baked potatoes are much of a treat. I'll tell
you what, Karl, we might have some cream toast. There is a loaf of
bread that mother said this morning would make nice toast, and there is
a cup of cream we can have, and cream is kind of scarce nowadays, you
know. That would be a real treat."

"I'm agreed," said Karl. "I'll toast the bread. I'm a master hand at
that. That Sunday-school book of mine is about a fellow who toasted
bread for his sister, only he burnt his to a cinder, and that I shall
not do. Maybe I would, though, if I had the same reason. It's a
splendid story, Christie.

"They were awful poor, he and his sister; had no father and mother,
nor anything but just themselves. She worked in a factory, and he was
a newsboy, but he froze his feet, and could hardly walk for most a
month, and that made things harder for them. And they about starved,
and froze, too, but one day the overseer of the factory gave the girls
in the sister's room a holiday, let them come home at three o'clock,
and gave them each a present. The owner of the factory did, you know,
in honour of his son's coming of age; he gave them each a whole
dollar. And they celebrated, this girl and her brother did. Her name
was Jennie, and his was Ben. They decided to have toast and eggs for
supper—wouldn't some eggs go good with our cream toast. Look out there,
Christie, that baby is creeping too near the fire!"

"What happened that made him burn the toast?" asked Christie as she set
the baby at a respectful distance from the fire, and gave him a string
of empty spools to play with.

There was hardly anything that Christie liked better than a story.
The reason she was not poring over that Sabbath-school book, at this
moment, was because she knew that the darning must be done, and that
if she did not do it, her mother would have to in the evening. And
the reason she did not coax Karl to read the book aloud, was because
she knew that the new-fashioned work-box was to be a surprise for
his mother, and a whole afternoon with the mother away was a golden
opportunity not to be lost for a trifle. So after all, I am glad to be
able to tell you that there were things which Christie Tucker liked
better than story books, and one was to do faithfully and cheerfully
what she knew she ought to do. But all this did not hinder her from
being deeply interested in the story that Karl was telling. He was not
fond of telling stories.

"You never can get things as they were in the book," he would say, "and
they sound flat."

"Why, something tremendous happened. You see the sister Jennie was
grown-up—she was most ten years older than Ben—and once there had
been a young man who was to be married to her, but he went away
to California and she did not hear from him at all. And after two
years, she knew he was dead, and wore a black dress all the time,
only Sundays, then she put on her one white one, for Ben's sake, to
make him feel less lonesome, you know. Well, while the third slice of
bread was toasting—they were each to have two slices, because it was a
holiday—there came a knock at the door, and Jennie opened it, and there
stood a man who took her right in his arms and kissed her, and 'kissed'
her. And she screamed, and he cried and laughed, and Ben stared, and
the toast burned up."

"Where had he been all the two years?" demanded Christie, the spirit of
the coming woman blazing in her eyes. "I wouldn't have let him kiss me
if he had stayed away all that time, and left me alone."

"Oh, he had been sick, and robbed by a highway-man, and most killed,
and I don't know what all had happened. 'He' couldn't help it. And he
was rich; he had found a place in the gold mine that nobody knew about,
and it had lots of gold. They were married, he and Jennie, and they
sent Ben to school, and he had no end of a good time and all the toast
and eggs he wanted."

"It is only in books that such things happen," said Christie, turning
cynical, though there was a bit of wistfulness in her voice. "Nobody
ever comes knocking at our door with some wonderful news. I wish there
would, but I don't expect it."

"I wish there would too, and bring me an arithmetic, the kind they use
at the school; then maybe I could catch up with them." And now there
was a wistful sound in Karl's voice. What a pity that some of the boys
and girls whose cast-off arithmetics are lying useless on upper shelves
could not have heard him!

Christie considered the matter in grave silence. She wished very much
for an arithmetic, and for several other things, but the winter was a
hard one, and she saw no way to secure them. Occasionally she sighed
over that reckless expenditure of money which had been made in going to
Uncle Daniel's. That would have bought an arithmetic. She had offered
to give up the journey—she was glad to remember than—but they had all
insisted on her going, Karl as stoutly as any of the others; and even
now, she could not be sorry that she went.

She did not get to Uncle Daniel's, it is true, but she lived a whole
story book in that one day, which would answer to read over all winter.

It was a pleasant kitchen in which these two sat and worked. The floor
was bright with hard rubbing, and gay with certain braided mats over
which both Karl and Christie had worked faithfully for many an hour.
The soft coal in the little cook stove needed only the poke which Karl
occasionally gave it, to break into a glow and a bustle. The little
stove shone with a polish that Christie's own hands had given it,
and reflected the play of the flames most brilliantly. There was an
old-fashioned table standing against the wall, one of the kind whose
leaves turned down. By and by it would do duty as a dining table. Now
it was covered with a cloth made of pieces of bright wools.

"Crazy patchwork," Christie called it. And occasionally, when Karl
tried to help clear up the room, and could not get the cloth on
straight, he took refuge in the fact that it was "crazy."

There were three or four wooden chairs, shining with cleanliness: there
was a large arm-chair, cushioned, for "father," a cunning little high
chair, standing close beside it with the very brightest and softest of
cushions in it, that, of course, was baby's. There was a cunning little
home-made couch, or "settee," as they called it, fashioned, the frame
of it, by Karl, with his skilful jack-knife, and a hammer and nails,
upholstered in unique style by Christie herself; and this was the
exclusive property of the small lady Nettie.

Then there was the one extravagance of which this room could boast—a
lovely little wicker rocking chair which Mrs. Tucker declared fitted
every crook in her tired back, and for which father and children had
carefully saved, I should hardly like to tell you for how many months,
lest you might think they were poor, and there are plenty of people
poorer than they.

This was about all the furniture that the neat room contained, save
baby's box of playthings, and a torn picture book or two, laid
carefully away on the mantelpiece. I hardly know what made it look so
cheerful, save that there was an air of home about it, and the faces
gathered within it were generally bright.

Oh yes, there was an old-fashioned clock in the corner which faithfully
ticked the hours, and at which Christie looked every now and then.

"I wonder when we ought to begin getting our treat ready?" she said.
"There is one bad thing about cream toast; it wants to be eaten as soon
as it is ready."

"And there is one bad thing about folks," said Karl; "they never come
home when you think they will. Halloo! Have they come already? That man
said 'Whoa,' right out here."

He shook the shavings from his clothes and hastened to the window.

"They can't have come yet," said practical Christie, "for father was to
see Mr. Marshall, and he couldn't see him until after four o'clock."

"Christie Tucker, it is the big station wagon, and it has stopped here,
and the man that helps load things is coming up our walk! What do you
suppose he wants?"



CHAPTER XII

THE SURPRISE

"WHY," said Christie, "I suppose he wants to know where somebody lives.
You go to the door, Karl."

For the man was knocking, and Christie caught up the baby just in time
to get him out of the whirl of wind that came in at the open door.

"Is this Mr. Jonas Tucker's place?" the gruff voice asked.

The man was a new-comer, and did not know the country very well, though
Karl felt well acquainted with him, having watched him often as he
loaded his big white covered wagon—or "prairie-schooner," as the wagons
for transportation are called in the "Far West."

"Yes, sir," said Karl, "but he isn't at home. He went to the city right
after dinner."

"Is there a Miss Christie Tucker in the family?"

"No, sir. Miss! Why—no—yes, yes, sir, I suppose there is."

"Well, you seem to be mighty uncertain about it. When you get your mind
fully made up, I wish you would tell me. Are you sure you live here
yourself?"

Astonished as he was, Karl could not help laughing over this.

"Yes, sir," he said very decidedly, "I do; and so does Christie; though
it seemed so funny to hear her called 'Miss,' that I thought you must
mean somebody else. She is a little girl."

"Just so. Little or big, I don't know as it makes much difference to
me, provided her name is Christie. I've got an express package out here
for her as big as the house, most, and as heavy as all creation."

Then did Christie set the baby down hastily in the farthest corner she
could find, and come to the door.

"There is some mistake, Karl," she said hurriedly; "nobody would send
an express package to me."

"We don't think it can belong to us," explained Karl to the man who
was turning to go down the walk. "We don't know anybody who would send
packages to us."

"I haven't got anything to do with that, as I know of. It is marked
Miss Christie Tucker, as plain as black paint and a good deal of it can
mark it, and sent to this office. And the clerk who has been here ever
since there was a place says he don't know of any other Tucker within
ten miles of the town, only Jonas, and you say the little girl's name
is Christie, so I guess it's all right. Anyway, if the man has made a
mistake and sent his bundle to the one he doesn't want to have it, why,
that's his lookout, not mine. We'll bring the thing in, and you get
away from the door, for it will fill up your kitchen."

Away he tramped, whistling gaily as he went, and Christie and Karl
looked at each other in great perplexity.

"It is all wrong," murmured Christie. "They will just have to come
to-morrow and take it away, and maybe it will cost father something;
mother will say that we ought not to have let them bring it in. Oh,
Karl! They always have to pay for express packages. They mark them C.
O. D. Father was telling me about that only yesterday, when I helped
him hold that beam, you know."

"We shan't pay any C. O. D., or any other kind of fish," declared Karl
sturdily, rising to assert his manhood. "If he leaves a thing here
that we say doesn't belong to us, he will get no money for it from us,
that's sure."

"That's so," said Christie, relieved and admiring. "We can't tell him
not to leave it, I suppose, but we can tell him that we are not going
to pay for it. In fact, we couldn't; because we haven't any money!"

By this time the great roll, whatever it was, riding on the shoulders
of two stout men, had reached the door, and was thumped down on the
clean kitchen floor.

"My patience!" said Christie.

The thing was so large that she could not help exclaiming over it.

"Look here," said Karl, still intent on business, "we don't at all
think that that belongs to us, and we can't pay you a cent for leaving
it here."

"All right," the good-natured man said, a broad smile on his face.
"There isn't a cent to pay, and if I find any other Christie Tucker who
wants the thing worse than you do, I'll come and take it away again for
nothing at all."

And he went puffing away out of the little house and down the walk, a
smile all over his great broad face.

When he was gone, the two young people stood and looked, first at the
roll, and then at each other. Of course the baby crawled out of his
corner, and hovered around the great bundle, and tried to push it with
his little hands, and tried to bite it, and tried to lift it, and
finally sat down on it in triumph, believing he had found out its use.

"What in the world can it be?" Karl asked, at last.

"And whose can it be?" added Christie, looking at the great roll with
longing eyes.

"Why, it's plain enough that it is yours. Anyhow, that is your name,
Christie Tucker, as large as life, and we 'know' there isn't another
Christie Tucker anywhere around. The question is, where did it come
from, and what is it for?"

"Uncle Daniel never would—" said Christie, slowly, thinking aloud, and
leaving her sentence unfinished.

"No," said Karl, with emphasis, understanding her as well as though
she had finished it, "he never would in this world. Christie Tucker, I
believe in my heart it is a carpet. It is done up, for all the world,
like the rolls that Nick takes up to the Burton's and other places, and
he says they are carpets straight from the stores. They sew them all up
in that straw kind of stuff, so they won't get dirty on the journey."

"Then of course it isn't ours, for we haven't bought any carpet at the
stores, that is certain."

"No," Karl said slowly, and argumentatively; "but then see here,
Christie, neither have we bought anything else, and this is something,
so I don't see as that proves anything. I'd like to see the inside of
it, wouldn't you? Shall we rip it open?"

"Oh, no! We mustn't; mother wouldn't think it was right. It will have
to go back, of course; they have sent it to the wrong town, maybe, and
father would have no end of trouble in getting it sewed up again. We
must just push it into the corner and let it alone. And Karl, it is
time we were getting our treat ready, or planning for it, at least.
Look! It has stopped snowing, and I believe the sun is going to set
clear. They will have a nice ride home."

"I can't imagine what the thing is," said Karl.

He did not mean the sun, nor yet the ride home. Eyes and thoughts
were still on the great roll. He was not in the mood to give it up so
quietly.

"I'll tell you what, Christie, I believe we ought to open it. This
stuff is all damp on the outside, and it may be something that the damp
will hurt. We ought to take care of it, whosoever it is."

"It won't hurt before mother and father come," Christie said, with the
quiet tone in her voice, which Karl knew meant, "It has my name on it,
and therefore I have the right to decide that it is not to be touched."

At the same time, she lifted the baby from it in haste, and examined
carefully the little flannel dress, to see if it felt damp. A little
woman was Christie.

Karl recognized the power in the quiet voice, and began gravely to roll
the bundle into the corner.

It took every bit of strength there was in his stout young body. And
before he had made much progress, an exclamation from Christie stopped
him.

"Karl, there comes another wagon! It has stopped before the gate, and a
man is coming up to the door; and it is loaded with all sorts of stuff!"

You see how these two people muddled the English language when they
were excited. Of course Christie did not mean the door was loaded,
but the wagon. Karl left his roll, and came to attend to this new and
startling development.

"That is the railway freight wagon," he chuckled, "and that is Jim
Pierce driving. I know him, anyhow, and he knows me."

"Halloo!" said Jim Pierce, as the door swung back almost before he had
a chance to knock. "Here you are, eh? Well, is there a Christie Tucker
tucked in here anywhere, that's the question. Miss Christie Tucker; can
you find her?"

"Yes," said Karl, laughing merrily; this whole affair was growing very
funny to him. "I've got her here safe; what do you want of her?"

"Why, I'm getting her ready to set up housekeeping. There's a bedstead,
and bureau, and chairs, and a sofy, and don't know what all, out in
my wagon; as cunning a little set-out as ever you see, all belonging
to Miss Christie Tucker. You aren't getting ready for a wedding nor
nothing are you, Karl?"

Whereupon Karl laughed again, loud and long.

But Christie did not laugh; her face was pale. At once her thoughts
reverted to the nice old gentleman whose acquaintance she had made in
the cars, remembering all his kind words and nice suggestions. How
earnest he was to do the Master's work! A nice old gentleman indeed.

But why? she wondered. What did all these strange proceedings mean?
Just like a story in a book!

"We are having a dream, we guess, or writing a book, or else there's
witches around," explained Karl. "Christie said things never happened
except in books, but I guess she will change her mind after to-day.
Honestly, Jim, we don't know a thing about it, and father and mother
are not at home, and we know they haven't bought any furniture, just as
well as we know anything."

"Well," said Jim, "you know a great deal, I'll admit, but then I know
how to read writing when I see it, especially when it is print; and
these things are all marked Miss Christie Tucker as plain as the nose
on your face. And when I see them, I says to Bill, says I,—

"'There ain't no Christie Tucker around here except that little thing
up to Jonas Tucker's?'

"'No, more there ain't,' says Bill, 'nor any other Tucker folks but
them, this side of the city; you may as well pile 'em in and get them
over there out of the way.'

"So here I am, and my team must be unloaded, you see; so if you will
ask Miss Christie where she will have the things put, we'll be stepping
about."

Then Christie sat the baby down very decidedly and came to the door.

"It is all a mistake, sir," she said earnestly; "it means some other
Christie Tucker, you may be sure. I'm only a little girl, and there is
nobody to send me things. If you would wait a little bit until father
comes, he could tell you there was a mistake, and that would save your
unloading the things, and loading them up again, for I know they will
have to go away."

Jim Pierce smiled admiringly on the little woman.

"Me and father come out to this country sixteen years ago last
October," he said, hitching at one suspender to bring it into place,
"and we know every foot of land within thirty miles of here, and
the name of every man, woman and child in this part of the country,
and there ain't no Christie Tucker except yourself, and I reckon if
the things ain't fur you, they don't belong to nobody. And I reckon
I better unload, for that is a deceitful kind of a sunset, and I
shouldn't wonder if we had a squally evening. Bill and I will jest set
the things inside out of the storm, and to-morrow we can tote 'em back,
if you find any place where they fit better. There ain't nothing to
pay. Boss, he come to the door, jest as I drove out, and says he,—

"'Those goods are paid for, delivered at the door.'

"So delivered at the door it is. Pitch in, Bill, no time to waste."

And they "pitched in!"

Christie gathered up the baby and stood at the window in silent
bewildered dismay, while Karl opened the door of the neat bare little
parlour and let the muffled-up freight take possession. What to do, the
little woman did not know. She had done all she could; there seemed
nothing now but to wait.

"Father and mother haven't been away before in a year," she told the
baby, "and I hope they won't go again for another year. Who would have
thought of so many things happening in this little while! We've lived
here years and years, and nothing has happened!"

"Ah, da! da!" said baby, and dived after a flake of snow that just then
blew past the window. Baby did not agree with Christie; he believed
this to be a wonderful world. Had it not turned white all in a minute
while he was looking at it? What was a wagon or two stopping at the
gate, compared with that?

"Whew!" said Karl, coming presently from the next room, bringing a gust
of cold air with him.

"They're all in, Christie, and it fills the room pack full. I never saw
the beat in my life! If it was Christmas now, and we believed in the
Santa Claus that comes down the chimney. Or if we had a rich uncle who
had been dead twenty years, to come to life like that one did in the
story. It's great fun, anyhow; if every one of them has to be toted
back to the depot to-morrow, I'm kind of glad they've come. It seems
like business, to have teams stopping, and be directing where to put
things. I wish they 'were' ours, Christie, every one of them. You can't
see what a thing is, they are so muffled-up, but you can guess at some
of them. I declare, it is a lark!"

"I'm real sorry to have them come," Christie said gravely. "It will
just make trouble for father; and then it is lonesome to have them all
go away again and not belong to us at all, as we know they don't."

"That is true," Karl said, his face growing sober, "but then, Christie,
we couldn't help it. We did the only thing there was to do, so why not
have all the fun there is to be got out of it?"

"We will," said Christie smiling. "We will make believe they are ours,
and we have earned them, and are going to surprise father and mother
with them. There is a rocking chair among them that looks as though it
might be the mate to mother's, only a prettier shape."

Karl sat down on the great roll of burlap, his face grave and his eyes
large with the thought that had suddenly taken possession of him.

"Christie," he said, and his voice was so full of earnestness that she
turned and looked at him curiously. There were times when she did not
more than half understand this stout little brother of hers. "Christie,
let's truly do it; no making believe about it! I don't mean now, of
course, but let's you and I earn the beautiful things to put in their
room, twice as nice as any of these things are; and carpets as soft and
bright as they have up at Burton's; and lamps, or—no, gas, five or six
burners in every room, and silk curtains, or velvet, at the window,
and—well, everything that anybody else has. I say, let's you and I earn
them for father and mother. Folks do it; poor boys do it, I've read
about them often! And it isn't all story either. Look at Uncle Daniel;
he was a poor boy, poorer than we are, a good deal, and see how he
lives? We can do it, Christie, will you?"

"Yes," said Christie bravely, her eyes twinkling with a merry light.
"I'll do my very best at it, and if we like these things that have to
be sent back, we'll look at them carefully and buy ours just like them.
In the meantime, Karl, while we are waiting for the time to come, shall
we make them some cream toast for their supper?"

Karl laughed at this, and arose and shook himself, like one who had
been dreaming and wanted to get thoroughly awake.

"Yes," he said, "I suppose cream toast will have to do for to-night;
and it is high time it was getting ready. I'll go to the cellar. Only,
Christie, I'm going to do the other thing too; remember that."

And he went back into the little back kitchen and lighted a lamp and
went whistling to the cellar.

Preparations for supper began now in earnest. The short twilight was
fading, and night was setting in steadily. The travellers would soon
be here. Karl and Christie agreed that the mysterious bundle should be
coaxed into the front room with the other mysteries, and not a word
said about them until cream toast and eggs were eaten and enjoyed.

"Because if they once get to talking, and looking, and wondering, they
won't get to eating supper until the toast and eggs are spoiled; and
they will be so hungry and tired. Mother will need her cup of tea to
rest her." So said the young housekeeper.

"Yes; and there is no need of hurrying to tell them, for the teams
have all gone back, and there can't be anything done about it until
morning." So said the man of business.


Do you know anything about how bright and restful that neat kitchen
looked to the cold and hungry people who presently came into its light
and warmth?

The fire was glowing brightly, the tea-kettle sang its gayest tune, the
table was neatly laid, stewed pears and a plate of cookies occupied
places of honour, and the most delightful odour of toast, mingled with
the fragrant tea; and the bowl of eggs stood waiting to be dropped at
just the right moment into the boiling water.

"This is nice," Mother Tucker said, leaning back in her little rocker,
and cuddling the delighted baby.

"There is nothing like it in town, Christie; we passed some
nice-looking homes, and the curtains were up, and everything looked
pretty inside, but father said,—

"'We don't want to stop there, do we? They haven't got our boy and
girls.'"

Then did Christie, with a happy little laugh, pop in her eggs, and set
the baby's chair to the table, and tie Nettie's bib about her, for she
heard a stamping of feet in the kitchen, and she knew the two men had
disposed of the horses, and were ready for supper.

All through the pleasant supper time, she and Karl had the hardest work
to keep from going off into bubbles of laughter, and all the time their
hearts sang the story: "What in the world will they say when we show
them the front room?"

At last, Father Tucker said there was no use, he couldn't eat that last
bit of toast, nice as it was. And Karl telegraphed to Christie, "Now
begin."

And just then Mother Tucker said:

"Now, my girl, if your supper is eaten, we have a surprise for you."



CHAPTER XIII

WHAT THE LETTER SAID

AND then to the astonished eyes of Christie, there was handed forth a
letter.

   "Miss Christie Tucker."

So read the envelope, and the writing was in itself a source of
pleasure, it was so beautiful. Christie had never seen her name
very well written before. She had never seen it written at all on
an envelope. Her first letter! You girls, who are used to receiving
letters every week from some dear friend, cannot have the least idea
how she felt.

But the letter, surprising though it was, did not entirely fill Karl's
mind. In fact, it did not compare with those mysterious rolls and
bundles which covered all the space in the front room.

He looked over Christie's shoulder at the letter, but he whispered to
her, "Let's tell them our surprise; it is bigger than theirs."

One little thing about Karl I would like you to notice. Why did he
not burst forth with the importance of his secret, without waiting
for Christie? You have heard many a boy do it. Indeed, I wouldn't say
this for the world to any but you, but have you really never done it
yourself? This was another way in which Karl's honest, unselfish nature
showed itself: honest, because he remembered that all those mysterious
packages had Christie Tucker's name printed on them, and this was
therefore her secret which he had no right to tell; unselfish, because
he felt in his heart that Christie would like to tell about it herself,
and he would not spoil her chance. You have never told news that did
not belong to you, except when you did it without thinking. Is that
what you say? Oh, I presume not, but then, my boy, you must remember
that we can be selfish and dishonest through thoughtlessness. That is a
mean door, which lets all sorts of meannesses in through it, when once
it is left open.

There are two sides to this question. In point of fact, Christie was
overwhelmed with curiosity about her letter, and would have liked to
read it, and talk it over then and there, but Karl's heart was set on
the other story, and the letter would keep.

"Yes," she said aloud, "such a surprise as we have for you! I don't
know what you will think of us, or of all the things that have
happened. We have had company, lots of it; haven't we, Karl?"

"I should think we had!" burst forth Karl. "Fact is, the front room is
full of company this minute!"

And at the look on his mother's face, Karl broke down in a gust of
laughter.

"Company!" she repeated, some dismay as well as surprise in her voice.
"Why, children, what do you mean? Your Uncle Daniel's folks can't have
come—"

"No, ma'am," interrupted Karl, "there's no Uncle Daniel's folks about
it; they can't look a bit like him. Tell about it, Christie."

"Why, first," said Christie, "the express wagon came, and Karl went to
the door, and they asked for 'me,' mother, only think of it! And Karl
said—Oh, father, what 'do' you think he told the man! You tell, Karl."

And then Christie stopped to laugh, and Karl took up the remarkable
story. What with laughter, and interrupting questions, and appeals to
each other to tell that part, it really took a good deal of time to
tell it. And it was all so funny that Nettie and the baby shouted with
laughter, without having the least idea what they were laughing about.
And Mother Tucker looked from one to another and said:

"Well, I declare! I believe you children are all getting crazy."

At last they went, lamp in hand, to the front room, Karl leading the
way, and father bringing up the rear with the baby in his arms. Once
there, they stopped laughing, and looked around them with bewildered
faces.

"Upon my word!" said Father Tucker. "I can't make this out. I didn't
half notice what you children were saying. Do you see through it all,
mother?"

"No more than if I were blind," said Mother Tucker with emphasis,
sitting plump down on the great roll done up in burlap, and clasping
her hands on her knees. "I can't make beginning nor end to it. Where
could they all come from, anyway? Of course it is a mistake, somehow,
but where is the Christie Tucker to whom they all belong, and where has
she kept herself, that nobody knows or has heard of her."

"Christie's here, mamma," piped Nettie, "she's wight behind the door,
Christie is."

And she tried to drag her sister into the light to relieve her mother's
mind. Then they all shouted with laughter again, baby and all.

"We act like a set of lunatics," Father Tucker said at last, stopping
to lift Nettie to his other shoulder, "and we must get out of this room
as fast as we can; the baby is beginning to sneeze."

This sentence brought Mother Tucker to her feet in an instant. She
untied her apron and muffled it about the baby's shoulder, then led the
way to the warm kitchen.

"Christie," said Karl, as he closed the door after the last one had
filed in, "what about your letter?"

"Sure enough, the letter!" In the excitement of the moment, even her
first letter had been slipped into her pocket and forgotten. She dived
after it, trying nervously to break the seal, just as Karl said,—

"Perhaps the things and the letter belong together, somehow."

"How could they?" Christie asked sceptically.

But the boy's thoughts had already gone off on another line.

"They don't do it that way, Christie; they rip open the end, and leave
the sealed part all tight; don't they, father? I've seen them open lots
of letters at the depot. Here, take my knife; that will do it in a
jiffy."

So the letter was opened, and properly too, and Christie sat down on
Nettie's little settee to read it.

   "'MY DEAR LITTLE FRIEND,—

   "'I am afraid you have forgotten me, but your pleasant face is before
me now very plainly. I don't easily forget my relatives. Perhaps you
will be surprised at receiving a letter from me, yet I promised myself
that day when I made your acquaintance that I would do myself the
pleasure of writing to you before long. I have been longer about it
than I meant; certain plans I had did not move as fast as I wanted them
to. For one thing, I suppose I must have been very particular about a
carpet—'"

Here came interruptions.

"What's that?" asked Father Tucker.

"A carpet!" repeated Mother Tucker, as though she could not believe her
own ears.

"There!" said Karl, in triumph. "What did I tell you, Christie Tucker!"
Then forgetting that he was helping to make the delay, he exclaimed,
"Do read on!"

And at the first opportunity, Christie read on.

   "'You see I wanted just the sort of one you seemed to have in mind
when you described it to me: 'ferns all over it, and red berries like
what mother used to gather in the woods in the East.' Wasn't that the
description?'"

"That letter must be from a crazy man. What in the world is he talking
about?" This was Mother Tucker's interruption, but Christie read on.

   "'I couldn't find the ferns, but the little red berries are there,
and the leaves are very like some that gathered in the woods in old
Massachusetts in my boyhood, and I shouldn't wonder if your mother
would recognize them. I was foolish enough not to ask the size of the
parlour, so I could not have the carpet made; indeed, now I think of
it, it does not seem altogether probable that you carried the size of
the parlour around in your pocket, or even in that nice satchel; though
as there seemed to come out of it everything that was needed for the
comfort of us all, that Christmas Day, I am not sure but I might have
found what I wanted, if I had thought in time. We lose a great many
things in this world by not thinking in time.

   "'Well, little woman, I will tell you what I hope: that there is enough
of the carpet, not only for the parlour, but for that nice little room
of your own; and I picked out a little bedstead and a little bureau and
a little washstand with 'flowers growing all over them,' like the ones
you didn't get to the city to see, and I matched the carpet as well as
I could; so I really hope there will be enough for the room.

   "'There is one article of furniture about which I must tell you. It
happens that that Governor with whom you had such a pleasant talk, is a
particular friend of mine, and always steps in to see me when he comes
to the city.

   "'One day he was in when I had a great many rolls of carpeting around,
and was picking out the one I wanted, and I told him about my little
relative, and our ride together, and the bandaged ankle and the lost
baby—or rather the lost mother—and Sarah Ann and the dinner. The truth
is, it made quite a long story, and as the Governor remembered you
distinctly, he seemed to enjoy it; in fact, he was so sorry for that
baby, that he wiped the tears from his eyes several times, and when I
had finished he said:

   "'"See here, I would like to know if she isn't a relative of mine
as well as yours? I belong to the same family; what is to hinder my
sending her a Christmas present?"'

   "'So we went together to the warerooms, and he selected those two large
easy chairs, which match the colours of the carpet, because he said he
could see your father and mother sitting in them, and you looking on,
much better pleased than though they just fitted your size. So the two
chairs are from the Governor.

   "'Now, my dear little friend, you must not let your wise and unselfish
heart go to fearing that a great deal of money has been spent on these
things, or that they are wonderful in any way. The truth is, that I
and my sons keep a large carpet and furniture warehouse in the city,
and though the carpet is clean and bright, and in good order, and a
favourite with me, it is one that the fashionable ladies, who come to
select carpets, call "old style," and it has been in our carpet rooms
a good while, and would be there much longer unless we should put it
down below its value; for, you see, people who are not very fashionable
when they go to buy a new carpet, know just what the fashions are, and
will not take anything else, unless they can get it at so low a price
that we might almost as well have the pleasure of giving it away. About
the same story can be told of the furniture. The pieces all harmonize,
but do not "match." I wonder if you are too young a woman to understand
what I mean? I know this, you are not too young to get the dictionary
and study out the meaning, and that I am sure you will do. Meantime,
that good mother and father of yours will understand all about it, and
will be quite willing to let the old gentleman enjoy himself and give
you these few things for a Christmas reminder, since they are neither
costly nor very important.

   "'What a long letter the old man is writing! And yet I want to make
it just a little longer. I want to remind you, that since you and I
are related, it follows that all our possessions, carpets, furniture,
everything, belong to our Elder Brother, and are to be used to help
along His work. All pretty things, especially, should be used to help
gather His children into His beautiful home, so, dear little sister, I
hope as soon as ever the last tack is driven in the carpet, you will
have planned a way to make its leaves and berries help in serving Him.

   "'There are ever so many ways in which even a carpet and a bureau, and
an easy chair, can be made His servants, if those who have them in
charge will take the trouble to study out the ways; this I feel sure
you will do, and therefore send them, after all, in the name of our
Elder Brother, as His gift, to be held in trust until He comes.

   "'Good-bye, little sister. It may be that I shall never see you
again down here; if I don't and I get home first, as in view of my
seventy-seven years it seems likely that I shall, I will try to be on
the look out for you, and we will talk things over with Him.

                          "Your old friend and brother,

                                        "THOMAS L. FLETCHER."

"For pity's sake!" said Mrs. Tucker, her face a curious mixture of
bewilderment and pleasure.

"Well, well, well!" said Father Tucker. "That beats all I ever heard
of in my life. I know that name too; they have one of the biggest
houses in the city, and they get their goods right from New York. Why,
Christie, what does it all mean?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Tucker, "that is what I should like to know. What in
the world did you tell him, child? About your wanting a carpet, and
about my having carpets with ferns on them, and about furniture and all
that? What queer talk to an old gentleman, and a stranger. How came you
to?"

"I didn't mean to do anything wrong, mother."

Christie's chin was quivering, and she could hardly control her voice
to speak. The fatigues of the day, and the excitements of the evening,
were being almost too much for her, and at this word of her mother's,
which seemed to have a note of reproof in it, she could hardly keep
back the tears.

"It all seemed real natural; we were there all day, you know, and we
had nothing to do, and we couldn't help getting pretty well acquainted.
And he asked me what I expected to see at Uncle Daniel's, what I had
thought a good deal about and planned for, you know. And I couldn't
tell him anything but the truth, though I didn't say much about a
carpet, or furniture, only that I would like to see some, like what
Uncle Daniel had; I said the most about a piano. But, mother, I did not
dream of such a thing as his ever sending me anything; how could I?"

And here Christie quite broke down, and wiped two tears out of her eyes.

Father Tucker never liked to see tears, and always made all the haste
he could to dry them.

"It is my opinion, mother, from the tone of that letter, that our
little girl didn't say anything to be ashamed of. The old gentleman
seems to have quite as good an opinion of her as though she had not
talked at all. I don't believe there is anything to worry about."

"Why, of course not," said Mother Tucker promptly. She liked tears as
little as anybody, especially in her eldest daughter's eyes. "Who ever
thought of blaming Christie? I would as soon think of myself saying
anything improper as of that child! I only felt kind of curious to know
how it all came about. It is real wonderful, anyhow. But now I'll tell
you just what will be a hard and a right thing to do, things that are
right are often hard; Christie looks all tuckered out, and we ought
just to wash these dishes, and straighten up the room, and get to bed,
and not go near the front room until to-morrow morning."

"Oh, mother!" said Karl.

It seemed to him that he should fly up the chimney if he couldn't have
a glimpse of some of those wonders in the front room before morning.

"Yes," said Mrs. Tucker firmly, "they will every one of them keep, and
by daylight, when things are cleared up and comfortable, they will look
as pretty again as they will to-night, and the children will enjoy it
too. Here is Nettie dropped asleep while that letter was being read.
Christie, my girl, what do you say? Isn't it the thing to do?"

"Yes'm," said Christie, rising, her face cleared. She had been
astonished at and ashamed of her tears; she rarely cried, unless she
had something to cry for, and knew little about overwrought nerves.
"I'll clear away, mother, and you can rest and get Nettie and the baby
ready for bed. Come on, Karl, and carry these things out for me."

So brisk work commenced again in the little kitchen. The evening had
sped away while they were looking and wondering and listening, and it
was even now later than the Tucker children were apt to be awake. The
brother and sister talked as they worked, even allowing themselves to
guess as to what colour the carpet might be, and what that sort of
three-cornered thing was, that would neither stand up nor lie down.

It was not until the kitchen was in perfect order, and the cakes were
set for morning, and Karl had already gone to his room, and Christie,
with her shoes in her hand, was ready to slip into the little bedroom
beside Nettie, that she stopped before her mother and said:

"Mother, there is one thing I want to ask about to-night. How can I
ever do as the letter says about using the things? What good can I do
with a pretty carpet or bedstead?"

The mother's face was thoughtful. She had been asking herself much the
same question.

"I don't know, child," she said, at last slowly, a little sadly, "I
never heard such talk as that before in my life. It seems kind of
queer, and yet I liked it. I don't know much about such things, not
near as much as I wish I did. There must be ways of doing that we can
find out. We'll ask Mr. Keith, maybe, or we'll study something up. It
is a wonderful thing to happen to you, my girl. I guess there is a good
deal in it to be proud of, if the real truth was known; but we mustn't
be proud. We'll try to find out. You go to bed now, and mother will
come in pretty soon and tuck you up."

So Christie went to her room, and knelt down, only a few minutes, for
the room was cold—just long enough to ask God to forgive her for all
the sins of the day, and take care of her and all her dear ones through
the night, and to thank Him for the wonderful thing that had happened
to her, and to ask Him to show her how to use the carpets and the
furniture as the letter said. Then she went to bed, and her mother came
and tucked her up and kissed her, and neither mother nor daughter knew
that the furniture had already begun to work for Jesus, by awakening a
desire for work.



CHAPTER XIV

IN ORDER AT LAST

IT was a wonder that the Tucker family had any breakfast the next
morning! That great, bare, cold, front room had such charms for them as
were never known before.

Yet they did not open a bundle nor even pull away some of the wrappings
to catch a glimpse of the mysterious inside. They contented themselves
with hovering on the outside of things, and saying to one another that
they must wait until breakfast was over. But the younger members of the
family took many trips from the kitchen to the front room to see if
that bundle by the door was probably a chair or what.

"It is too big for a chair," would Christie say, "and yet it is too low
for a table, or a bureau, and besides, it feels soft and cushiony; I
can't think what it is."

Then Karl, in his greater knowledge of the world, would explain:

"It is a chair, you see if it isn't, and that one over by the south
window is just like it—a great cushioned chair. They cushion them all
over, arms, and sides, and back, and everywhere, so you can't see the
wood at all, and would think it was made of feathers or something. I
saw one at the depot. It was all done up in this yellow-brown stuff,
but yet you could sit down in it, and Nick said it was a library chair
that the Burtons wanted down for their parlour; he said it was all
cushioned with green stuff that looked like velvet and had flowers on
it."

The only answer that Christie made to this was a long-drawn sigh; it
expressed her silent wonder over the lovely things that there were in
the world. And her desire to see inside this great cushiony bundle was
stronger than ever, but all she said was: "Oh, dear! The coffee is
boiling over, I smell it!" Then she ran.

The next visit to the front room grew out of a discussion as to whether
the bedstead was narrow enough to go in that little niche between the
chimney and the door, in Christie's room.

Karl believed that it was, while Christie thought not; of course the
only way was to go and measure it. Karl was right, and Christie in
admiration asked him how he knew.

"Why, I measured it by my eye," he said. "Men do that way, you know; I
am practising it. I measure most everything I see in my mind, you know,
and try to calculate whether it will go in some place that I think of,
and most always I guess it right. This is an exact fit."

Mother Tucker came in search of them to tell Karl that she needed
another pail of water, and she sat down on the roll of carpeting, and
helped them guess what colours were in it, and which way of the room it
ought to run, until the kitchen stove took things into its own hands
again, and a smell of burning potatoes was wafted in at the open door.
Then they all ran.

Breakfast was over at last. Christie was surprised to discover that
she was not hungry at all, and she raised a hearty laugh by asking her
father if he would have a piece of carpet, when she meant johnny-cake.

"Now bustle around," said Mother Tucker, "and get the dishes washed up,
as fast as you are a mind to and then we will all go in and see things.
Father can get in from the barn by that time, and Karl can finish his
chores and be all ready to help us. Won't that be the best way, my
girl?"

And Christie, piling the cups and saucers together in haste, smothered
a sigh of impatience and said, "she guessed" it would.

There was no family worship in the Tucker household. Away back in Mrs.
Tucker's Eastern home, the family used to gather every morning for
the father to read in the Bible and pray. Mrs. Tucker often thought
of it, and felt sorry to see her children growing up without any such
memories. But Mr. Tucker was not a Christian, and she had never learned
to pray before him, nor before her children. So the children, who had
never been away from home a night in their lives, did not so much as
know of this custom which belongs to Christian families.

So on this morning, each one sped at once to his or her work, and
made all possible haste. And at last they met in the front room, and
the business of untying knots, and ripping basting stitches, and
unrolling burlaps, and wrapping papers, went on briskly amid constant
exclamations of surprise and delight.

A bedstead with real flowers growing on it! At least that was the way
they looked to Christie. A soft greenish ground, and pink fuchsias
bobbing their heads up and down on it! A bureau to match, with a lovely
glass set in an oval frame to fit on it. A charming bureau, washstand,
with drawers and locks—all with these wonderful flowers growing on the
polished wood. Then there were the chairs to match the other pieces,
and the cunning little stand to match them all.

There was a centre table for the parlour, and a sofa, or rather
couch—if they had known the proper name for it—which had the most
lovely covering that Christie had ever imagined. She stood before it in
wondering, silent delight, but Mrs. Tucker said:

"There, Christie, now you can see Brussels carpeting. That is real
Brussels. Don't you see the flowers all over it, just as I told you?
That is the way your Aunt Mary's carpet used to look in Boston."

But by this time, Karl was giving a peculiar little clucking noise
with his tongue and his cheeks, which Christie knew meant wonder and
delight. She turned quickly, just as he said, "Chris, look here!"

He had thrown aside the wrappings of the cushiony bundle, and behold
a great arm-chair, the like of which none of them had ever seen
before, upholstered until it was, Mr. Tucker declared, as good as any
old-fashioned feather bed he ever saw, and covered with soft green
cloth that actually had flowers stamped on it! It must certainly be
much like the one at Burtons' that Nick had described, but think of it
standing in their front room!

"Mother," said Christie, her face aglow, her voice in a tremble of
excitement, "sit down in it; oh, mother, do. I want to see how you
look."

"For pity's sake!" said Mrs. Tucker, which was what she always said
when she did not know how to express her feelings. "Why, it is large
enough for the whole family to sit in at once. Dear me! It must be
stuffed with feathers! I never saw anything softer, and it just fits
into your back. I could sleep here as well as not. Come up here, baby,
there is room for you."

So the baby climbed gleefully into the great, soft corner, and Nettie
climbed to the other side, and behold there was room for both!

But Karl had dashed at the other "cushiony bundle." And in a few
minutes, he wheeled it forward and said, "Father, take a seat."

And Christie curled in a little heap at her mother's feet, and hid her
head in her mother's lap, and Karl leaned on the arm of his father's
chair, and Mr. Tucker, as he took a seat beside the mother, and looked
around on his family, said with a curious quiver in his voice: "I
reckon these are the chairs that the Governor sent to our little girl,
eh, mother?"

I'm sure it was not any wonder that Christie cried. Though when Karl
asked her presently what in the world she was crying about, she looked
up and laughed, and said she was sure she didn't know.

"Look here," said Mother Tucker briskly, trying to rise from her couch,
"let's drag the carpet into the other room; this room is too full to
get a good view of it, and it is chilly here, besides. I'll tell you
what it is, Jonas, now that the front room is going to get furnished
for us in the most unheard-of way, we must just get that stove and set
it up here, and have a fire now and then, and come in and look at the
things, now won't we?"

And the father, as he stooped to take hold of an end of the great roll
of carpeting and help Karl drag it to the kitchen, answered that he
guessed they would try for it.

Ever since the Tuckers had built their little home, they had talked
and planned together about furnishing the front room. Each spring the
mother had cheerily said that by fall they must try and manage it;
in the summer they could get along without the front room very well,
because they spent so much time out of doors, and every fall she had
cheerily said that the crops had not been quite so good this summer
as they had hoped, and they must try to get along without furnishing
the front room until spring. The winters were so cold it was more
comfortable in the kitchen, anyway, and next spring they would try for
it. So the springs and autumns had come and gone, and left the front
room floor bare, and three chairs for the only furniture.

The children had not lost faith in their father and mother, for they
knew that the resolve was as strong as ever to furnish the front room
as soon as they could. But they had begun to understand that, with the
best of intentions, the furnishing might still be a great way off, and
here it had come in the night!

"Dropped down in the snowstorm," said Karl, "or might as well, for all
that we knew about."

Oh, that carpet! How shall I describe to you what it said to the
beauty-loving little girl as her father and Karl spread the glowing
thing on the floor and matched the breadths and then stood back in
silent enjoyment. Christie looked and laughed, and said:

"Oh, mother, only see the red berries! Doesn't it seem as though we
could pick them? Oh, look at baby, she is going to try!"

Sure enough, the baby, after gazing in silence for a minute, scrambled
down in haste, a business-like look on his face, stepped into the very
centre of the glowing carpet, seated himself and dived after a handful
of leaves and berries, then looked at his empty hand in grave surprise.
Everybody laughed, but there was more than laughter in Mrs. Tucker's
voice as she said:

"It does remind me of the woods, Jonas—of that piece just behind
grandfather's further barn where we walked one afternoon, and picked
checkerberries for grandma, and gathered leaves to press for mother.
Don't you remember?"

"And promised each other to walk through the wood together, always,
after that," said Father Tucker, and there was an unusual sound in his
voice.

"Yes, I remember it."

"And did you always walk together?" asked Nettie, who thought it
sounded like a story of which she wanted to hear the end.

Then they laughed—that father and mother—until the tears started in
their eyes, but the father answered Nettie:

"Yes, we did, right straight through the woods, some of them thick, and
dark, but after all we most always found leaves and berries."

"'Always,'" said the mother.

And the older children dimly understood.

But Nettie looked from one to another with a wondering little sigh, and
said, "I wish you'd take me wiv you."

"Why, we did!" said father and mother, and then they went off again
into shouts of laughter.

And even Karl and Christie were a little puzzled to know what it was
all about.

Altogether, the Tuckers never had such a day.

To be sure, before its close, the mother said that it was very
fortunate that such days were rare; she did not know what would become
of them if it were otherwise.

Strange things happened in the kitchen. Matters that were not used
to taking care of themselves ran wild, and did as they pleased. The
bread-sponge pleased to get light before anybody thought of such
a thing, and ran over the pan, making a sticky mess of the bread
blankets, and then finding itself still unattended to, it sulked and
soured and had to be coaxed and patted and sweetened with soda, and
tasted at last, Christie said, more like "Sarah Ann's bread" than any
that she had ever eaten in her mother's house before. This was only one
of the many things that happened which should not have been.

The baby was busy. Who ever knew an extra day in a family with a baby
that he didn't do a hundred unexpected and distracting things? This
baby tipped over a pail of water on himself, and had to be dressed "to
his skin," the mother said, whatever that strange sounding sentence
means, but this did not compare with the last thing he tipped over,
which was a bowl of molasses, and in that he dabbled, curly head and
all, until when discovered, he was a sight to behold. Besides, he
bumped his head twice, and got a sliver in his finger. Altogether, I
think the most of the members of the Tucker family breathed a sigh of
relief when the day was done, and they felt that by the next morning
they would probably awaken to take the world more naturally.


From that time for a week, much work was done. It was not the busy
season on the little farm, so the mother gave herself steadily to
the unusual work of putting the front room in order. The carpet was
matched and cut and sewed. Everybody helped. The father, with Karl's
help, matched and cut it. Karl, with a large needle, whipped the ends.
Christie and her mother sewed on the heavy seams.

Nettie threaded needles, and the baby believed himself to be assisting,
when he took his small hand and gave the carpet a few earnest smacks.
Nobody could understand just what that meant, until Karl suddenly
rolling over on the floor, declared amid bursts of laughter that he
believed that he was whipping it!

After the sewing, came the tacking. What a thing it was, to be sure,
to get that heavy Brussels carpet laid smoothly and tacked firmly.
Mr. Tucker, winter day though it was, mopped his hot forehead again
and again with his handkerchief, and declared that he would not have
dreamed of its being such a job, and the people who ought to get the
best wages going were the carpet men. But at last it was down, and
beautifully down, too, trust Jonas Tucker for doing well whatever he
undertook.

"The last tack is in!" he called to the mother and Christie, one
afternoon. "Now come and look at it. It was a job, I tell you, and I
never should have got it smooth if Karl hadn't held on like a soldier.
But isn't it a beauty?"

I really suppose you have no idea what a difference that carpet seemed
to make in the great front room. The walls had been made very white
before it went down, and of course the woodwork was as clean as hands
could make it, but who would have supposed that the bright carpet would
seem to set everything about it into a glow of beauty! Then they moved
in the furniture. It had occupied an unused room during this time, and
been carefully covered, so that really they had never half seen its
beauty. But when they took their places, the couch in the pretty niche
between the mantel and the south window, and a lovely table in the
centre of the room, and the great chairs which seemed to fill up all
the broad spaces at the right and left of the front windows, and the
other chairs arranged by the tasteful hand of the mother, I am sure I
wish I could give you an idea how the room looked to them.

The three-cornered piece of furniture over which Christie and Karl
had wondered before it was unpacked, was still an object of curious
interest to Christie. It was tall, and had what she called a steeple
top, beautifully carved, and it had many shelves, and it fitted into
one of the corners of the long room as though it had been made for that
particular spot. But what was the name of it, and what was to go on all
those pretty shelves?

"They can't be for dishes," said puzzled Christie, "for people don't
keep dishes in their front rooms, do they, mother?"

And the mother laughed, and said some people did, she supposed, but
they had none to spare for the parlour. Then she brought forth her
Eastern knowledge for the benefit of her little girl who had not been
outside of her own plain home.

"I know the name of it, Christie; it is a whatnot; and people keep
their pretty things on it—vases, you know, and shells, and treasures of
any kind, and books."

"Books," repeated Karl wistfully. What the boy wanted was books.

"Books!" repeated Christie eagerly. What the girl meant to have, some
day, was books.

"Well, we haven't any yet. We'll fill ours with books when we get them,
won't we, Karl? But we have no vases, nor shells, nor treasures of
that kind; what will we put on until we get some? I like the name of
it—'whatnot.' Hasn't it a pretty sound? What can we put on it?"

Then the mother stood thoughtfully looking into the days that were
gone. At last she spoke:

"We might bring out the big Bible, Christie, for the lower shelf, and
the pictures of your grandfather and grandmother. I have one of mine;
your Grandfather Tucker died before such things as pictures were known.
Then I have a few shells your Uncle James brought from the Pacific
coast. Oh, we can dress it up, I think."

No sooner said than done. So the handsome Bible, one of Mrs. Tucker's
wedding presents, was brought out of its hiding-place in a large old
trunk, and carefully laid in its place on the whatnot. The first time a
family Bible had appeared in the Tucker family.

"There never seemed to be any place for it," said Mrs. Tucker, as she
carefully took the tissue paper from the clasps. "I laid it away for
safe keeping. But I always meant to get it out when we furnished the
room. It fits nicely on that shelf; I like to see it."

And neither she nor her daughter realized that new furniture was
beginning already to work for the honour of the "Elder Brother."



CHAPTER XV

THE GIFT ACKNOWLEDGED

THE next thing was a stove. The young Tuckers could not believe it
possible that one was really coming, but father and mother were agreed
that such should be the case.

"It was queer," the mother said, "very queer indeed," but when they
were in town day before yesterday, they went into the stove store for a
new shovel, and the man had offered them a second-hand stove as good as
new, real cheap.

And father had said then: "If we had anything to put with it in the
front room, we would buy that stove, for it is a bargain. And I don't
know but we better, as it is, for we may never have so good a chance
again."

And they had talked about it all the way home, but it had seemed rather
foolish to buy a stove when there wasn't another thing to help furnish
with. And there, when they reached home, they found the furniture had
come!

So the first thing the father did next day was to send word to town
that he would take that stove, and now he was going in to see about
pipe and bring out the stove. Wonderful times had come to the Tuckers.

I am wrong, though, about the stove being the next thing. The next
thing had been the writing of a letter to Mr. Thomas Fletcher.
Christie's first letter!

It created a good deal of excitement in the Tucker family. The father
himself went to town and bought a quire of nice paper and envelopes to
match, and a new steel pen for Christie. She had a penholder, and took
daily lessons in writing, but the pen had done good service, and it was
decided that for this occasion she ought to have a new one.

"I thought I might as well get a quire while I was about it," Mr.
Tucker said, in a half-apologetic tone as his wife looked at the paper,
and he fancied he saw surprise in her face at the quantity.

"Christie will be writing other letters, maybe, as she grows older. I
would like to have her write to her Uncle Daniel once in a while, and
there may be others; this Mr. Fletcher might write to her again."

Nobody thought this very probable, and as for writing to her Uncle
Daniel, or rather to his city wife, Aunt Louise, Christie privately
thought that she really would much rather write to Mr. Fletcher; she
felt better acquainted with him. However, she rejoiced in her box of
pretty paper, and gave it a place of honour on the wonderful whatnot,
and thereafter was busy during her leisure moments for two days,
getting a letter ready to send to Mr. Fletcher. She wrote and re-wrote
it on her slate, consulting with Karl over the sentences, until he
knew them by heart, and sung them through the house to a popular tune,
greatly to Christie's dismay.

At last, the letter was written on one of the new sheets of paper, the
envelope addressed by Christie's own hand, the important little green
stamp affixed to the right-hand corner, and the document was ready for
the mail. Not a bad-looking document either. You girls who dash off a
letter every few days to somebody, being careless as to whether each
word has the correct spelling, and each capital is in its place, and
forgetting the punctuation marks altogether, and filling the lines
with descriptions of things that were "perfectly splendid," when you
only mean that they were very pretty, or talking of something that was
"just horrid," when you only mean that it was rather unpleasant, need
not have been ashamed to have had Christie's carefully written letter
travel in the same mail bag.

Really, before it is sealed, you shall have a peep at it, just to see
what you think of the little girl who had never been to school a day in
her life.

                                    "KEWAUNEE, _January_ 18.

   "DEAR MR. FLETCHER,—

   "I remember you very well. I don't think I ever can forget you. I
think of my journey in the cars a great deal. And now I have so many
beautiful things to remind me of it all the time! I don't know how to
thank you, but mother says if you knew how glad I was over them every
day, she thinks you would be thanked. There was carpet enough for the
front room and my room, and a nice large piece left over for mother's
room. I wanted mother to have the whole one for hers, but she said that
would not be polite to you, and that she would rather I had it anyway.
I knew that, because she would rather we children should have things
than to have them herself. I suppose mothers are always so.

   "The carpet is the—I was going to say the prettiest one I ever saw, but
I never saw one before, only a rag carpet, and this doesn't look any
more like a rag carpet, it seems to me, than the sky looks like our
blue washtub!

   "It is most the prettiest thing I ever saw in my life. Except the moss,
and the real true berries out in the woods in the spring, I think it is
'quite' the prettiest. I would like to have you look in our front room,
it is so nice. My brother Karl says he should not know that he had ever
seen the room before, it is so changed.

   "The sofa just fits a place between the mantelpiece and a window, and
the two lovely chairs are by the south window, and when the sun shines
on them, they look as though they were made of moss. I don't let the
sun shine on them much for fear it will fade them; only once in a
while, to make a picture. My little sister Nettie is trying to make a
picture on her slate of one of the chairs, and she made one so natural
that father said he could most sit down on it. The chair is large
enough for mother and Nettie and the baby, and when father takes the
other one, and has Karl on one side and me on the other, he says, 'Now,
mother, we are seated in our treasures, and our treasures are seated
with us; who so happy as we?'

   "And we are truly very happy indeed, and you did it all! I cannot think
why you and the Governor were so good.

   "Father thinks perhaps I ought to write a letter to the Governor and
thank him, but I am afraid to do that, for I don't know him so well
as I do you, and if you would only be so kind as to tell him when he
comes to see you, how much we thank him, I will be very glad, and I am
sure he will like that better than to be troubled with a letter. The
bedstead fits right into a niche in my room. Karl thought it would;
he measured it with his eye. I didn't think so, but Karl was right;
father says he has a very true eye, and that he ought to have a chance
to learn mathematics. Karl says he is going to learn them without a
chance; that he hasn't time to wait for any chances. The flowers on the
bedstead and bureau are so natural that my little sister tries hard to
pick them, and she tries to pick the berries from the carpet, too, and
looks so surprised when they won't come.

   "We are going to have a stove in the front room, and once in a while
have a fire, so we can enjoy looking at all the lovely things. And
now that we have the front room so pretty, we are going to invite the
minister to tea. I wish you could come and visit with him; I know
you would like him. His name is Mr. Keith. Mother thinks I am making
my letter too long, and I do too; and it seems to me that I haven't
thanked you much after all. I don't seem to know how to do it. But I do
feel so truly thankful in my heart, that I most want to cry sometimes,
I am so happy. I want to ask you, sir, if you ever hear anything of
that dear baby? I did love him so! I would like to see his sweet face
and hear his pretty voice. I do hope he is well, and has kept his
mother safe.

                         "Your grateful little 'sister,'

                                   "CHRISTIE TUCKER."

"For pity's sake, child!" the mother had said. "You are making that
letter too long altogether."

"I know it," said Christie meekly. "But you see, mother, I don't know
how to write a letter; I only just know how to talk to him as I did in
the cars. And he is different from other people; he seems to like talk."

"I don't know about your telling him all that about your father and all
of us sitting in the chairs, and about the children with their queer
fancies, it sounds rather familiar. What will he care about all that?"

"I don't know why he cares," said Christie, positively, "but he did
care to hear about us all, and asked questions, how old Nettie was,
and how the baby looked, and all that. Why, mother, he is different
from other people, you know. Why did he care to send me all those nice
things, do you suppose?"

And then the mother said, "Sure enough, and perhaps he would like the
letter; she should, she knew, if she were away from home and it were
written to her."

And Christie said that her desire had been to let him see things in the
front room and see how nice they looked, so that he would be pleased
with all his work.

"You might have left that out about my having a true eye, and meaning
to study mathematics. He certainly doesn't care for that, and it would
have made the letter several lines shorter."

This was Karl's suggestion.

But Christie declared that she wanted to say that, she didn't know why,
she just felt as though it ought to go in and she meant to put it in.
Still the letter did seem very long, and I don't know that it would
have been sent, had not Mr. Keith come out to make a call on the very
evening when they were talking it over, and what did the father do but
say:

"Let's leave it to Mr. Keith, he is used to letters. Christie, read out
your letter to him and see if he thinks it is too long or too familiar."

Then had Christie's cheeks grown very red, and she had whispered to her
mother that she was sure she couldn't do that.

But Mr. Keith had seemed to be very much interested, and had urged the
reading, and besides Christie was in the habit of obeying her father.

And her mother whispered to her that she might leave that part out
about inviting him to tea.

So with a frightened little voice, she began reading.

Nobody knew what was the matter with Mr. Keith; he got out his white
handkerchief, and coughed, and wiped his mouth and his nose and his
eyes. Certainly he seemed to have taken a hard cold since he came into
the warm, bright kitchen! But no sooner was the letter finished than he
cleared his voice to say that not a line of it ought to be omitted. He
thought the old gentleman would be grieved if there were one word less
than had been told him.

"I don't understand writing letters very well," Christie explained;
"this is the first one I ever wrote, and I kept forgetting it was a
letter and thought I was talking with him. He talked to me a good
deal in the cars, and seemed to want to know about the children and
everything."

"Of course he did," Mr. Keith said, and then he added something over
which Christie pondered curiously for many a day. "See here, Christie,
if were you, I would not try to learn how to write letters, I would
just keep on talking to people when I wrote to them; I think it is the
best way for you."

Did he mean that she would never know enough to write regular letters?
Christie wondered.

This settled the matter of shortening the letter.

After Mr. Keith had gone, Karl sat looking thoughtfully at it, and at
last burst forth with a new idea.

"Chris, they most always have postscripts in letters."

"What are postscripts?"

"Why, things that you put in after you think that you are all through.
Down at the depot, while I am waiting for the milk train, the man at
the desk is always reading letters; he reads aloud and the other one
makes speeches. In almost every letter there is a postscript. Yesterday
he was reading one about some corn that was to be shipped, and the
other man said:

"'Doesn't he say anything about the bill? That is queer business.'

"'No,' Mr. Jones said. 'Or, hold on!' And he turned over the leaf.
'Here's a postscript.'

   "'P. S. You may draw on Jenkins and Company for the amount due.'

"And the man over by the safe said: 'He always puts the important part
of his letter in a postscript.'

"And they most always have them, don't they, father?"

Mr. Tucker was laughing. There were things about his boy and girl which
seemed to amuse him very much. "Why, if they have forgotten something
that they ought to have said, they add it in that way," he explained at
last.

"But I want to know what it means," persisted Christie. "I don't know
the word, and it sounds queerly; it has nothing to do with a post as I
see."

Whereupon Karl went to the shelf in the corner cupboard and brought
out a little fat brown book with one cover gone, the old copy of
Webster's "Dictionary" that had come with them from their Eastern home.
One of Mr. Tucker's dreams of future greatness was to own a Webster's
"Unabridged," but every year there were so many necessary things to buy
that Webster stayed behind.

   "Postscript: a paragraph or part added to a writing."

This he read in triumph. But Christie remarked plaintively that it did
not tell her "why."

"I suppose Webster 'Unabridged' would tell."

This the father said, and Karl added that he did wish that they had him
under a bridge, or on a bridge, or "somehow." Then they all laughed and
felt better.

"They do have them, anyhow," affirmed Karl. "I've heard the men talking
about postscripts often. And seeing you don't know when you will write
another letter, I think it would be nice to put one in."

"Well," said Christie, meditatively, "there is something I have
forgotten. Would you put it in a postscript, mother?"

"If I wanted to," said the mother, who often didn't know whether to
laugh or cry over her children.

Theirs was such a different childhood from hers. The old home had been
full of books and papers, and letters coming and going were not unusual
things. She might have known much about Webster's "Unabridged" to tell
her children now if only she had cared to study it in her youth. What a
pity it seemed to her sometimes that she could not have known in those
old days in New England how much she would want to know to tell Karl
and Christie some day. This mother had had chances, and had neglected
some of them; her children certainly were not doing that. But bless
your heart! I know children who are doing it to-day; and the time is
coming to them swiftly when they will be "so" sorry!

"They don't write it out in full," explained Mr. Tucker, seeing
that preparation was being made to add the postscript. "They use an
abbreviation: a capital 'P' and a capital 'S,' with periods after them."

"Is that so?" replied Karl, speaking very respectfully.

Every little while he discovered a mine of unexplored knowledge in his
father, and felt his admiration of him rising.

And this was the way that Christie Tucker's already long letter came to
have a P.S. added:

   "P.S. I have thought a great deal about what you said about my using
the pretty carpet and the chairs, and all the lovely things, to honour
Jesus with, but I don't think I know how to do it, only there is a
boy and girl who live pretty near us—their names are Lucius and Lucy
Cox—and they are very poor, and their kitchen isn't nice and bright
and neat like ours, and they never have nice things to eat; and I was
thinking, maybe if I let them see all the pretty things, and helped
them have a good time, it would be using the things in a way to please
the Elder Brother, but I don't know as it would."

"How shall I end it?" she asked at this point. "Do they end it again?"

But this Karl did not know. He had never seen postscripts, only heard
of them; neither was the father sure whether it was proper to sign the
name again.

"Dear!" said Christie. "I wish I knew! I had such a time finding a good
way to sign the letter!"

And truly she had! It took a half-hour of discussion, and of trying the
look of various ways on the slate, until she had settled down to the
nice-sounding sentence:

                        "Your grateful little sister,

                              "CHRISTIE TUCKER."

It certainly could not be right to put all that down again.

Then did the mother rouse from her musings. There had come before her
as plainly as though written on the blank sheet of Christie's paper
which lay in her lap, the memory of a letter received many years ago
from an old uncle who had been in Heaven for fifteen years. A business
letter it had been, short and to the point, as the old uncle's work
always was; and his name had been signed in full:

                  "Your uncle,

                    "ELIAB PERKINS HOWE."

At the foot of the page there had been this:

   "P.S. Niece Christine, have you given yourself, soul and body, for time
and for eternity, to the Lord; and do you live as though you always
belonged to Him?

                               "E. P. H."

"You sign your initials," said Mother Tucker; "just the initials of
your name—'C. H. T.,' and nothing else."

"Do you?" said Christie, relieved and pleased. "Well, I can make a
pretty 'H,' I think. I like that."

And while she carefully made her pretty "H" and Karl looked over her
shoulder and advised, the mother went back to the postscript of long
ago, and remembered how far, how very far short she had come of living
as though she belonged soul and body to the Lord, and wondered what she
could do to make the fact surer to her own heart and to the eyes of her
family. How industriously that new furniture was working for His glory!
And nobody knew it.



CHAPTER XVI

UNEXPECTED COMPANY

A BRIGHT winter afternoon, and they were in the parlour having a
wonderful time. The way that fire burned in that new stove was a
continual source of delight.

No stove like it had the young Tuckers ever sat beside. Delicate little
windows all around, which glowed and sparkled, or showed the forked
flames of a lovely blue. Those great black lumps of coal looked so
hard and gloomy when they were poured in, and took such beautiful hues
soon after, that Karl and Christie were never weary of watching and
speculating.

To-day, though, there was something of more importance than even the
fire. For the first time in their lives they had invited the minister
to tea.

He had arrived in good time, and hung his overcoat in the little hall,
and rubbed his hands before the glowing fire, and taken a seat in one
of the great easy chairs, and said, "Well, now, isn't this comfortable!"

And the Tuckers, every one of them, thought it was.

Mr. Tucker, at first inclined to be a little shy of the minister, had
exerted himself as the host, and found it not so hard a thing, after
all, to talk with a sensible man who knew something about farms, as
well as books, and seemed anxious to know more, for he asked a great
many questions concerning things that Mr. Tucker did not know he either
thought or cared about.

Then Karl, who had declared all the morning that he was not coming into
the parlour at all, for he did not want to see the minister, and that
the minister did not want to see him, had brushed his hair, and put
on a fresh collar, and washed his hands until they glowed, and, when
Christie, who had been sent to get the almanac to decide a question of
dates, came back, she found him sitting in a chair near the minister.

That gentleman had his arm on the back of the chair, and was leaning
toward Karl, and saying, "So, my boy, you see we must be the best of
friends since we are namesakes."

And Karl was looking pleased, and stayed and listened to the talk until
it was time to help with the chores. It was an afternoon to remember.


Other strange things happened. It was Christie herself who first saw
the fine carriage and the gay horses, and uttered an exclamation of
surprise, almost of dismay, as they halted before the gate. Mr. Keith
paused in his sentence, and looked out of the window.

"Ah," he said, "you are going to have more company, I think, Mrs.
Tucker; here is Mr. Burton's carriage stopping at your gate."

"Mother," said Christie, in a low, eager tone, "it is Wells, and he has
to walk with a cane. Shall I go to the door, or will father?"

"Why, your father will see to it, child. He has been sent here on an
errand, I suppose."

So Mr. Tucker went out to receive Wells. But his errand apparently was
not at the door, for he came limping in.

"How do you do?" he said heartily, not a bit embarrassed by his cane.
"This is Mrs. Tucker, I believe; I am very glad to see you, ma'am,
because you are my friend Christie's mother. I should never have been
here to see you, but for her, you know. That is, I mean I should not
have been anywhere."

He stood beside Mrs. Tucker, shaking her hand, and looking handsome and
happy. Christie had slipped into a seat at her mother's side, but he
turned to her.

"Here is my travelling companion; you reached home safely, I see; so
did I, thanks to you. Aren't you glad to see me? I have been in a
tremendous hurry to get out here, came the first day the doctor would
let me. Won't you introduce me to your friend and your brother?"

Poor Christie's cheeks glowed hotter than the fire. She had never
introduced any people in her life! It was worse than a postscript to a
letter; how did they begin, she wondered. But Mr. Keith did not want an
introduction:

"I was waiting for my turn," he said cheerily. "I am glad to see you,
sir. I know your face very well by this time, and your name, so we
ought to consider ourselves acquainted, though you were not at home
when I called on your mother."

They were shaking hands by this time, like old friends, and Christie
could only look on and admire; how easily it was done. Then Wells
turned at once to Karl:

"We are acquainted," he said, "if Mr. Keith is right. I have known this
long time that you were Karl Tucker, and I suppose you have known that
I was Wells Burton; so now let us shake hands and consider it settled."

What a thing it was to know just what to say, and how to say it, and
to feel so much at ease! It seemed so pleasant to think of this boy
shaking hands with Karl. He was much taller than Karl, and looked a
good deal older, and of course he knew more. But she could not help
wishing he knew how strong Karl was, and how helpful to his father, and
how sensibly he talked about the work on the farm.

"He has almost as good judgment as a man," she had heard her father say.

If Wells Burton knew those things, he could not help liking Karl, even
if he did blush and look down at his strong boots and feel unable to
say a word before the handsome city-bred boy. But Wells did not wait
for words; he had already turned back to Mrs. Tucker:

"My mamma sent a message by me, ma'am: she is very sorry that she has
not been able to call and see you, since my accident and escape. She
thought of writing, but she said you would know how hard it was for a
mother to put her heart on paper, and she hoped every day to get out
here, but my brother had an alarming illness that has kept her right
at his side day and night. And my father was telegraphed for, on the
very evening on which I was hurt, and went East by the morning train,
where he has been detained ever since. He wrote that he was afraid you
and Mr. Tucker would think he was a man without a heart, but he hoped
to convince you to the contrary very soon. He is coming home to-morrow,
and will be out as soon after reaching home as possible, but I was
resolved on being first."

It sounded just like a speech in a book! Admiring Christie could think
of no other way to describe it to herself.

And as for her mother, she was as bad as Karl, she could think of
nothing to say. To be sure she had said to Christie only a few days
before, that "a body would think the Burtons might say 'thank you,'
when all the train-men said that Christie's quick-wittedness had saved
their boy's life." But then she had not expected thanks, for she had
added as a sort of second thought to her first remark:

"To be sure we don't want their thanks, and they would feel kind of
foolish trying to give them, for of course they are thankful, and they
know that we know it, so what's the use?"

This, however, would not do to say to Wells, and so while he waited,
his bright glad eyes fixed on her, she blushed and stammered a little.
It would not do to say she would be glad to see his mother, for she
felt in her heart that she did not want to see her; so at last she said:

"Why, as to that, folks can't 'say' things in this world of that kind,
they can only feel them. And as for Christie, she only did what was
right."

The bright-eyed boy laughed. "Yes," he said, "it was right, but the
thing was, to think of it, and then to do it in a hurry; it was grand,
wasn't it, Mr. Keith?

"Oh, Christie, I saw one of your friends, yesterday! I haven't told you
why I didn't get here before; I came out one day last week, on purpose
to see you, and getting off the cars, I forgot all about my lame ankle,
and gave a hop that sort of twisted it, and it kept me awake half the
night, and on the sofa all the next day, and as I had promised mamma to
be back in the city by the next night, I had to go without doing what I
came out for. Well, going back I saw the mother of the baby—"

"My baby?" eagerly interrupted Christie, forgetting all about
listeners, and intent only on hearing from the dear baby whom she had
taken into her heart that day.

"Yes; your baby. I knew her, of course, the moment I caught sight of
her, the mother, I mean, and I went forward and took a seat near her,
and asked at once after his majesty. She said he was well, and in his
grandmother's arms, she hoped, at that moment. He had not been in the
cars since that dreadful day, and she did not know as she could ever
let him go in them again. She begged his grandmother not to let him out
of her sight while she was away. I couldn't help telling her that I
thought it was the baby who ought to have arranged for her to be looked
after; he didn't get lost, I told her. If I remembered correctly, it
was she who was missing; the baby was in his seat, and remained in
the cars until he reached his journey's end, but she was the one who
skipped."

"Did you tell her that?" asked Christie, in great amusement. She was
thinking how impossible it would have been for her to have talked in
such a merry way with that grand lady.

"Yes, I did," he said, laughing. "We had such a time doing without
her that day, that it seemed to me she didn't fully appreciate which
of them made the trouble. She says the little fellow is well, and as
bright as ever. I told her I knew he had strong lungs. She laughed a
great deal over my story as to how he managed us all that day. She
asked a hundred or so questions about you, and when I told her that I
hoped to see you in a few days, she sent a message by me. I was to tell
you that she had been sick, and had not been able to carry out certain
plans, which was the reason that you had not heard from her, but she
thought you would in a very few days."

"Heard from her!" repeated Christie, her eyes bright with excitement
and surprise. "Why, is she going to write to me? I never thought of
such a thing. Oh, Karl, there will be another letter to answer!"

"Sure enough!" said Wells, looking over to Mr. Keith and laughing
outright. "It is very strange that she should ever think of you again!
Probably she wanted her baby to bump around on that floor and kill
himself, and was a little disappointed because you didn't allow him to
do so."

Over this Christie exclaimed indignantly. Then followed a good deal of
animated talk—questions and answers about that baby and that baby's
mother. Wells was so bright a talker and was so undoubtedly interested
in the baby, that Karl was drawn out of his reserve to ask questions
and offer suggestions. And at last, the young people were thoroughly
enjoying themselves.

"We are left out in the cold," said Mr. Keith, smiling, as at last
the three heads drew nearer together and the voices dropped a little.
Then he drew his chair a little nearer to Mr. Tucker, and the mother
slipped away to see about the nice supper she was preparing, giving the
minister a chance to speak some earnest words, that he very much wanted
to speak.

"I say, Christie," said Wells, suddenly looking at his watch, "I
suppose I must go home, unless—do you think you could coax your mother
to let me stay to tea?"

"Why!" said Christie, shocked at that way of putting it, and gleeful
over the suggestion. "Would you really stay? Mother—" as that lady
entered the room again—"Wells wants to know if he may stay to tea?" Her
voice was merry and her eyes were dancing.

Karl looked at her in silent amazement. The idea of their Christie
being well enough acquainted with that handsome young fellow to call
him "Wells," right before his face. And the idea of asking if he might
stay to their house to tea!

"Why, why!" said Mrs. Tucker, in a flutter of surprise. "What a
question, child! Don't you know we shall be glad enough to have him, if
he will?"

"Well, he will," said the young visitor joyfully. "It is dreadfully
lonesome at home; nobody there but the housekeeper, and the rest of
them. No, ma'am, my people are in the city, but they are coming out the
last of the week. I shall like to stay very much indeed; I'll go right
out and tell Dennis when to come for me."

He reached for his cane, and Karl sprang to wait on him, and to offer
to do the errand. And finally they went out together, and stood by the
handsome carriage which had just drawn up in front of the gate; stood
there and talked, first with Dennis, and then with each other, and at
last walked slowly back toward the house, and then turned off and went
to the barn.

Christie from the window watched them until the great barn door closed
after them, then gave a little sigh of satisfaction. It was very
nice to think of Karl and Wells Burton as having a visit in the barn
together. Karl could certainly never be so much afraid of him after
this as he had been, and, would not look so sober, and so sort of "left
out," when she told him things about that journey connected with Wells.

Mr. Keith watched her happy face. "What is the pleasant thought that
shines on it?" he asked her.

Christie turned suddenly and found that she was alone with the
minister. She blushed a little and came away from the window, and
following his motioning hand, took a seat quite near him.

"How is it, Christie," he asked, "in all these happy times, and with
the pretty room to sit in, and the new friends to think about, and
their presents to enjoy, does the best Friend seem nearer or farther
away?"

"Oh, Mr. Keith! He isn't far-away. It seems to me as though He came
nearer every day. And there was something I wanted to ask you; mother
said perhaps you would help us. These things, you know, this pretty
furniture, and the carpet, and everything, they were to be used for the
sake of the Elder Brother; that is what he said, and of course I must
use them so or I would not have any right to them; and I don't think I
know how. Mother and I have tried to think of ways, but I can't seem to
settle on any. Could you help me, sir, if you please?"

"Why, I think you have found ways already. Haven't the pretty things
helped you to make a chance for me to come here and visit you, and get
acquainted with your father and have a little talk with him about this
Friend? You know he has been busy, or away from home when I have been
here before. But this afternoon, he stayed at home to visit with me,
and we have had a pleasant talk."

"Oh, but," said Christie, her eyes bright, "those are lovely things
that we like so much; they are just helping ourselves. We wanted you
to come a good while ago, but we never could fix things so that mother
thought they would do. But we are just doing this for ourselves,
because we like it; this isn't work for Jesus."

"You can't be sure of that, little friend; the fact is, when we really
want to please Him, nearly everything that He gives us to do becomes
after a while such pleasant work that we would rather do it than not,
just for our own sakes."

"Is that so?" she asked, surprised. "I was looking for a hard thing to
do. Are there not some hard things, sir? I thought of one that I would
not like to do, and that perhaps I ought, but I don't know about it,
and mother said she didn't. She said perhaps it would do more harm than
good, but I might try it if I thought best, and I thought I would wait
until I asked you."

"Tell me all about it," he said, sitting back in his chair. "Some
things look hard on the outside, but have pleasant things hidden inside
the shell, like a nut, you know."

"Well," said Christie, smoothing out her white apron, "you know those
Cox people who live in the next street, back from the road a little
way?"

"I am not sure that I do. Cox? I don't remember that name; the next
street above here?"

"Yes, sir; well, it isn't exactly a street, it is a sort of lane. They
live in a little log house. I don't suppose you are acquainted with
them, after all; they are very poor, bad-acting people, at least the
father is. He drinks hard cider most all the time, and they don't ever
go to church; and the children, Lucius and Lucy, are about the age of
Karl and me. They are dreadful-acting children, and they are not clean.
Lucy doesn't have her hair combed, and Lucius has holes in his clothes,
not patches, you know, but 'holes;' they must have dreadful times! I
went to the house one day, for mother; their baby was sick, and they
had sent for mother, and she sent to me to bring her some things, and
it was a dreadful looking place."

"And what was your thought about them, little sister?" The minister's
voice had a very gentle sound, almost a humble one, if Christie had
known it. He was beginning to wonder whether God had sent him there to
"get" some help as well as to give some.

"Why," said Christie, twisting the hem of her apron a little, in her
embarrassment, "I didn't know but maybe if I had them here one day,
and showed them my pretty room, and all our nice things, and tried to
be real pleasant to them, and treat them like company, and we got them
a nice tea, warmed potatoes, and good healthy things, you know, and
a little bit of cake, maybe it might do them some good. But I wasn't
sure, because they would have to go right back home, you see, and
maybe be hungry the very next day, and sleep in that dark room off the
kitchen, where baby was sick, and mother said she did not know, she was
sure, whether it would do good or harm."

"And that was one of the hard things which you did not want to do? Can
you tell me that side of it? I mean, can you explain why you did not
want to do it?"

"Why, you see, they are not very clean, their hands and faces, and I
thought maybe they would handle our things, and leave dirt marks on
them, and sit down in these pretty chairs, and soil them; and, oh, I
don't know, there were other reasons. Karl said we would not know what
in the world to say to them, and I don't suppose we would. But then we
were all willing to try, if it was the right way, but none of us knew.
We asked father, and he said Mr. Cox was a poor shack, and he guessed
there couldn't be much made of his family, and maybe the best way was
to let them alone. But then, the next morning he said that maybe that
wasn't the right kind of talk, and we must do, mother and I, as we
thought best, and you see we didn't know 'what' we thought."

"I see," said the minister, and he drew out his handkerchief and wiped
his face and his eyes.

Then he was still for so long that Christie thought he had forgotten
all about it. At last he spoke:

"I believe, Christie, if I were you, I would try it; there's nothing
like trying. I don't know the Cox children, nor their parents. I passed
that old house last week, and wondered who lived there; I am glad to
find out. You are helping me, you see, and but for these pretty things,
perhaps you would never have told me about the Cox children. What if
you carry out your plan, and have that nice supper, with the warmed
potatoes, you know, and invite me to come too?"

"Why, would you?" said Christie, too amazed to add another word for a
moment. Then she said: "Well if mother will, I will."

Then the door opened, and the two boys came in from the barn.



CHAPTER XVII

THE MINISTER AND THE BOYS

IT was Christie's turn now to slip away. She remembered something that
she was to do towards the coming supper.

The minister and the boys were alone.

"Well," he said, looking at them with smiling eyes, "what next for you
two?"

"School for me, sir," Wells said, "and I shall be glad to get to
studying again; I have had a longer vacation than I planned."

"Do you go to the city every day?"

"No, sir; not this term. Mamma is so nervous over the accident that she
doesn't like the plan. Yes, sir, they are coming out next week to stay.
My brother, who is an invalid, has taken a fancy to the country, and is
in haste to get back; the rest of the family think it rather dull, all
but me, I like it. But mamma is not reconciled to a daily ride in the
cars, so my father has engaged a tutor for me; he can teach music, as
well as Latin and the other things, so I shall not have to go into town
for lessons. I like the plan ever so much."

And the favoured boy looked over at Karl, who was regarding him with
wistful eyes.

"And what about Karl? Is it school for you, too?"

"No, sir," he said slowly, choking down a little sigh, "not this term.
Father can't arrange for us just yet; we are out of the township, you
see."

"I see. Well, you and Christie study at home, I suppose."

"A little," said Karl, but he did not speak as though the studies at
home gave him great pleasure.

He did not mean to tell those two that the great drawback was books, or
rather the want of books. What would either of them say, he wondered,
if they knew that there were not more than a half-dozen books in the
house, counting the primary arithmetic, almost every word of which he
and Christie knew by heart?

Latin! It was almost disheartening to hear Wells talk so glibly about
"Latin and other things." He had tried to get his father, only the
other evening, to remember a Latin word until he, Karl, could see
how it sounded. But not one could be thought of, save "E pluribus
Unum," and neither mother nor father were absolutely sure of its exact
meaning. Karl meant to study Latin, one of these days, but he did not
expect to for some time to come, neither did he intend to tell his
plans to these favoured people, who talked about Latin as carelessly as
they might about geography. Truth to tell, Karl's present ambition was
a new arithmetic, and that he meant to have very soon, but it too was a
secret.

"There is one book," said Mr. Keith, "which gets neglected. If I could
go back and be a boy again, I am sure I would study it most faithfully;
that is, if I could take back into boyhood all the knowledge I have
gathered by being a man. I should know it was the most important book
to study that there is in the world."

Karl was watching him with eager, expectant eyes. It would be a Latin
book, he thought; possibly not, for Mr. Keith, he had heard, understood
both Greek and Hebrew, as well as Latin. It would be a thing worth
remembering, what such a scholar thought the most important book in the
world.

Sometime he would try for the book and study it hard.

"What book is it, if you please?" He asked the question very timidly,
waiting for a little, in the hope that Wells would do it for him.

"That is the Bible, my boy; there has never been a book written half so
important as that, and there never will be."

To say that Karl was astonished, will give you a very faint idea of his
state of mind; also he was a little bit disappointed. He had expected
to hear some wonderful old name to treasure in his mind, and then he
had meant to try to get courage to ask a few questions about the book,
what made it so wonderful, and how old one had to be before he began
to study it, and what it cost; but the Bible! Why, they had one in the
house. Of course it was an important book, but then, who would have
imagined that he meant the Bible!

Wells was not surprised; he was more familiar with ministers than was
Karl, and more familiar with the world; he knew what rank the Bible
held among Christians. He looked neither surprised nor particularly
interested, though his face told as plainly as words that he did not
agree with Mr. Keith.

"The question is, how much time do you two boys give to the most
important book?"

"Not much," said Wells, laughing a little. "We don't use it in school,
and don't get marked for not knowing anything about it, so it has to
stand aside."

"I know. Isn't that a strange way for sensible people to manage? Now if
I were a teacher, I should try to give a little time each day to the
only book that was likely to outlive every other, and had to do with
another world, after this one was done with."

Karl opened his eyes wider.

And Wells questioned: "Why, you don't suppose the Bible will be taken
to Heaven, do you?"

Mr. Keith laughed a little. "Well, as to that, I don't know as it would
be a very interesting book in Heaven. We shall probably not care much
more about it than we would for a good guide book about Europe, after
it had shown us the way there, and we were perfectly familiar with
the country and had not the least desire to go from it to any other
country. I meant that it was the only book which told us anything about
the other world, where all our life is to be spent, except the very
little bit that we spend on this side. It is strange to be so taken up
with the things we are to use here that we forget all about what we are
here for, and forget to get ready for our journey; now isn't it?"

Karl was thinking seriously, and seemed to have no answer.

And Wells did not choose to make what might be called an answer, though
he spoke: "I don't think the Bible tells very much about Heaven. I've
often wished it told what the people were doing up there, and how they
managed about—well about everything, and whether they knew what was
going on here, and what was to be done after everybody had reached
there."

"I don't suppose there is special need of having all that told in the
Bible. The people who are going there will have eternity in which to
learn all about it, and to the people who fail, it could only be an
added sorrow. The most that the Bible is engaged in, is to point out
the way, and warn of the dangers."

Mr. Keith spoke very gravely, but Wells seemed determined to speculate,
so continued: "What do you suppose the people do there, all the time? I
should think it would be sort of stupid to stand around with harps and
sing."

"The Bible says that it has not even entered into my heart what we are
to do, but I am going there to find out. The question is, are you two
boys?"

"I suppose I mean to," answered Karl gravely, seeing that Wells was not
going to speak, "but I haven't made any plans, nor thought about it
much. It doesn't seem very real to me; I know a hundred things that I
want to do here, but I don't know much about Heaven."

"That is just what I am saying is strange; like a boy who was so
interested in the flowers and stones which he found on the way to the
city that he would pay no attention which road to take, and forgot all
about his having started for the purpose of going to the city. If there
was an elegant home waiting for you there, and you might risk the loss
of it by delaying and playing with the stones, how long do you suppose
you would play?"

"Not long," said Karl, his face grave.

But Wells had found his voice again. "Ah, but sir, we can't die and go
to Heaven just when we please. It would be wicked to do it even if one
wanted to, and a fellow could reach the city just as soon as his feet
would carry him."

"That is true; suppose we change the figure. What if the carriage to
take Karl to the city and to his wonderful home there, was to pass the
South road at the corner, at some hour to-morrow, Karl did not know
when, and that was to be his opportunity to go, after that it would be
too late. How long do you suppose Karl would loiter on his way to the
South road in the morning?"

"Not many minutes," said Karl, speaking quickly. "I should clip it at
the first streak of daylight; in fact, I don't know but I would go down
there to-night."

"I think quite likely you would; and yet, here you sit, unconcerned. It
is morning with you, and the chariot of God may be here at any moment
for His children who are ready, to take them home, and you do not get
ready to go."

"It seems different," said Karl.

"Yes, and it is different," stoutly declared Wells. "There is no corner
to go to and wait; if it were that way, we would all go in a minute,
but there doesn't seem to be anything to do."

"Yes, there is; your mind can take a journey just as well as your body.
You want your mind to go over and stand by the Lord Jesus Christ; you
want your soul to say to Him:

   "'I have come to claim my home in Heaven that you said you had for me;
I have come to be ready to go. Now, what am I to do?'

"And He would tell you what to do. It is simple enough, you see, only
you don't choose to do it."

"Why doesn't everybody?"

This question was from Karl; it seemed to him all at once such a simple
and natural thing to do, and he could not help wondering what kept
people back.

"My boy," said Mr. Keith, turning and looking full at him out of
earnest eyes, "why don't you?"

Karl moved uneasily in his seat and laughed a little, and said: "I
don't know."

"But I do, my boy. It is because you are a slave; so is Wells, here.
He thinks he is free, and can do just as he pleases, but Satan has a
strong hold on him, and is making him do just the foolish thing about
which we have been talking."

"Then we are not to blame," said Wells quickly, following with his keen
mind the picture that the minister had drawn.

"Are you not? Suppose an enemy had tied you to that stove in such a
manner that the flames would reach you after a while, and I should say:

"'I will cut the ropes and set you free if you want me to do so, and
will obey my directions in the future.'

"Then I should proceed to give you a list of directions, and you should
say:

"'Why, they are all good, and right, and kind; and we shall be the
gainers by obeying them, but then we don't want to ask you to free us,
and we don't care to follow your orders.'

"Who would be to blame for your remaining slaves?"

"Wouldn't you be kind of mean, though, not to set us free, whether we
asked it or not?"

Of course this bold question came from Wells.

Karl looked quickly at him; he thought the question rude.

But the minister seemed in no way disturbed by it.

"That depends," he said quietly. "Let us look at it a little more
closely; suppose you belonged to me by right. It was your duty to obey
me, and you had not done it; instead, you had disgraced me in many
ways, and were under sentence of punishment. But I, at great expense,
had planned a way for you to escape all punishment; a way which I knew
would work if you could be brought to agree to it, and do your part,
but which I knew would be worse than useless unless you submitted to
the rules laid down. We will suppose that I knew you would get into
much worse trouble than being tied to that stove, in case I let you go
in any other way than the one which I had planned. Would I be mean,
then, not to do it?"

"That is supposing a great many things," said Wells, and he spoke as
though he felt almost cross about it.

"It is not supposing a thing, but what the Bible, if you study it
carefully, will show you is true; not the being tied to the stove, of
course, we imagined that. But God is very well acquainted with us, and
He knows what we will do, as well as what we have done."

"How could you prove to me that you were anxious to save me, and had
done your best, if you should let me stay there and burn?" asked Wells,
going back to the figure.

"I might not be able to do so; you might not choose to believe my word,
and you might be too foolish to reason about it. But if I had a son,
whose life I had given in order to try to save you, and if you believed
that I loved my son, unless you were very foolish indeed, it would go
far towards showing you that I had been in earnest."

"I think we would be great fools not to ask you to untie us," spoke out
Karl in some heat.

"It seems to me that you would be very foolish; and Wells thinks so
too, but he doesn't care to tell us so."

Then came Christie, holding Nettie by the hand, and carrying the baby
in her arms.

"Christie," said Mr. Keith, "come here and tell us what you would do if
you were told to choose one book out of all there were in the world,
because the rest were to be burned."

"Why!" said Christie. "How dreadful! Oh, I would take the Bible, of
course."

"Why of course?"

"Oh, because it is the only book that shows us the way to Heaven; and
we could get along without knowing anything else, if we knew what was
in the Bible. And if we knew all that there was in all the other books,
and had no Bible, in a little bit of a while, what good would it do us?"

"Sure enough; but do you believe these boys don't think so!"

Christie turned on the two troubled eyes.

Wells laughed, but Karl said stoutly, "Why, we didn't say any such
thing!"

"Didn't you? I thought you both agreed that you paid very little
attention to it? And of course, if you thought it so important, you
would give it a good deal of time and thought; that would be common
sense, you know."

But neither Nettie nor the baby were in the mood for any more quiet
talking.

Mr. Keith took the baby, and the two went into a frolic, while Wells
set Nettie on his knee, and began a wonderful story of two pigs and a
monkey.

It was a wonderfully pleasant evening; the supper was delightful. Even
the baby waved his spoon and called for "more." The chickens were
stewed in cream, and the potatoes were made into the loveliest little
brown balls! Mr. Keith ate two balls, and asked Christie if these were
"warmed up" ones, and whether warmed up ones could possibly be better.

Then Mrs. Tucker looked so puzzled that Mr. Keith felt obliged to
explain that he had been invited to a tea party, or rather, to be
truthful, had invited himself, and that there were to be warmed up
potatoes.

Then Wells questioned and cross-questioned, until it finally all came
out about Lucius and Lucy Cox and he asked a great many questions about
them, and sent Christie off into a burst of laughter by inquiring
whether Lucy looked like "Sarah Ann."

But no one save Christie heard his whisper, just as he was going out of
the door after Dennis came for him:

"I say, Christie, may I come to the party? Do ask me; I'll be as
good—Oh, as good as anything you can imagine. And I like warmed up
potatoes better than anything."

And so Christie, in much bewilderment and some dismay, found a party
growing on her hands, and wondered what she should do with them all.

She and Karl sat up for half an hour after the minister went home, to
talk over all the strange events of the day.

"He liked the farm horses," said Karl, meaning Wells did; "he said they
behaved much better than his pony, and he should think it would be
great fun to ride without any saddle or halter."

"Karl," said Christie, "did he tell Mr. Keith he did not believe the
Bible was an important book?"

"No," answered Karl indignantly, "he did not say such a word. All he
said was that they did not pay much attention to it at school; and that
he did not know much about it, because he did not read it very often."

"Well, that was saying that he did not think it important, I suppose;
we say things by our actions, Karl, though I never thought of it
before. It seems queer that we can be telling people things without
meaning to."

"It isn't true," persisted Karl; "I think the Bible is important, of
course; and I don't read in it once a month."

"Well," said Christie, gravely, "if you had a geography, Karl, one of
the new kind, you know well enough you wouldn't let it be in the house
for a month without reading a good deal in it; now would you?"

But Karl declared that he was as tired as a dog, and was going right
straight to bed. And to bed he went.



CHAPTER XVIII

ANOTHER LETTER

EVERYTHING in the kitchen was cosy and bright, in excellent order,
and very nice work was going on. Christie having once fully decided
the matter of inviting Lucy and Lucius Cox to tea was in haste to
carry out the plan. And that very morning a cake was being made to do
honour to the occasion. Cake was something rare in the Tucker family.
In her Eastern home, Mrs. Tucker had been in the habit of spending
every Saturday morning in her father's well-stocked kitchen, stirring
up sweet mixtures for the next week's supply. This was when she was
a girl. Mrs. Tucker in her Western home, had now and then baked a
gingerbread, or made what she called a "batch" of seed cakes, or, on
rarer occasions, a pan of doughnuts. But as a rule, it had been as much
as they could do to furnish bread and beef and potatoes, and cake of
all sorts had been left in the background.

"I don't know when I have done such a thing," said Mrs. Tucker as she
broke the third egg into her yellow bowl, and then began to whisk them
about with skilful touch. "It seems kind of extravagant, but I don't
know how to make this cake with less than three eggs, and it is the one
that I seem to remember the best. I used to like to make it, because it
always behaved itself; never fell, nor cracked, nor anything."

"The hens laid a good many eggs this morning," Christie said
encouragingly. "It seems as though they must have known what we wanted
to do. I packed just as many for the grocery as usual, and yet had
these five left. I don't think it is extravagant, mother; it isn't for
us, you know, it is for the Cox children, and they never have a bit of
cake, I do suppose."

"Good bread and butter and plenty of it would be better for them,
child, than cake."

"Oh, I know it, but then bread and butter don't seem quite such a treat
as cake; though that day when I was in the cars, and ate a piece of
'Sarah Ann's' bread and butter, I thought that a slice of our bread
would be as great a treat as I could give her. It doesn't seem to me as
though I could eat a piece of bread at the Cox's. Mother!—" a sudden
thought had come to her, and a look of dismay passed over her face as
she set her bowl of flour on the table—"What if they should think they
must ask us sometime to come to their house to tea!"

Mrs. Tucker stopped her egg-beating to laugh. "What an idea, child!"
she said. "They haven't a whole plate in the house, nor a decent dish
of any kind. And as for company, such a wild thing never entered their
minds. You needn't be distressed about that. I wonder what keeps Karl?
I'm afraid I shall have to wait for that baking powder. Hurry with your
flour, Christie, and then beat that butter and sugar to a cream. When I
have cake, I like to have it nice. I'm sure I hope I haven't forgotten
anything. It is so long since I have done such a thing as make a nice
cake that I'm in a kind of a fluster. If I had known that Burton boy
was to have been here the other night, I suppose I should have made a
cake then; though I don't know as I would have thought of such a thing
now, if you hadn't coaxed. I heard Mr. Keith say once that he liked
soft gingerbread better than any kind of cake, and I'm sure he ate it
as though he did."

"So did Wells," said Christie, laughing; "he asked me if I thought you
would see him if he took a second piece. Mother, shall I put in the
raisins now?"

"Why, no, child, of course not; they don't go in until the last thing,
and they have to be rolled in flour first; what a little dunce you are
about cake, to be sure. When I was of your age, I could clip into the
kitchen and stir up a cake for tea as quick as the next one. But then,"
she added, seeing a sober look steal over Christie's face, "I couldn't
have made a dress for myself to save my life, nor worked over butter,
nor done a dozen of the things that you can. Of course, it is not
strange that you should know nothing about cake-making when you never
had the chance. One of these days, Christie, money may be easier, and I
can hunt up all my own knowledge and teach you how to do things. I'll
risk my forgetting; it all comes back to me this morning as naturally
as though I had been doing it every day, though it must be about
thirteen years since I made this cake," she continued.

But the sober look on Christie's face had nothing to do with cake.
Something in her mother's talk had made her think that she was growing
up a dunce about other things, things which she wanted to know much
more than she did how to make cake. It came out, presently, as she
thoughtfully beat the butter and sugar.

"Mother, what about school next term? Has father made up his mind?"

Then the mother sighed.

"Why, as to that, Christie, he didn't have to do much thinking; he
can't raise the money to pay for books and tuition, and that is the
whole of it. Not this term—he thought he could, and if it had not been
for that stove, I guess he would have brought it about. But that was
such a chance, a second-hand to be sold so cheap, and we had wanted one
for so long; and the man offered to take his pay in eggs and butter,
you know. He said last night he wouldn't have bought it, after all, if
he had known it would keep you and Karl back from school for another
quarter. But he thought then he would get his pay for the hay this
month sure."

"And isn't he going to?" Christie tried to keep her voice steady.

"Oh, no; he got word at the depot yesterday that the man couldn't pay
until spring if he did then. Sometimes your father is afraid that he
will never pay it."

This last fearful possibility was spoken almost in a whisper. Not to be
paid for the hay meant a good deal of trouble to the Tuckers.

Christie stirred away, saying nothing, not trusting her voice to speak;
in fact, she was much engaged just then, in ordering back a tear that
wanted to roll down her cheek. She did not mean that her mother should
see tears, but it was a great disappointment. Even the Geography on
which she and Karl had so long set their hearts, seemed slipping away
into the dim and uncertain future.

There was all that money paid for the trip to Uncle Daniel's, where,
after all, she did not go. Should she be sorry that she took the
journey? But then, there were all the lovely things in the front room,
and in her room; she would not have had those if she had not gone a
journey. No, but then, the lovely things would do nothing to make her
less a dunce, and she and Karl were growing old so fast! But then,
on the other hand, she would not have become acquainted with Wells
Burton, nor had that beautiful letter from Mr. Fletcher, nor seen the
Governor, nor taken care of that dear baby; perhaps the baby would
have fallen from the seat and hurt himself, if she had not been there
to watch and care for him. And perhaps—oh! wicked Christie to forget
that—perhaps nobody would have stopped the train in time to save Wells
Burton's life! Oh, indeed, she must always be glad and thankful that
she went her journey, even if they had to wait another year for the new
Geography.

Now another thought began to trouble her, and presently she put it into
hesitating words: "Mother, maybe we ought not—maybe I ought not to have
coaxed you to have this party, and make cake and all these things."

But the mother's voice was brisk and reassuring.

"Now, child, don't you go to fretting over that; it was a nice thing
to think of. Mr. Keith told me himself that we couldn't any of us tell
what it might do for those Cox children. And as for the expense, it
won't be very much, after all; potatoes are cheap, and we have milk
enough to make them nice; it is half in having things done nicely and
making everything bright and clean, you know. The Cox folks might have
nice warmed potatoes themselves if they only knew enough. Then it is as
you say about the hens, they appeared to understand, and did a little
extra work, and the butter and the sugar we can easily save from our
own things, and we shan't notice the extra expense at all. It isn't
like paying out money downright from one's pockets. The cow and the
hens have furnished the most of the things, and we won't begrudge the
poor children one good supper. Run to the window, child, and see if
Karl isn't coming."

Christie was glad to go, not so much to look for Karl as to get rid of
that tear. Her mother knew that, too, and sent her away to help her
get her happy face back. Mothers know most things, though some of them
are wise enough to keep quiet about little matters that are better not
spoken of.

"Here's Karl," the sister said, in a very few minutes, and the "happy"
had already gotten back into her voice.

And Karl came in with a gust of outside wind, and with an air of
unusual importance.

"What a time you have been, child!" declared the mother. "Did you get
the baking powder, and the spool of thread, and all?"

"Yes'm; I got them all, and something else besides. I guess you would
have been a long time if you had had to do all the business that I have
attended to since I've been away. Father sent me to the post office for
old Mr. Stuart's paper, and I thought seeing I was there, I might as
well ask for us, and what do you suppose I have for you, Miss Christie
Tucker?"

"Not another letter?" said Christie in high excitement, every trace of
anything but delight having gone from face and voice.

"Just that," answered Karl, and he dived into his deep pocket and
produced a delicately perfumed bit of paper, with "Miss Christie
Tucker" written on it, in what Christie thought was the very prettiest
way she had ever seen.

The writing was certainly not Thomas Fletcher's. Whose could it be?

Mrs. Tucker left her cake for a moment and came with floury hands and a
bit of flour on her left cheek and looked over Christie's shoulder and
admired the dainty thing, and wondered from whom it could be, and as
yet none of them thought of looking to see.

"It is not your Aunt Louise's writing," she said, "though your aunt is
a pretty writer, too, but it doesn't look like that, somehow. What a
woman you are getting to be! 'Miss Christie Tucker!' The idea."

She laughed as she said it, and yet it seemed to give her a thought
that had a sad side to it.

"I suppose you'll grow up to that without fail, if you live," she said,
and looked at her young daughter wistfully as she added: "I would like
to do a good many things for you before that, though."

"Do open the thing!" said Karl. "If it said 'Mr. Karl Tucker,' you
wouldn't catch me gazing at the outside all this time."

"It wouldn't say 'Mister' to you, Karl."

"Why not, I should like to know, as well as 'Miss' to you?"

"Because they don't. It would say, Master Karl Tucker."

"Master of what? How do you know?"

"I saw it. I saw a letter that came to Wells Burton. He took it out of
his pocket to mark on, when we were in the cars and he wanted to show
me how the switch was laid, there by the junction, and h e marked on an
envelope, and I saw the name—'Master Wells Burton.'"

"Well, I don't care whether it is 'Master' or 'Mister,' I should get
into the thing and be master of it."

Thus urged, Christie, mindful of her former lesson, looked about for
the scissors, and began to cut, then paused half-way across the end and
said, "I think father ought to be here."

"Well, he won't be here until noon; he has gone to the upper lot. She
can't wait till noon, can she, mother? It might be something that would
need an answer right away."

"I guess I wouldn't wait, my girl," the mother said, pitying the eager
faces. "Father will understand, and you can read it out to him as soon
as he comes, and it will sound better after you have read it once."

Oh, wise mother! There were other things beside cake-making that she
had not forgotten.

You don't think anything about them now, dear girls, but the time will
come when you will look back on all those little thoughtfulnesses of
mother, as so many jewels which she left you.

The letter was withdrawn from its cream-tinted cover, and all three
heads gazed at it curiously. Beautiful writing it was, certainly, but
strange to them. The only way to discover the author was to read it.

To be sure Karl said: "I guess it is from the mother of the baby."

But Christie replied quickly:

"Oh, no; she would not write such a long letter as that. There wouldn't
be anything to tell me only that the baby is well. Oh, dear, I hope he
is!"

This touch of anxiety quickened her fingers and she unfolded the lovely
sheet and read aloud:

   "MY DEAR LITTLE MOTHERLY FRIEND,—

   "Whom I am sure I shall never forget if I live to be a hundred. And
baby shall not either; I shall always talk to him about you, and how
you saved his precious life, and when he gets to be a man, he shall
come and see you.

   "Now you wonder why I have not written you before."

("No, I don't," said Christie, breaking off to look at her audience; "I
wonder why she is taking the trouble to write to me now. Isn't it nice,
mother?")

   "I'll tell you how it was. Baby came through his day of troubles like a
soldier, because he had such a nice little general, who did not let him
take cold, or bump his head, or go hungry. He did not so much as sneeze
after it all, but his poor silly mother could not get over her fright.

   "For three nights I could get no rest at all; as soon as I would drop
asleep, I would dream that I had lost my baby, and was tramping up
and down that track like a wild woman, and begging the people to send
me on in an extra train whether there was any road to run on or not.
Then I would waken in a fright, with my head throbbing so that I could
not raise it from the pillow. At last, my dreams frightened me into a
fever, and it was for more than a week that I could not set up. Then it
took some time after that to get my strength sufficiently to go down
town. I wanted to select baby's gift for you myself—"

("Oh, mother, she is going to send me something. What do you suppose it
can be?"

"Chris, what if it should be a Geography, with nice large maps in it,
you know. Did you say anything to her about one that day?"

"Not a word," said Christie, stopping to laugh; "I didn't say anything
to her, hardly, nor she to me; she was so busy kissing the baby that
she couldn't.")

Then she read on—

   "because I knew just how I wanted it to sound."

("Sound! What can she mean? What in the world can it be?"

"It is a bird," said Karl, "they have them in cages. Nick says there
are three at the Burtons, in the room where they keep the flowers."

"Oh, mother," said Christie, looking troubled, "I most wouldn't want
it. I would like to open the door and let it go and live in the trees."

"They can't live in the trees," said Karl. "Can they, mother? They
would starve."

"That is because they have been stolen away from their homes and made
slaves of. Isn't it, mother?

"Read on, child," said Mrs. Tucker, "perhaps it isn't a bird.")

   "I have chosen one that I like very much, and I can seem to see you
taking comfort with it. It is the baby's very own present, and he sends
it with his dear love.

   "The little things that are packed in the small box are presents from
baby's mamma to your dear baby at home. I hope they will fit, and
the dolly is for the little sister Nettie whom you described to Mr.
Fletcher. He told me all about her, and about how you made a dolly for
her one day last summer out of a squash."

"Why, child," said Mrs. Tucker, "it does seem to me that you must have
told those strangers in the cars everything we ever said or did in this
house."

"No," said Christie, earnestly, "he kept asking me questions, Mr.
Fletcher did. And when I answered them, there would be a word in about
something else and he would ask about that."

Mrs. Tucker had in the meantime gone back to her cake, and was now
ready to transfer it to the buttered tin which stood waiting to receive
it.

The letter was almost finished; there remained only a few words about
baby, how he was growing, how sweet he looked in his new hat, and how
he had sent her a picture of his own dear self to wear around her neck,
and wanted her to come to the city as soon as ever she could, and have
hers taken for baby to wear. Then came the wonderful closing sentence:

   "If you will write me a line to let me know when you will come, baby
and I will meet you at the depot with the carriage, then we will have a
very happy day together. And I do hope that manly brother of yours will
come along to help you, for if you have as many people to care for as
you did on your last journey, I am sure you will need help."

"And she never says what it is she has sent!" Mrs. Tucker said when the
last word had been read.

"No, ma'am, she doesn't. I think it must be a bird, for what else is
there to make a sound that I could take comfort with?"

"I know one thing with which I could take comfort," said Mrs. Tucker
with a little sigh, "and it makes a sound, too."

"Mother, what is it?"

"It is a sewing machine, child. I could sew a seam on that in five
minutes, which takes me almost an hour now. But never mind, one of
these days you children will get me one, I dare say."

And Karl, though he said not a word, went and looked out of the window,
and laid it aside in his heart, that as soon as ever he could, perhaps
even before he bought the Geography, he was going to get a sewing
machine for his mother.


For the rest of that day, the cake which came out of the oven a golden
brown, and did neither fall nor crack, did for all that sink in
importance before that wonderful mystery which was to come, and was
to be in a box; because the letter had talked about what was in the
"smaller box." It took no fortuneteller to assert that of course there
must be a larger box in which "it" was to come. The bird theory rather
lost ground, because how could a bird travel in a box? It would die.
But it certainly was not likely to be a sewing machine, for besides
being a very expensive present, it was one not likely to be chosen for
a little girl.

Mr. Tucker had a theory which he told his wife had better not be
mentioned to Christie, for fear it was not correct and she would be
disappointed. But Mrs. Tucker argued that Christie was a very womanly
little girl not likely to be greatly disappointed about anything that
could not be helped, and that she liked to know about things. So the
father brought forward his views.

"I can tell you what it might be, my girl, though, mind, I don't say it
is. Did you ever hear of such a thing as an accordion?"

No, Christie never did, but her bright eyes said she was all ready to
be told of it.

Then it was brought to light that Mr. Tucker when he was a young man
had boarded with a woman whose daughter had an accordion.

"It is something like that old fire-bellows of your grandfather's,"
he explained. "You take hold of it on each side and pull it out and
back again, and out and back, like this." And he folded a piece of
paper which lay on the floor and illustrated the method of working the
accordion.

"But what is it for?" questioned puzzled Christie.

"Why, it makes music; you learn how to play it, you know; it has keys
to it, and you learn which ones to touch, and play tunes."

"Real tunes, such as folks can sing?"

"I guess you can! Why, Elizabeth used to sit by the hour playing for
us, and we would sing; real sweet music it was, too."

"Oh, my!" said Christie, and her eyes seemed almost as large as the
saucers she was drying.

"But they were pretty expensive things," said the mother warningly,
mindful of the wistful light in her child's great eyes.

"Yes," said Father Tucker, quickly. "Oh, I didn't say I thought this
was one. I only said it was something that would make sounds, and nice
ones too. But it is not likely to be anything of that kind."

"Of course not," said Christie. "But, father, how much do you think one
would cost?"

"Well," said Mr. Tucker reflectively, "I remember how much that one
cost, as well as if it were bought yesterday. I remember there being
a good deal of talk about it; there might have been cheaper ones, but
that cost twenty dollars."

"Oh, my!" said Christie again.



CHAPTER XIX

ANOTHER SURPRISE

IT was the next day at noon, or a trifle before, that the boxes
arrived. The same good-natured men who had loaded down the parlour with
furniture, appeared again, and one of them told Karl with a laugh, "he
reckoned he must have found out by this time that Miss Christie Tucker
lived here, for she seemed to have a good many things coming to her,
off and on."

But Karl was so amazed at the size of one of the boxes that he had no
answer ready for this hint at his former bewilderment. He stood dumb
with astonishment, while the two men and the two helpers that they had
brought with them, tugged and groaned, and with the greatest difficulty
lifted their burden.

"I don't know whether it is a meetin'-house or a new school-house,"
declared one, "but it seems to me it is rather heavy for either."

The Tucker family were all at home, and had as much as they could do
to keep out of the way of the men, and to wonder what the thing could
be, and where it was to go, and whether, after all, there wasn't some
mistake.

Don't expect me to go over in detail all the excitements of the hours
that followed. Mother Tucker said afterwards, that she was sure she
should go crazy if she had another day like it in her life; and it
might have a bad effect on her to hear all about it.

All I can tell you about it is, that after much trial and much delay,
and much running to the far lot for helpers, the thing was stood up and
unpacked. And when it first showed its shining surface, Christie gave a
queer little squeal and clasped her hands, and grew white even to her
lips.

"I thought as true as the world that ridiculous child was going to
faint!" her mother said, when she told off the strange doings to her
friend the next day, fanning herself with her apron at the thought of
it, though the day was cold. "I did really, and she don't know anything
about such a thing, either. I never fainted in my life, and I don't
mean she shall, if I can help it. But she turned that white that I just
reached out and snatched her, and it's my opinion if I hadn't, she
would have tumbled right down in a heap! It seems she had some kind of
a notion how a piano would look. She has dreamed about one, and talked
about one, and asked me questions enough, until she had got an idea,
and she knew the thing by hearing and imagination. She knew it was a
piano the minute her father took the last covering off. But she had had
no more idea of ever seeing one in our parlour than she had of seeing a
star there, not a bit more.

"Karl, now, isn't of that sort. He was excited enough, but at the same
time he was quiet about it, and did not seem so dreadfully astonished.
I really don't know what to make of that boy. He seems to have such
queer ideas about things.

"'I meant you should have one, sometime,' he said to Christie, 'but I
did not think it could be brought about so soon.'

"Christie does all the imagining, and she is first-rate at it, and Karl
always seemed to stick to facts. But then, he has such extraordinary
things that he calls facts come into his head!

"'When you get your sewing machine, mother,' he said to me one day,
'will it sew overhand, do you think?'

"Now, I expect to have a sewing machine about as much as Christie
expected a piano, and no more, and I told him so, and says he:

"'That may be, but there's the piano setting there, you see, and the
machine will come, you see if it don't.'"

The visitor knit twice around her stocking before she answered. Then
she pushed her spectacles up on her forehead, and said:

"Well now, Mrs. Tucker, I shouldn't wonder if it would, and if that boy
would get it for you one of these days. I do say that you are blessed
in your children if ever a woman was."

So now the secret is out, and you know it was actually a piano that was
set up in the Tucker parlour.

I took this way of telling you, because I really could not explain what
Christie felt, or even what she said, though she said little enough.

In fact, her mother, who was a little frightened about her, told her
that she acted like a goose. The white look on her face lasted until
her father called her to put her hand on the keys. And when she touched
the gleaming things, thereby bringing forth such sounds as she had
dreamed of in her little music-loving heart, but never heard, she
looked up into her father's face, and the blood rolled up in great
waves to the roots of her hair, and then what did she do but cry.

Of course Nettie cried immediately and loudly. Tears on Christie's face
were something unusual, and not to be borne without a protest. I don't
know as it is any wonder that the startled mother was ready to say just
at this point:

"Why, Christie, what does make you act so like a little goose?"

But Father Tucker put his great protecting arms around her and said:
"Never mind, mother, she is kind of 'upsot,' and it ain't to be
wondered at. Pianos don't grow on every potato lot, and our little girl
never even saw one before, and this thing is hers, you know, and it is
kind of too much."

She got over it after a while, and had only very rosy cheeks and bright
eyes all the afternoon. The pretty music stool was unpacked, and
Christie mounted it, and drew forth such soft, sweet sounds from the
wonderful instrument that her father said admiringly:

"Well, I declare! I thought they had to spend months learning to play
the piano, but I don't see but you make pretty music on it without any
learning."

It was that very afternoon that Lucius and Lucy Cox were to come to tea.

"Enough in itself to upset a whole family," Mrs. Tucker said, "and when
you added a piano, it was, as Father Tucker said, 'too much.'"


But that afternoon is the very thing that you must hear about.

The first one who came was Wells Burton.

"I didn't mean to come so early, for fear I should be in the way," he
explained, "but it is lonesome enough at home. My mother was hindered
from coming home yesterday, my brother isn't so well, and father has
been delayed by a freshet, and everything was disappointing and dismal,
so I ran away. I would have gone into town this morning if it had not
been for the warmed up potatoes, you know, and other things. Besides, I
was in a hurry to see something that I knew had come."

"Oh," said Christie, her eyes aglow, "do you know about it? Did you
know before? Come in quick and see it. I don't know what to think nor
to do."

"What you must do is to take music lessons, and make the thing talk to
you," Wells said, walking into the bright little parlour, and going
boldly up to the great shining beauty, which seemed to the rest of the
family to fill all the space in the room.

Wells seemed in no wise amazed at its appearance, called it a "neat
little thing," drew out the music stool, adjusted it to the right
height with great deliberation, and then seating himself, whirled
his fingers over the keys in a fashion that almost took Christie's
breath away. The sounds that he produced were quite unlike those which
Christie had made.

Even Father Tucker in the kitchen, wiping his great brown hands on the
great brown towel, felt that, and stopped and listened and nodded his
head, and said:

"That is music, eh, mother! Our girl must make it go like that."

"Yes," said Mrs. Tucker, "that is music; just think of that boy being
able to play like that!"

There was a worried look in her eyes, and after a moment's silence she
added: "That will be the next thing. The child will want to learn, and
she will be crazy to, I can see it in her eyes, and how is she ever
going to do it? Music lessons cost a sight of money, even East, and of
course they are worse out here, everything is. And you know, Jonas, we
might as well try to have her fly and be done with it, as to give her a
chance to take music lessons."

Her father laughed. "I should as soon have tried to fly myself as to
get her a piano, and yet there the thing is, and she is playing on it.
There's no tellin' what may come, in this world, I've given up trying.
We must talk with the minister about it. There may be some kind of a
way of turning work. Who knows?"

But the troubled look did not go out of the mother's eyes. "There's
another thing," she said, as she laid the spoons she had been polishing
in a shining heap on the white table. "Jonas, don't it seem wonderful
strange to you that they should send her such a great big present as
that? Why, pianos cost almost a fortune. And that is a good toned one;
I remember the one at grandfather's well enough to know that. I don't
see but it sounds every bit as good as the one at Uncle Daniel's; and
to send it to a stranger, and a little girl! I don't understand it, and
sometimes it doesn't seem quite the thing for us to let her take such
things as a matter of course and say nothing."

"Well, now," Father Tucker said, taking his wet head out of the shining
wash basin, and beginning to polish his face on the towel, "there's
two ways of looking at things. In one sense it is a big present, and
a wonderful thing to happen to a little girl like Christie; and in
another sense how do you suppose it compares with that baby of hers
that Christie took care of? I don't say but that it would have got
taken care of somehow if Christie hadn't been there, though there
didn't seem to be a great many people of sense to depend upon that day,
besides Christie: anyhow, she was the one did it, and did it well, and
while she didn't do it for pay, nor expect pay, still, I suppose it was
an awful day to the mother. And if I was rich, and it was our baby,
seems to me I wouldn't consider even a piano very great things when it
came to showing what I thought of my baby."

"Well," said Mother Tucker reflectively, "that way of looking at it
does make a difference, to be sure. What are forty pianos compared with
a baby?"


Meantime, in the front room, the same thing was being talked about from
a different standpoint.

"Did you ever hear of people doing such a wonderful thing?" This was
the question that Christie asked of Wells.

He let the music soften, so he could answer.

"Why, it was a nice thing, and I rather like my lady for thinking of
it. It is the first time I have forgiven her for leaving her baby and
spoiling our day, but on the whole, I am glad now that she did it. But
as to being wonderful, it was natural enough. Her husband is a piano
dealer; they have a great warehouse in Pearl Street, full of pianos,
of all sorts and sizes. And when she heard that you liked music, and
wanted to see a piano, what was more reasonable than to suppose that
you would like one of your own?"

"How did she know that Christie wanted to see a piano?" asked Karl, who
was watching this entire conversation with the greatest interest.

"Why, you see, we spent quite a long day together when we went our
journey, and we talked about a good many things, pianos among the
rest, and I suppose somebody happened to mention to her something that
Christie said. Look here, let me play this 'Rain Dance' for you, and
you listen and see if you can't hear the drops patter!"

There were reasons why Wells did not want that subject looked into any
farther, so he bewitched them with the rain-drops.

During the playing, the door opened softly, and there came in Lucy and
Lucius Cox. I wish I had photographs of them for you. They had been all
day getting ready to make a good appearance. Lucy had not only combed
her black hair, but banged it, and the straight locks hung down over
her eyebrows, straight into her eyes, so that she winked and blinked
continually. Her brown calico dress was soiled and torn, but she had
pinned the torn place as well as she could, and then tried to cover
its defects with a bit of very soiled, very faded, pink ribbon, which
she had knotted up and fastened over it, and as the rent was half-way
down the skirt on the left side, towards the back breadth, you may
imagine how she looked. Face and hands, however, were clean, and poor
Lucy having put on an old-fashioned linen collar of her mother's that
had not been used in seven years, nor washed, had done all that she
could to honour the great day. Such efforts were beyond Lucius, but he,
too, had combed his hair, and washed his face and hands, and tied his
shoes with green strings, and although his clothes needed washing and
patching, on the whole, he looked better than Karl had feared.

Christie turned toward them timidly, and glanced in great doubt and
distress from them to Wells. He did not know them, and she had a dim
idea that they ought to be introduced, but how was it to be done, and
what would he say?

"I am glad you have come," she said gently. "Will you sit down?"

Now what should she say? "This is Mr. Wells Burton?" And if she did,
what would they say, or would he notice them?

He did not give her long to study the question. He swung himself from
the piano stool and went towards the staring children.

"How are you, Lucius?" he said, nodding pleasantly, as though they had
visited together all their lives. "So this is your little sister Lucy.
Why, Lucius, how far ahead of her you have grown! Aren't you the same
age?"

Lucius nodded.

"And yet you are a head taller! That's good. I always like to see a boy
taller than a girl. He can take care of her better. How old are you,
Lucy? Ten? I had a little sister once who would be just your age now
if she had lived. Her name was Lorine. Well, what are we going to do
first?"

"What's that?" asked Lucy, pointing her small thin finger at the
shining case of the piano.

"That," said Wells, "is a music box. It plays any tune that you are a
mind to make it. Do you want to hear it?"

He seated himself again on the music stool, and the group closed in
around him, while he rushed through waltzes and marches, and snatches
of tunes which he hummed and whistled.

Christie in her delight and relief almost forgot that she was hostess,
and had the great care of entertaining the Cox children on her heart.
Indeed, from that moment she had no need to feel it a burden. Wells
gave himself to the work with such zeal and success, telling stories,
singing songs, playing tunes, answering questions, that when, promptly
at five o'clock, Mr. Keith made his appearance, he found the five young
people well acquainted, and apparently entirely satisfied with one
another.

There was no denying that both Lucius and Lucy were a good deal
startled at the coming of the minister. They knew him by sight, and had
scud over the fields in alarm many a time to avoid speaking to him,
or rather having him speak to them, but, finding that he took very
little notice of them, that the others were glad to see him, and that
he gave most of his attention to the new piano, they settled down, the
startled look going out of their eyes, and I don't think either of them
know just when they began to join in the talk, and even answer the
minister's questions, without feeling afraid.

And now the supper was ready. That wonderful supper, the like of which
the Cox children had never seen. How their plates were heaped up with
the warmed up potatoes, what dishes of hot apple sauce did they make
away with! And as for the bread, Christie had as much as she could do
to keep from looking her astonishment, for though the visitors were
frightened at the idea of sitting down to a table covered with a white
cloth, and using knife and fork, yet the taste of the food had overcome
their timidity to such an extent that they gave themselves up to the
joy of eating and having enough.

It was when they were all back in the parlour, the father talking with
Mr. Keith, and the young people gathered into a corner by themselves,
that Lucy Cox spoke suddenly, with the air of one who had puzzled over
this thing long enough and now felt determined to have satisfaction.

"Look here, I want to know now what you did it for?"

"Did what?" asked startled Christie, for Lucy had pushed away her
bangs, and her great black eyes were fixed on Christie's face.

"Had us come here, me and Lucius, and eat supper and have cake and milk
and good things, and sit in your big nice chairs and see that machine
and all. What did you do it for?"

Her voice was so loud and earnest that it had stopped the talk of the
boys, and Wells was looking right at Christie with a curious smile on
his face, that said to her:

"Yes, if you please, I am interested in that very same question. What
did you want of the little Coxes?"

"We wanted you to have a good time," said Christie, looking down, her
cheeks growing red. "We thought you would like it, and we wanted you
to."

"What for?" It was Lucy again; she had a talent for asking questions,
it seemed, and she kept those black eyes fixed on Christie.

Wells laughed a very little, he could not help it. That was coming
right to the point. Why should she be so anxious to have the little
Coxes have a good time? To be sure he had a dim idea what she was
after, but how was she going to explain to them? That was just what
Christie did not know. She hesitated a little, and glanced timidly up
at Wells.

He would help her if he could; she began to understand this thoroughly,
but his face told her that he did not see how she was going to answer
this.

She looked over at Mr. Keith, but he was busy with her father, their
voices dropped low, and their faces looking as though earnest words
were being said; Christie would not have interrupted them for a great
deal.

She must help herself out, and to do so she must begin at the beginning.

"Do you know about Jesus Christ, Lucy?"

"No. I don't want to know any stories now. I want you to tell me what
you did this for?"

"I am trying to tell you. Don't you truly know anything about Jesus
Christ?"

"No."

"Then," said Christie, a little shocked, and more doubtful than ever
how to tell her story, "you know about God, don't you?"

"Not much; and that hasn't got anything to do with it, anyway."

"Yes it has. It has everything to do with it. Lucy, you know God made
you, don't you?"

Lucy nodded.

"Well, He wanted you to have a good time here, and He wanted me to, and
everybody, and He made a beautiful world and sunshine and everything
so we could. But there is a wicked spirit named Satan who hates us and
wants us to be ugly and unhappy; he made us do wrong things. Lucy, do
you know about Heaven?"

"No."

"Well, that is the world where God lives, and it is beautiful, and
there is nothing bad there ever, and God wanted us all to come there
and Satan didn't. Then Jesus, God's son, said He would come and help
us, and He came away from Heaven and died for us, and helped everybody,
and showed us what to do to get away from Satan, and get ready to go to
Heaven."

"But I want to know what you wanted Lute and me to come over here to
supper for, and gave us lots of good things? That don't tell."

Christie looked pained and puzzled, and stole another glance at Wells,
which made that young fellow feel as though it would be worth a good
deal to understand this story as well as he did multiplication, for
instance, so that he might help Christie. But he had not the least idea
what to say, so he kept still. Christie tried again.

"Lucy, I belong to Jesus Christ. I am His servant, and He told me He
wanted me to ask you to come here and have a good time."

"Why does He?"

"Because He loves you, and wants you to belong to Him. He has a
beautiful place in Heaven that He wants you to live in, and He wants
you to get ready to go."

"How will I get there?"

"Why, He will send for you as soon as you are ready. But you must get
ready first, and there is a good deal to do."

Lucy looked down at herself.

"I haven't got any better clothes," she said gravely, "and I haven't
got any more ribbon to cover up the holes; I found this on the road. I
can't get any more ready than I am. And I don't know as I want to go,
anyhow. Besides, you ain't told the truth; that ain't got nothing to do
with Lute and me coming here to supper."

"Look a here," said Lucius, speaking for the first time, "you had
better keep still. We're having a good time, and you needn't go and
spoil it."



CHAPTER XX

ENTERTAINING COMPANY

"I DON'T want to spoil it," declared Lucy, "I want to know why; and she
said she'd tell me."

"I tried to," said poor Christie, "but you don't understand. Lucy, see
here, if you knew Jesus Christ, you would understand all about it."

"Where is He?"

"He went back to Heaven, but He can see from there away down here, and
hear what we say, and He tells His servants what to do. He told me to
ask you to come here to supper, and make you have a good time."

"I don't believe it."

What was to be done with the little sceptic?

Poor Christie looked from one to another of the group in dismay. If
there was any one thing she had been in the habit of, all her life, it
was being trusted. What to say next to a person who coolly told her she
did not believe what she had said, was more than Christie knew. Wells
looked both troubled and amused. The ignorance of the little heathen
before him was simply amusing to him, but he was troubled to think that
he really did not know how to help Christie in the least.

At this point, Mr. Keith drew his chair toward the circle. He had heard
some of the last words, while Mr. Tucker was answering a call to the
kitchen, and it seemed to him time to give the young hostess a little
help.

"What is being talked about here?" he asked, smiling brightly on them
all, especially on Christie, who gave a relieved sigh as she saw him
move toward them.

But Lucy did not choose to pitch her red-hot questions or denials at
him, so sat silent and abashed.

Christie gently explained.

"Lucy wanted to know why I wanted her and Lucius to have a good time,
and I told her Jesus told me to make them as good a time as I could,
and she doesn't think that can be so."

"I see," said Mr. Keith; "she does not know Jesus, and does not see why
He should care whether she has a good time or not. Is that it?"

Lucy nodded.

Mr. Keith looked about him to see what he could find to help in
explaining a wonderful old truth to this little dark mind. Mr. Tucker
had come back from the kitchen and had Nettie in his arms, and she
was intently listening to him. The two sat down together in one of
the chairs near, and there was such a look of fatherly love and care
on Mr. Tucker's face that the minister thought he would serve as an
illustration for Lucy.

"I want you to look at Nettie in her father's arms, and then look at
his face, and tell me whether you think he would like to make her very
happy in any way that he could?"

The entire group turned and looked at the father and daughter, who were
having a good time without knowing that they were helping anybody.
Lucy, after a steady, searching look at them, turned to Mr. Keith again
and nodded her head.

"Very well. Now suppose that a bad man should come in at that door and
try to get Nettie to go with him. Do you think her father would be
willing she should go, and make no effort to save her?"

Lucy violently shook her head.

"Well, did not Christie tell you that you belong to the Lord Jesus?
Nettie only belongs to her father because God gave her to him, but you
belong to Jesus because He made you and keeps you alive. Now can't you
see that He wants you to have a good time, since He took the trouble to
make you and take care of you?"

Lucy considered. She was losing her timidity. Her fierce little heart
was full of new and strange thoughts; it was time she understood some
of them.

"Why don't He give me good times, then?" she asked, and her voice was
fierce. "We have horrid times at our house, always."

Mr. Keith needed another illustration

"Lucy," he said, bending toward her, "you remember that bad man whom
we supposed might come after Nettie? Suppose he were here, and Nettie
should want to go with him, and obey him, and her father should set
her down and say to her: 'My little girl, this is a bad man; he will
do nothing but harm to you, and if you will come to me, I will see
that he never touches you, and I will see that you get safely home to
a beautiful place I have waiting for you. But you must choose which of
us you will obey, or else I cannot help you.' And suppose Nettie should
choose the bad man?"

Karl and Wells looked at each other, for both saw that this was the
same sort of illustration which had been used for them, and had made
them decide that they were fools, but Lucy did not understand as well
as they had.

"She wouldn't do it!" she exclaimed in triumph. "Nettie wouldn't go
with the bad man a step. She would run right to her father."

The boys laughed, but Mr. Keith sighed.

"Yes," he said, "I think she would; and that is just the difference
between her and you. This Jesus who owns you, has been calling to you
all your life, coaxing you to choose between Him and the bad master who
wants you to follow him, and you have chosen the bad master."

"I haven't," said Lucy, her dark face growing red all over, and losing
every vestige of her timidity. In her rage, she stamped her foot. "I
haven't, either! It is no such thing. He never said a word to me,
nor the other one either. I never heard them speak in my life. And I
wouldn't do no such thing as that, and you needn't say I would."

Mr. Keith bent forward and spoke low. "Lucy," he said, "will you listen
to me very carefully? I want to tell you a story. There was once a
little girl who had a baby brother, and she took him out, one day, in
the fields to play, and set him down by the bank, and he rolled over
and got his dress and shoes all wet and muddy, and spoiled a ribbon
that the little sister had laid in his lap. Now this little sister ran
over to him, and as she ran, she heard two people speaking to her.

"One said, 'Little rascal! He is always getting you into trouble, and
now mother will whip you for letting him get muddy, and he has spoiled
your ribbon, too. Shake him as hard as you can, and slap his arms and
his hand.'

"The other voice said, 'He couldn't help tumbling over; he is only a
little fellow. He did not do it on purpose; and he does not understand
that he has hurt your ribbon. Kiss him, and tell him you are sorry he
fell; and tell mother that you will take better care of him next time.'

"Those two voices were, the Lord Jesus who made this little girl, and
the bad man who wanted to keep her away from her home in Heaven that
Jesus had made ready for her.

"And the little girl said to Jesus, 'I won't! I won't! I'll slap him as
hard as I can. I don't care if he is a baby.'

"Now which master did she choose to obey?"

You should have seen Lucy's face then! It was a curious study! Red,
indeed, but not angry; rather astonished beyond words to express, and
ashamed. She dropped her eyes to the floor, and made no answer at all,
and had no question ready.

After a moment's waiting, Mr. Keith said gently:

"There are always those two voices talking to people, and they are
always choosing which they will obey. The thing is that it has been
left for them to choose. The Lord Jesus wants willing servants. We must
decide for Him, then He will do all the rest. It is true that He told
His servant Christie to ask you and Lucius to come here to-night, and
to make you as happy as she could, and to tell you what He wanted of
you, but He will not make you love Him whether you want to or not; you
can still go on serving the bad master if you choose. But you must not
blame Him for not giving you a happy life if you will not have Him for
a friend."

Mrs. Tucker had now come in, and Mr. Keith withdrew his chair and
joined the other group. The boys looked at one another, and then at
Lucy, who still had her eyes on the carpet. It was an embarrassing
time. Nobody knew what to say next. At last Wells came to the rescue.

"What if we young folks should play some games together? Christie, do
you suppose your mother would let us go to the kitchen?"

Christie arose promptly, giving Wells a grateful look as she hastened
away to make ready the room.

I suppose the little Coxes never even dreamed of a nicer time than they
had there for the next hour.

It appeared that Wells not only knew all sorts of games, but he knew
how to explain them to others, and to be patient with dullness, and
good-natured over mistakes.

And you know yourselves that it is not every boy or girl either who can
do these last things.

The fun grew so great that after a time the father and mother and
minister came to look on. Yet through it all, Lucy Cox kept a watchful
eye on the minister and on her opportunities, and when at last she
stood close to him she said suddenly, speaking low:

"Who told you?"

"Who told me what, my child?" he answered, thus suddenly called from
the bewilderments of blind-man's-buff.

"That about me and Tommy in the field."

He bent toward her:

"My child, no one told me. I saw it. I was passing that way, and I saw
little Tommy fall, and I saw the shaking and the slapping; and I am so
well acquainted with Jesus and with that evil spirit that I know as
well as though I had heard them, that one was coaxing you to do right,
and the other to do wrong. And I saw you choose to do the wrong thing."

Lucy pushed up the handkerchief from her blinded eyes and looked around
her, half frightened.

"I didn't see no one," she said doubtfully.

"No, the trees hid me from your view, but I saw you and Tommy
distinctly."

"But I mean them other two."

"Lucy, don't you know that you cannot see them with the eyes that you
have now? They are spirits, and our eyes are not made to see spirits."

Lucy sniffed contemptuously and drew down her handkerchief. "I don't
believe in nothing that I can't see!" she said, with a logic and wisdom
worthy of some who are older than she, and ought to know more.

She was caught just then, and had to go through the ordeal of being
discovered and taking her turn as catcher, but it took her not two
minutes to lay hands on Wells, and the moment her fingers touched the
nap of his coat sleeve, she triumphantly announced his name: "It's that
Burton boy. You can't humbug me!"

A few moments more and the changes of the game brought her back to the
corner where Mr. Keith still stood.

He bent toward her: "Lucy, did you ever hear the wind blow?"

"Course!" said Lucy, utter contempt in her voice. She thought the
minister was being very foolish in his talk.

"Then you are sure that there is such a thing as wind?"

"Of course I am."

"But did you ever see the wind?"

And now, for the first time, Lucy discovered where her own logic had
led her.

She said not a word in reply for several minutes: not indeed until she
had made the circuit of all the corners without getting caught, and was
back beside him again. Her voice had changed its tone and was almost
gentle as she said: "But I can hear the wind plain enough."

"And you can hear those two, speaking plainly to you, whenever you
choose to listen. They speak low."

Apparently Lucy had had all the lesson her mind could grasp. She said
no more.

Indeed there was little time after that. The game broke up.

The carriage came for Wells and he invited the minister to ride with
him, and the minister asked if there was not time for one song and a
prayer. So they went back to the front room and Wells played "There's a
Land that is fairer than Day," Mr. Keith taking a song leaflet out of
his pocket to furnish music, and then he and Wells and Karl sang it.
Christie tried to, it was one of their Sabbath-school pieces and she
knew it well, but it made the tears come so to hear the familiar tune
ringing out to her from the keys of her own piano, that they choked
her voice. Lucy and Lucius could only listen and stare. They had never
heard the song; they knew nothing about Sabbath-school.

Wells and the minister talked about that as they rode home in the
carriage.

"Those little chips ought to be gotten into the Sabbath-school," Wells
said. "They say they have never been in their lives. Why, they are
regular little heathen! Christie says they have no clothes to wear. I
must talk to my mother about that."

But the minister, though he was interested enough in the Cox children
and glad over the thought of getting them to Sabbath-school, made a
different answer from what Wells had expected. "After all, my boy,
they seem to be not much farther away from the right road than you and
Karl and some others who have been in Sabbath-school all your lives,
or at least have been to church and known all about these things. So
far as getting home is concerned, I suppose it makes little difference
whether we are not on the right road because we do not know about it,
or because we do not choose to take it, though I admit that it might
make a great difference in the degree of blame that belongs to us."

What was a boy like Wells to answer to such a sentence? He thought
about it a while, and then concluded that there was really nothing to
say. And once more, he wondered why he had been, and continued to be,
such an idiot.


It was nine o'clock of the next forenoon. The kitchen where the Tuckers
sat with their work was as neat and trim as Christie's hands could make
it. She had washed and dried and set away the dishes, while her mother
mixed bread, and then she had swept and polished the stove and done all
the last little things to make a room look neat and comfortable, while
Mrs. Tucker washed the baby's face, and fed him his bread and milk,
and tucked him away for his morning nap. Now she was sitting by the
window, a round basket beside her full of bright coloured rags which
she was stripping into pieces about half an inch wide, and Christie
was hunting her thimble to be ready to sew them together and make more
of the plump bright balls which were slowly gathering in the barrel in
the wood-house cupboard. The Tuckers had been for nearly three years
getting material enough together to make a rag carpet. It was slow
work, because in that family things had to be worn a very long while
before they were ready to be stripped into rags. If it had not been for
their friend the tailoress, who declared she had not time to make a
carpet, and who saved all the waste bits for the Tuckers, it would have
taken them longer. As the matter stood now, mother and daughter were
beginning to say cheerily to each other:

"By next winter I guess we will have rags enough for a bedroom carpet,
and won't that be nice?"

Time was when their hopes had been to get enough for the great front
room, but as that had blossomed so lately into a carpet with real
flowers and vines, it was mother's bedroom that was thought of now.
There was a rag carpet already on the floor, but it was very old, and
looked uglier every day to Christie, who knew how she wanted "Mother's
room" to look.

They three, mother and Christie and Nettie, had the room to themselves.
Nettie occupied her own little chair and was hushing her dolly, and
occasionally speaking low to her mother.

"Couldn't you tear rags a little softlier, don't you think? I am afraid
my baby won't get to sleep to-day if there is such a noise."

The mother laughed a little, reminding her motherly daughter that her
baby slept right through all the noise, but promising also, in soothing
tone, to try to be more careful.

Now she held up a worn little skirt to the light and appealed to
Christie as she came with needle and thread.

"I don't know about this, child. Perhaps we ought to save it. It would
just fit Lucy Cox, and while there isn't much strength to it, it would
be better than none, as long as it lasted. I don't believe that she had
any on yesterday."

"I know she hadn't," Christie said. "Her dress skirt came unpinned
and I fixed it for her, and I saw she had none on. Mother, I wish we
could think of some way to get clothes for them, so they could go to
Sabbath-school. You don't know how strangely Lucy talks! She don't
understand about things, and you can't tell her, because, some way,
there is no place to begin, though Mr. Keith did make her understand a
little. He knows how. Mother, he made a story out of father and Nettie
that helped her to understand about God. I wish you could have heard
what he said. It was such a nice thing, and Nettie looked so cunning in
father's arms."

"He told us about it," said Mrs. Tucker, in a low voice that was full
of feeling. "He told your father that he had been using him to show a
little girl the way to Heaven. And your father said that was queer,
since he did not know the way there himself. And then they had a real
sober talk. He knows how to do things, Christie. I kind of believe that
he will get hold of your father. We must contrive some way to help
those Cox children. They ought to be in Sunday-school. I mean to speak
to Mrs. Baker about them, when I go in with the sewing. I must try to
do that this very afternoon."

Then she folded the little skirt and laid it aside. It would make a
very bright strip in the carpet, but she could not afford to use it.
"When folks have so little to give," she said, "we must just be saving
of the odds and ends."

"Mother," said Christie, "do you think we used the things as Mr.
Fletcher meant?"

"I should think we made a beginning, child, and a very good one. If
Mr. Keith managed to show Lucy Cox something that she understood about
God, why, there is no telling where that will end. And if Mr. Keith has
got hold of your father, there is no telling where that will end: I'm
pretty sure it will mean a good deal to me; I need him, child. Things
are just beginning, and I suppose if it hadn't been for the furniture,
they wouldn't have begun."

Just how far this conversation would have reached if there had not been
an interruption, I don't know. But it was just at that moment that
Christie raised her eyes to the little front window and saw there what
made her drop her bag of rags, and her pink spool, and her ball already
half wound, and spring up with an exclamation that, Nettie complained,
"woked her baby completely!"



CHAPTER XXI

AN EXCITING TIME

"WHAT in the world is the matter now?" said Mrs. Tucker, a trifle
sharply, for Christie's sudden start had made her prick her finger, and
she looked for a bit of rag to wipe away the drop of blood.

"Oh, I am so sorry," said Christie, seeing the drop, "but, mother,
Wells Burton's carriage has stopped at the door, and a lady and
gentleman, and Wells himself, are getting out, and coming up the walk,
and it must be his father and mother."

"For pity's sake!" said Mrs. Tucker, rising too, and beginning to
hastily gather her work. "And the front room fire is all out! Pick up
the rags, Christie, quick, and don't let them see such a litter as
this."

Mrs. Tucker had only had a fire in her front room for a few weeks, but
she was already beginning to speak of it as a thing that it was hard to
get along without.

"It doesn't take long to get used to luxuries and call them
necessities," she said almost fretfully. "It does seem a pity, when we
have such a nice room."

Christie, too, was almost more fluttered than she had ever been before.
The little Tucker house sat back from the road, and there was time to
do quite a little talking before the company reached the door.

"Mother," said Christie, "I do wish they wouldn't come. I like Wells,
but his mother looks proud, and her dress is all silk and velvet. She
will think she must thank me, and I don't know what to say. I don't
want any thanks."

Then came the knock.

"Go to the door, child," said Mrs. Tucker, stuffing the last scarlet
rag frantically into the bag. "She won't bite you if she is in silk and
velvet. And as for her thanks, it is natural enough for her to want to
give them, since you saved the life of a boy like Wells."

By this time Christie was at the door.

"Good morning," said Wells. It was he who had knocked. "You did not
expect me this morning, did you? I found papa and mamma at home when
I reached there. They came last night, after all. Mamma, this is
Christie."

Then he stood back, and Christie found herself taken possession of. A
rustle of silk all about her, and herself folded in arms covered with
velvet, and her cheeks and eyes and lips showered with kisses, while
the tears stood in a pair of motherly eyes.

"My child," she said at last, and her voice reminded Christie of the
notes of her piano, "I couldn't write it, and I can't say it. God only
knows what you have done for me."

Was this thanks? Christie did not know. It certainly was not what she
had expected, and it was very sweet.

Mr. Burton pushed his way in, and stood shaking her mother's hand and
looking down on her, and saying, "God bless you, madam, for bringing up
such a daughter!"

And then he turned to Christie, and bent his bearded lips and kissed
her, as he might have kissed his daughter.

It was an exciting time. Wells stood apart, smiling, his eyes
glistening a little. He had never been able to say much about that
narrow escape of his—he had been very anxious to have his father and
mother come and say it. The waiting had seemed long to him—had seemed
almost an insult to Christie. Now that they had come, they did not
seem to have much to say, but the boy was satisfied. He felt that
both father and mother had thanked Christie in a way that she could
understand.

Nettie came forward at last, gravely, to get her share of attention.
She was used to a good deal of it. Mr. Burton at once took her in
his arms and kissed her, and then he kissed the great doll with its
wide-open eyes, and it was so plain that he did not know what he
was about, that they all laughed. It was wonderful how much less
embarrassed everybody felt after that. They all sat down somewhere,
Wells bringing a chair from the front room for his father, and before
she knew it, Mrs. Tucker was inquiring for the sick son, and telling
about a remedy that they used East which she believed might help him.

Of course the whole story of the journey had to be gone over again—how
the man in front of Christie came to explain about the ropes, and how
she had laughed at the idea of stopping the train, and how she had seen
Wells on the platform but a moment before, and then seen him disappear.
How she was sure it was Wells, for Karl had often told her about him,
and she had watched him herself many a time.

Then Mrs. Burton told of her anxiety when the train was delayed all
day, and of her feeling when they brought Wells up the steps, and how
he shouted, "Don't be frightened, mother, it is only a sprain, and I
have had a doctor who has almost cured me already."

"He told me all about it," she said, "every little thing. How you
bathed his ankle and took up a collection of handkerchiefs to bandage
it, and then did it so nicely. And really the doctor said if it had
been allowed to swell all day, with nothing done for it, it would have
been a bad business.

"Oh, I have wanted to come to you every day. And at night, sometimes,
when I would get thinking of it, I would almost feel as though I could
fly. I would have written, but every day I thought by the next I could
surely come out. But my poor boy has been so ill, this is the first
time that I could safely leave him, and wind and snow and rain have
done what they could to keep Mr. Burton at the West. Oh, it has been a
trying time!"

In the midst of all this, Wells slipped away. Christie wondered
afterwards when he went, she did not see him.

And Mr. Burton after joining in the talk for a few minutes and finding
that Mr. Tucker was in the upper lot, said he would go and see him
there. And Christie, looking around for Wells, missed him then, and
concluded that he had gone ahead, in search of Karl.

Meantime, there were some queer noises in the front part of the house.
It was like something falling. She looked out of the window, but all
she saw was Wells talking with Karl, and she concluded that the latter
meant to slip in by the front door, and go through the front room to
her bedroom and get his hands washed and his hair in order before he
appeared. What could he be tumbling? She hoped it had nothing to do
with her dear piano. What if he had tipped over the water pitcher and
the new carpet was getting a wetting! She wanted to go and see, but
Mrs. Burton was talking eagerly to her, and there was no chance to slip
away.

The time passed, and Karl did not come. He must be in dreadful trouble,
Christie thought. Neither did Wells, nor his father. She looked out of
the window a good deal, but there was nothing to be seen but the Burton
carriage being driven up and down to exercise the horses. At last even
they went out of sight, for the Tucker house was on a corner where
three roads met, and the carriage at last went around the house.

After what seemed to Christie a long time, Mr. Burton came back,
bringing her father with him, and then a great deal of the talk had to
be gone over, but she could not slip away, for Mrs. Burton had fast
hold of her hand all the time. And when she asked her father where Karl
was, all he had to say was, "he guessed he was around somewhere."

And from time to time came little noises from the front room. At last,
Christie decided that Karl had resolved on building a fire so that the
guests might get a glimpse of the glories of the front room. After
that, she was quiet.

It was not so very long before he appeared, his hair not wonderfully
combed, and his face flushed as though he had been taking a good deal
of exercise. He sat down, though, without a hint as to a fire in the
front room. Wells was behind him and did the talking.

"Mamma, have you asked Mrs. Tucker if she would agree to our plan?
Christie, isn't it a nice one? I hope you think so; I do."

"Softly, my son," said Mrs. Burton, smiling, "you go too fast. We had
not reached your plan yet. I'll suggest it now, though. Mrs. Tucker,
Wells tells me that your young people are not in school."

"No," said Mrs. Tucker, her motherly cheeks growing red. "We are out of
the district, you see, and we could not bring it about yet."

"And the school is not a desirable one, I hear. I have grown so nervous
over Wells' going into the city every day that we have made a change
and secured a teacher in the house for him, a noble young man who is a
friend of the pastor here, Mr. Keith, and most highly recommended by
him, and Wells wants Christie and Karl to join him at our house for
four hours of hard work every day. Mr. Hosmer is also a fine musician,
and Christie can commence lessons at once on the piano. Wells tells
me she has a nice little one of her own. Now, Mr. Tucker, if you will
lend your son and daughter to us every day for the next year, we shall
really consider it a favour, for Wells does not like to study alone,
and there are no young people here that he cares to have with him
except Christie and Karl."

What was to be said to such a wonderful sentence as that! I don't
wonder that it took even Mrs. Tucker's breath away, and that Mr. Tucker
sat silent, his lips working strangely, and his eyes growing too dim to
see even how pale Christie had grown, nor how she clutched at her chair
as if she were falling. The mother saw it, and drew nearer and put her
arm around her girl, while Mr. Tucker tried twice to speak before his
voice would obey orders. Then it quivered suspiciously:

"If there is any one thing that their mother and I have coveted for our
boy and girl, it was a chance to learn, and that we couldn't seem to
manage nohow. They are smart, and we knew they were, and we knew if we
could give them half a chance they would get along. Their mother has
taught them a good deal, and she was a good scholar in her day, but it
is all that we could do, and the way out seemed to be getting thicker
all the time. And now to have such a chance as this, all of a sudden,
it is most too much. I don't know what to say, nor how to say it."

"Don't say anything, my friend," Mr. Burton broke in, "except to
relieve this boy's anxiety." And here he put his arm around Wells, who
had drawn a chair to his side. "He wants to see Karl and Christie in
his schoolroom on Monday morning without fail; he worked all yesterday
morning getting the study tables and chairs arranged exactly to his
mind."

Well, there was more talk, and a little planning. The excitement
lessened to the grown people. They had learned to take even
astonishment in a calmer way than young blood can. But Christie could
distinctly hear the loud thuds of her own heart, and was occupied in
wondering some of the time whether it were possible that no one heard
it but herself. This thing that had come to her seemed too wonderful
for belief. She looked over at Karl, and rubbed her eyes, and wondered
if she might not be dreaming. Karl actually looked sober over it.

Not sorrowful, by any means. There was a light in his brown eyes that
seemed fairly to dazzle her, but his good strong face was as grave as a
man's, and almost seemed to have a man's thought on it. Christie could
not help thinking that Karl saw farther even than this wonderful going
to school. It was all arranged in a very short time, considering the
interests involved.

They were to begin on Monday at nine o'clock, and work until one; and
on two days of the week, they were to remain until three, Christie to
take a music lesson, and Karl to begin Latin and drawing.

"Of course they will lunch with us on those days," Mrs. Burton said,
rising, and buttoning her velvet cloak as she spoke. "We lunch at
two, and we shall be only too glad to have young faces about us so
often. Wells tells me that Christie is a good walker, but you need
not be troubled about her, Mrs. Tucker. Whenever it is in the least
unpleasant, the carriage can come for them as well as not, the horses
need exercise, and I shall always send them home in it when I think
they ought not to walk. Indeed, Wells expects to have his own pony
carriage here during the summer, and I presume he will insist on
driving them. Oh, don't speak of obligation, Mr. Tucker, don't, you
frighten us. Look at Wells, and think what might have been, but for
your brave child."

"Even if his life had been spared," added Mr. Burton. And then after a
moment he said, in a low voice, "We have one son who is helpless and a
sufferer."

At last they went away. Christie was glad. It seemed to her that she
could not have borne it another minute.

The moment the door closed after them, she laid her head in her
mother's lap and cried as though her heart would break. And the mother
smoothed back her hair, and tried to raise her, and said, "Why, what a
little goosie she is, to be sure!" But she said it in a queer-sounding
voice, and actually plashed a great tear on Christie's nose as she
spoke.

When Mr. Tucker came back from seeing his guests to the carriage, he
said, "Well, well, well!"

And Nettie who began to suspect that she really was not having her
share of attention, climbed into his arms and besought him to look
at her lovely dolly and not keep winking his eyes so. That made them
laugh. Even Christie sat up and laughed, with her face tear-stained.
Then the baby in the bedroom lifted up his voice and gave an
unmistakable squeal.

"He means to do the crying himself," said the mother, hurrying away,
glad, if the truth be told, to hide her face in the baby's neck for a
minute.

"Perhaps he's got something to cry for," said the father, "but I
don't, for the life of me, see what the rest of us mean. Karl, my boy,
are you standing on your head, do you suppose? Everything is getting
topsy-turvy. How about books, my boy? Can we think up any way to manage
them?"

"Karl," said Christie suddenly, "were you in the front room? I thought
I heard noises there like something tumbling. What could it have been?"

"Yes," said Karl, giving a quick start toward the door. "I was in there
and something tumbled too. I had a great time. Come in and see."

They rushed away, and Mrs. Tucker, with the baby in her arms, rose up
as if to follow them.

"Dear, dear!" she said. "I do hope nothing has happened to her piano.
If there has, I don't know what will become of that child. She is
getting the most ridiculous notions of fainting! Did you see her when
they were here? She turned as white as that tablecloth."

Before Mr. Tucker was ready to answer, they heard a queer little squeal
from Christie, and a louder one from Nettie, and then father and mother
went to the rescue.

What they saw there was enough to make anybody in his senses squeal a
little. The whatnot which had stood but an hour before with its rows
of empty shelves was filled now from floor to its topmost corner with
books. Books bound in red and green and russet brown, and brown and
gold and black. How wonderful they looked to Christie, who had all
her little life wanted books and never had any to speak of, I cannot
even pretend to tell you. She stood in front of the whatnot, her hands
clasped as if in awe, and her cheeks the colour of the red bindings
which gleamed down at her. No fear of fainting just then.

"Go and look at them," Karl was saying, just as his father and mother
appeared on the scene. "Just you open the covers and take a peep
inside. You'll see some fine writing, I can tell you. That boy can
write beautifully, and he says he is going to take lessons this term."
Karl's eyes added, "So am I," but he wasn't yet ready to trust his
voice to say such a wonderful thing as that.

"There's an arithmetic, let me tell you—the latest kind—two of 'em. He
said it was awkward, sometimes, for two people to use the same books.
And do you see that broad flat book away down under the whatnot? It was
too wide for any shelf. That is a geography and atlas—great coloured
maps, beauties! And there are histories, and stories about the sea and
the moon, and oh! I can't tell you! Why don't you go and look at them?"
For Christie still stood with clasped hands and swift-coming breath and
silent voice.

"Look here," said Mrs. Tucker, seizing hold of Karl, "what is all this
about? Where did those books come from, and how did they get in here?"

Karl laughed. "They came out of that box, mother, that lies out there
on the stoop. And we put them in the shelves, Wells and I. We had to
work like troopers, for we expected every minute that Christie would be
rushing in to see what the noise was, though his mother had promised to
keep hold of her if she could. A whole armful of them tumbled at once,
and it seemed to me that they made a noise like an earthquake. Father,
do you see now how we are going to manage about books?"

There were a great many questions to answer, of course, and Karl was
willing and ready to answer.

"Why, mother, he says these are his present. That the going to school
part is his mother's plan, and that it isn't a present, because it will
be a good deal nicer for him than to study there alone, and that his
father and mother say from what they hear of our family, they would
rather he would be with us than anywhere else, and that, he says, is
just selfishness—it's the nicest kind of selfishness that I ever heard
of," and Karl gave a genial laugh—"but that is the way he pretends to
look at it. And these books, he says, are his present, given because he
wants to give them. A good many of them are from his own library. He
says he has had them so long, and read them so much, that he is kind of
tired of them, and will be glad to have them out of the way. So that is
selfish, too, I suppose—" with another laugh—"but, father, did you ever
hear the like?"

"No," said Mr. Tucker, speaking slowly, and wiping his forehead with
his red handkerchief, "I must say I never did in my life. And there
seems to be no end to it, and nothing to say. I've used up about all
the language that I ever learned, and still it keeps coming. I'll tell
you what it is, my girl, it looks as though that journey which you took
to your Uncle Daniel's was going to be the greatest trip of your life.
Well, well, well!"

When Mr. Tucker said that, the family knew that there was nothing more
to be expected, excitement had reached its height, and he must have a
chance to be quiet.


After a time, Christie brought herself to the delight of handling
the wonderful books, examining them inside and out. Looking at the
illustrations and the authors' names and the publishers' names,
devouring, indeed, everything about them. Not the least interesting
part was the story on the fly-leaf:

   _Miss Christie Tucker. From her grateful travelling companion._

Or:

   _Christie, from Wells._

Or:

   _For my distinguished Surgeon, in Memory of many Pocket-handkerchiefs._

   _Miss Christie Tucker—From one who escaped the down train._

These were some of the inscriptions. The boy had exhausted his
invention in writing in each some reference to the eventful day when
their acquaintance began. The tears which had been pushed back by
excitement were creeping very near the front again, until Christie
opened a large, beautifully-bound volume of Abbott's delightful
history, and read on the fly-leaf—

   _Christie—In memory of Sarah Ann._

Then she laughed and the tears went back.

It was Mr. Tucker who finally found his voice again after discovering
baby at the piano just as he touched the key once, making it give forth
a sound that turned Christie suddenly from her books.

"Look here, mother, do you suppose we can any of us do such a kind of
every-day thing as to eat some dinner? In case we should want to, how
are we going to get it, I wonder? I hear the clock striking twelve!"

Whereupon Mrs. Tucker, who had been divided between her attempts to
show Nettie the pictures in a book, and to keep baby's eager hands from
it after he had been led away from the music, uttered an exclamation
that seemed to mean a great deal to her, and suddenly vanished.



CHAPTER XXII

LAST OF ALL

THE last thing that Karl and Christie did that night was to slip into
the front room and take a parting look at their treasures. There was no
fire in the stove, but both the children felt a glow all through them
as they looked about the pretty room and saw the gleam of the piano
keys, and the bright colours of the wonderful books.

"I feel as though I wanted to scream," said Christie. "I would shout
right out now, if father and mother wouldn't hear me, and be scared.
What does make you so sober, Karl? I have noticed you all day."

"Don't I look glad?" asked Karl, stooping over to straighten a book
that was tipping.

"Yes, you do, but you look sober, too. There is a new look, somehow; I
never saw it on your face before."

"It never was there before," he said, speaking with a sort of cheerful
gravity. "I've made up my mind to one thing, Christie, and I guess it
makes a difference with looks and everything; it does with feelings, I
know. I'm going to be a servant of the Lord Jesus Christ. I settled it
this morning, early. In fact I am a servant now. I have belonged to Him
all day, and I like it."

"Oh!" said Christie, drawing a long breath making a low, sweet sound of
pleasure after it, in a way that cannot be put on paper; "that is the
very best thing yet of all these best times. Karl, I'm too glad to tell
you anything about it. You will have to guess how glad I am. Won't you
tell me all about it? How came you to decide?"

"Well," said Karl, setting the lamp on the little table, and turning so
that he could look into Christie's eyes, "it is all mixed up with these
things. I don't suppose I could tell you how much I have wanted to go
to school and learn, and have you learn and have books and things. I
meant to do it some day, but once in a while I got in a hurry and could
not see how it was ever going to be done, and I would feel as though it
was too bad, anyhow. Sometimes when you would talk about these things,
I would think that if God thought as much of us as you said, he would
plan a way for us to go to school and learn. I said once that if I
could have books like other boys, I would be ready to belong to Jesus
and work for Him too.

"I felt dreadfully that day you went to Uncle Daniel's. I wanted you to
go, you know, I wouldn't have had you miss it for anything, and yet I
kept thinking that the money it took would have bought us a geography,
and what good would the going there just for a day do? Then, when you
came home and had such wonderful things to tell, something seemed to
say to me that God knew all about it, and sent you there to save Wells
Burton's life, and take care of that baby. And I thought maybe He knew
all about everything, and was planning for us.

"Then the things began to come, and the more they came, the more
astonished I was, and I began to feel as though it was almost certain
that God was doing it. Only I couldn't understand how it was going to
help about the books and the school. Then last night Wells told me he
had some books for you. I was so astonished, after all, to think that
God really was going to send books, that I didn't answer a word to
Wells. He did all the planning about getting them in slyly, and I kept
still.

"But I couldn't get to sleep for a long time last night. This morning I
got up before it was light, and I made up my mind, whatever the books
were, whether there was a geography or not, God was doing it all, and I
would belong to Him and serve Him. Yes, sir," said Karl, in excitement,
bringing his strong little fist down on the table, "I said I would,
whether I ever went to school a day in my life! And here this morning
there came two geographies and two arithmetics, and the school and all!
I never saw anything like it!" And here Karl, who had not let even
Christie see him cry for more than a year, dashed off two tears and
choked back several more.

The door leading from the kitchen into the hall opened, and they heard
their mother's voice:

"Children, are you standing in that cold room yet? You do beat all! Go
right away to bed! The books won't run away before morning, nor the
piano either, you may depend on that."


Wells was standing on the piazza steps the next Monday morning, waiting
to show the new scholars to the schoolroom. They came in ample time,
their cheeks rosy with the hasty walk, the excitement, or both. They
looked very neat and trim. Christie in her travelling dress, which her
mother had concluded might be worn for the first day or two, and Karl
in a neat jacket made out of his father's old coat. Under his arm he
carried what was worth more to him than all the new jackets in the
country—the two arithmetics and the two geographies.

"Here we are!" said Wells, gleefully opening the schoolroom door.

It was a long room, built quite at the end of the large old house,
and had a piazza running its entire length, with three glass doors
opening from it into the schoolroom. Framed in two of these doors
stood Christie and Karl, and looked about them in silent delight, not
unmingled with awe.

A carpet of mossy green covered the floor. At one end was a blackboard,
at the other a history chart, and all the spaces between were filled
with maps; larger maps than these two had ever seen before. The long,
wide centre table was strewn with books and writing materials, and had
cunning rows of drawers—a set for each of them, as Wells explained.
There were three large chairs of just the right height for the table,
and into one of these Christie presently sank, with clasped hands and a
look of such unutterable satisfaction on her face that Wells burst into
hearty laughter.

"I hope you'll like," he said, as soon as he could speak; "I hope
you'll like everything. I fixed up things just to my fancy; mamma
laughed at some of my notions, but I was sure you would like them.
Don't you think, for instance, that those globes look better over on
that green table where a fellow can get a chance at them, than they do
perched on those upper shelves?"

"Everything looks perfectly lovely," declared Christie, and her eyes
were on the cottage piano which occupied an alcove.

Wells' eyes followed hers.

"Yes, that's my piano. It has a good tone, I think; see if it hasn't!"

And he seated himself before it and ran his fingers over the keys in a
way which made the blood tingle in Christie's finger-tips.

He laughed at the look in her eyes.

"You can play better than that in a little while, I presume. I have no
talent for it. I just do it by hard drumming. Oh, Christie, what do
you think! The 'Seaside Library' woman has been heard from!—Fact!" he
added, as Christie's astonished, not to say shocked, eyes were raised
to his. "She wrote a long letter and tried to smooth over what she had
done. She said she had been miserable; I think she ought to have been,
don't you? Mamma thinks she must be very much changed, and I should
hope she was, since that day we met her in the cars. She sent a message
to you; what do you think of that? Said she had reason to thank you.
She did not say for what, but I suppose it was the seed cakes."

There was a gleam of fun in his handsome face, but it sobered again as
he said: "I suppose I ought to be glad that she is trying to behave
better, but you see I don't think I like anything about her."

"I am glad," said Christie, her eyes shining. "She knew she had
been doing what was wrong, and that was what made her so cross and
disagreeable. Don't you know when you have done something wrong it
makes you feel cross?"

Wells had no answer to this but a laugh, and a wise nod over at Karl.
He did not choose to confess how he felt when he knew he had done
wrong. The entrance of the professor interrupted the talk, and set the
schoolroom into a buzz of work.


Many interesting things have happened to Karl and Christie since that
time, but neither of them will ever forget that first wonderful day at
school.

There was somebody else who had reason to remember this day. It was
just at its close that Mrs. Burton called Christie to her room and
began to question about the Cox children. How old were they? Of what
size? What did they need in the way of clothing? Christie described
them as well as she could, and blushed over the question as to what
they needed.

"I think they need most everything, ma'am," she said hesitatingly. "I
don't feel quite sure what they need worst; they don't seem to have
anything."

"There are two suits of Wells' outgrown clothes which would probably do
for the boy," Mrs. Burton said thoughtfully, "but I don't know about
the little girl. Estelle's clothes would hardly be suitable for her.
Still, there are several good strong dresses which might be made over;
well, I'll see what can be done. I think we will drive out there this
afternoon and call on them, you and I, and perhaps your mother would go
with us and see just what they need most."

Christie's eyes were beautiful just then.

"Mother will go, ma'am," she said with great eagerness. "She knows all
about everything, and she feels ever so sorry for the Cox family. I
will take care of Nettie and the baby and let her go. She knows how to
help."

"Very well," Mrs. Burton said, smiling kindly on her.

In her own mind she believed that Christie too "knew how to help," but
it was very pleasant to see how wise the womanly little girl thought
her mother to be.

Christie was full of the scheme when she reached home. It was the first
thing she talked about after she opened the door.

"Oh, mother, Mrs. Burton is coming in the carriage at four o'clock, and
she says will you go with her to see Mrs. Cox and find out what they
need most? She is going to fix Lucius and Lucy up so they can go to
school, and to church, and everything. Oh, mother, isn't it splendid!"

"Me go with her in the carriage!" repeated Mrs. Tucker. "Bless my
heart! What does she want of me?"

But she went. Christie stood at the window with the baby in her arms,
and watched with intense satisfaction while Karl helped his mother into
the carriage precisely as he had seen Wells do to his mother a few days
before.


They were gone until nearly dark, and Mrs. Tucker came home with a
satisfied air; much had been accomplished.

"They are fixed out finely now, specially Lucius," she said, nodding
her head at Karl and Christie, but meaning the Cox children. "You two
will have as much as you can do not to envy them, I guess. Wells'
outgrown suit fits Lucius as well as though it was made for him, and
Lucy's doesn't want much fixing, though Mrs. Burton says her Estelle
wore it when she was fourteen. She must be a delicate girl. Lucy is
really a very pretty child when she gets dressed up. She put a blue
flannel suit on her, and it made her look like a lady. Her mother just
broke down and cried, but that didn't last long. The next thing she did
was to begin to sweep the room; and I thought that was a better sign
than the crying."

"Sweeping the room while you and Mrs. Burton were there!" exclaimed
Christie, aghast. That sort of politeness was not in keeping with her
mother's usual teachings.

"Yes, while we were there; and I was glad to see it too. That poor
woman hasn't had the heart to sweep her room this long time, and I
was afraid she had lost all care as to how things looked. It did me
good to see her start up and begin to pick up things and sweep. The
sweeping didn't last long. She said she forgot, for a minute, but she
did not notice that things were so bad; that is just it, she has been
too discouraged to notice. Now that Mrs. Burton has put a little heart
into her, she will wake up and try again, I do believe. That is a good
woman, Christie. There is a difference in rich people as well as in
poor ones."

"Mother, do you think she is a Christian?"

"No," said Mrs. Tucker, in a low voice, "I know she isn't—she said so,
but I guess she wants to be, and I can't help hoping that she is going
to be."

"Mother," said Christie softly, after a few minutes of quiet, "don't
you think the furniture, and other things, are beginning to work a
little bit in the way the old gentleman said he wanted them to?"

"I guess they are, child; I know they are setting me to thinking."


Saturday it rained. If it had not been for that, Christie was to have
gone to the depot with Karl when he took in the Saturday night's extra
supply of milk. As it was, she stayed at home and watched for him
with no little eagerness. The truth was, she was to have a new pair
of gloves for Sunday, and Karl had had very careful directions about
picking them out. She did hope he wouldn't make a mistake. He was later
than usual. She began to fear that it had grown too dark for him to
select the right shade.

"Did you get them?" was the first question she asked as at last he
opened the door.

You see, when a girl has as few new things as our Christie, a pair
of lisle thread gloves, at twenty cents, becomes a matter of great
importance.

"Yes," said Karl, "I got them, and I guess they are the right shade,
for Wells picked them out. He says he knows they are all right."

"Wells!" said Christie, with a little start. "How came he to?"

"Why, he offered to do it while I went over to the office, and I know
he understood how to do such things; he does them for his sister.
He was waiting for her. She came in on the train. She is a beauty,
Christie. But I got a good deal more than gloves. Something for you. I
never did see the beat."

"What is it?" asked Christie, sitting down in the nearest chair. "If
anything more comes to me, Karl Tucker, I shall give up!"

"Well, something has. A letter, for one thing, and a little bit of a
white box for another. Just as I was coming out of the post office, Hal
Parsons called me.—He is the one who was along that day and helped with
the piano.—

"'Halloo!' he said. 'Does Miss Christie Tucker live out your way now,
or don't you know her?'

"Then they all laughed. Those fellows never will get over laughing at
me about that time when I said I didn't know any such person. Well, I
told him I had made her acquaintance lately, and then Hal said I had
better step in and look after her property. And there was an express
package for you."

"An express package!" repeated Christie, her cheeks glowing. "What is
that?"

"Oh, it comes by express—on the cars—you know. A man has to go along
and take care of the things, and see that they get safely to the
express office. Then you have to sign your name, and the clerk gives
the package to you. There was nothing to pay. Here it is. What a speck
of a thing to send by express!"

Christie took the small white package bearing her name and looked at it
eagerly.

"What can it be?" she said, a great deal of suppressed excitement in
her voice.

"It can't be a piano," Karl said, laughing. "Nor a sewing machine, nor
a rocking chair, nor even a book. It is too little for anything."

"Oh, no," said Christie; "ever so many nice things are small. Don't
you know that locket which Mrs. Burton wears on her chain, what a tiny
thing it is; I suppose it cost a great deal of money. But of course
this isn't a locket."

"Open it, Christie, and let's see what it is."

But Christie turned away and laid it resolutely down on the supper
table.

"No, let's keep it until father comes in and we are all ready to sit
down. Then we'll have the nice time all together. We have a treat for
to-night, Karl. Little bits of soda biscuit, and the nicest maple syrup
you ever saw. Mrs. Burton sent us a pail full since you have been gone.
And oh! Karl. Dennis had a real load of things for the Coxes—meat, and
a sack of flour, and some butter, and I don't know what all. Won't they
have a nice Sunday?"

"Going to keep the letter too?" Karl asked. "Well, then, I'm off. Hurry
up your biscuit; father and I will be in in five minutes."

Ten minutes more of pleasant bustle and then baby was tied in his high
chair, and Nettie climbed into hers, and the happy family gathered
about their table.

"Now for the letter," said Father Tucker, as he tucked away a nice
biscuit. "Will your supper keep, my girl, while you read it out?"

Christie thought it would, and with her clean knife dexterously made
an opening and drew out the neat sheet of very handsome note paper,
written in a man's hand.

"Oh, Karl," she said in admiration, "what beautiful writing! I want you
to learn to write just like it."

"All right," said Karl cheerily. "Of course I can, as well as not. I'll
attend to it to-morrow."

Then the reading began.

   "DEAR LITTLE SUNSHINE,—

   "I cannot help calling you so, because on that long, long rainy day
which we spent together, you were the only ray of sunshine to be seen
anywhere, and you shone steadily and patiently all day, and reached
right into my heart, which I thought was too sad and gloomy ever to get
into sunshine again. Do you remember me, I wonder? And the number of
times I looked at my watch, and how you laughed at me—a sweet, bright
little laugh—and then how gently you apologized for doing what was no
harm at all? Oh, I remember every little thing you said and did that
day. I had nothing else to do, and I cannot help thinking that your
sunshine had a great deal to do with helping me keep my senses, and
your praying did, I believe, great things for me.

   "Do you remember my promise, little woman? I was to write you a letter—"

("Oh," said Christie, looking up, "he did say he would, but I thought
he would forget all about it. He promised to tell me—well, I'll read
on. Oh, dear, I hope it did do some good, though I don't see how it
could!")

Then she read:

   "If our five hours' stop in the rain and the mud did any possible good
to my friend, in any way, I was to tell you of it. Remember? Well, now,
I have a wonderful story to tell you. There was a great physician whom
I happened to know was travelling that day, and would take a train at
Brightwood Junction about noon, for his home in a far-away city. My
plan was to get to the city in time to connect with the Brightwood
cars, and get out there before the noon train would leave, and beseech
that doctor to go on with me, and try to do something for my friend.
This was my plan. But it so happened that nothing of this was true. The
great doctor did not go to Brightwood Junction at all, as I had been
telegraphed that he would. At the last minute, he changed his mind and
went to the City to get the East-bound train on the Wabash railroad.
But the same storm which made trouble for us worked mischief on the
Wabash road, and there that doctor sat and waited, and hoped that the
train would leave. Pretty soon came into the depot a man, a friend of
mine, who had been waiting at our depot for two hours for me, and then
gone around to the Wabash depot in the hope that I might have come that
way. The first person he saw was this doctor, whom I had telegraphed
him I was going to try to bring with me. He rushed up to him and told
his eager story, and the doctor went away with him to my friend's sick
room.

   "When I reached there at night, the great doctor had just gone, having
stayed with her all day, and done for her what he hoped would save her
life. Now, little friend, let me stop right here and say with all my
heart, Thank God! And next to Him, thank you, for your faith and your
prayers. It would take a great deal to convince me that your praying
all that day had not a great deal to do with the strange providences
that led us all. For see! Suppose I had been able to carry out my
plans: I should have gone as fast as I could to Brightwood Junction and
so missed the doctor entirely. Or suppose I had appeared at the station
on the train which my friend expected, then he would not have gone to
the other station at all, and in that way we would have missed him.

   "Dear little Sunshine, he is a wonderful God. I know you will be glad
to hear that I have learned to pray. I got down on my knees that night,
and told Him that I would serve Him for ever, and I thanked Him for
overturning my foolish plans, and carrying out His own that day. I
wonder how many things were accomplished by that rain storm? Wouldn't
you like to have the story of that day written out for you? And now, my
little woman, I have taken the first leisure moment in which to write
you. There has been a great deal to do, and you see my letter comes
from a long way off. I was married ten days ago to the friend whose
life was saved that Christmas Day, and I carried her away at once for
change of air. She is growing strong and well. In a little box which
you will find at the express office, there is a wedding present for you
to help you to keep in mind the time when you laughed and prayed a soul
out of sore trouble. My wife sends her love to you, and says kiss baby
twice—for us both. Write and tell me how often you look at my wedding
present.

                           "Yours, for Christ and Heaven,

                                          "LEONARD RAMSEY."

"Well, I never!" said Mrs. Tucker.

"I should think as much!" said Mr. Tucker.

"Pooh! Pooh!" said the baby, but he did not mean any disrespect. He was
simply trying to blow out the light.

As for Karl, he pushed the package toward Christie and said in unusual
excitement:

"Open it, quick! I most guess what is it."

"What!" said Christie.

And "What?" said Nettie, her eyes bright with expectation.

"I'm not going to tell; open it; quick!"

So amid silence, except from the baby who gravely and steadily pursued
his scientific project, the seal of the package was broken. It showed
a small white box, with a string tied around it. The string was cut
and the lid lifted. It showed simply a puff of white cotton! Then Karl
seized the box and held it to his ear.

"I knew it!" he said in intense excitement. "It is alive."

Christie's face was growing pale. She took back the box and pushed away
the cotton. Certainly it was alive, and it spoke very distinctly too.

"Tick-tock, tick-tock!" was what it said.

"Do for pity's sake lift it up," said Mrs. Tucker.

And Christie lifted it up. A small gleaming gold watch, which despite
its journey from the city, was steadily engaged at its work saying
"Tick-tock, tick-tock!"

Don't expect me to tell you what any of them said or did for the next
half-hour, for really I cannot do it.

"Well," said Karl, drawing a long breath when the excitement was
somewhat abated, "I know one thing, I know I was never so glad of
anything in my life as that I stayed at home Christmas and you went to
Uncle Daniel's."

"But I didn't go!" said Christie, bursting into laughter.

Then they all laughed.



                             THE END.



UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME
————————————————————————

                              THE

                          ROYAL SERIES

THE new issue of this well-known library has been expressly designed to
meet the demand for cheap but tasteful editions of the old favourite
authors. The large, clear type, good paper, and dainty bindings
render the volumes eminently serviceable both for home use and for
presentation.

     LITTLE WOMEN   _     _     _     _     Louisa M. Alcott
     GOOD WIVES     _     _     _     _     Louisa M. Alcott
     ROBINSON CRUSOE_     _     _     _     Daniel Defoe
     GRIMM'S FAIRY TALES  _     _     _     Brothers Grimm
     TOM BROWN'S SCHOOL DAYS    _     _     Thomas Hughes
     ALICE IN WONDERLAND  _     _     _     Lewis Carroll
     UNCLE TOM'S CABIN    _     _     _     Mrs. H. Beecher Stowe
     WHAT KATY DID  _     _     _     _     Susan Coolidge
     WHAT KATY DID AT SCHOOL    _     _     Susan Coolidge
     FAVOURITE FAIRY TALES_     _     _     _     _     _
     THE WATER-BABIES     _     _     _     Charles Kingsley
     ANDERSEN'S FAIRY TALES     _     _     Hans Andersen
     HELEN'S BABIES _     _     _     _     John Habberton
     FIVE WEEKS IN A BALLOON    _     _     Jules Verne
     THE ARABIAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS     _     _     _
     THE BASKET OF FLOWERS_     _     _     G. T. Bedell
     THE YOUNG FUR-TRADERS_     _     _     R. M. Ballantyne
     A WONDER BOOK  _     _     _     _     Nathaniel Hawthorne
     A JOURNEY INTO THE INTERIOR OF THE EARTH
                                            Jules Verne
     FROM THE EARTH TO THE MOON _     _     Jules Verne
     ROUND THE MOON _     _     _     _     Jules Verne
     ÆSOP'S FABLES  _     _     _     _     _     _     _
     STORIES FROM THE BIBLE     _     _     _     _     _
     TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE     _     _     Charles and Mary Lamb
     DAISY    _     _     _     _     _     Elizabeth Wetherell
     THE HEROES     _     _     _     _     Charles Kingsley
     AROUND THE WORLD IN EIGHTY DAYS  _     Jules Verne
     CHRISTIE'S CHRISTMAS _     _     _     "Pansy"
     UNGAVA   _     _     _     _     _     R. M. Ballantyne
     BLACK BEAUTY   _     _     _     _     Anna Sewell
     THREE PEOPLE   _     _     _     _     "Pansy"
     ADRIFT IN A BOAT     _     _     _     W. H. G. Kingston
     DAISY IN THE FIELD   _     _     _     Elizabeth Wetherell
     HOLIDAY HOUSE  _     _     _     _     Catherine Sinclair

     ————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
              WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED, LONDON, E.C.4.






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