She was unfrainly glad to see her lost larger safe, and finding that the new friends were likely to put her in the way of paying her debts, this much harassed matron permitted her to pack up her possessions, leaving one trunk as a sort of hostage. Then with promises to redeem it as soon as possible, Christy said goodbye to the little room where she had hoped and suffered, lived and labored so long, and went joyfully back to the humble home she had found with the good laundress. All the following week, Christy colored round as Miss Wilkins called the miscellaneous lightwork she let her do. Much washing, combing, and cleaning pinafore of children fell to her share, and she enjoyed it amazingly. Then when the elder ones were packed off to school, she lent a hand to any of the numberless task housewives to do from morning to night. In the morning, when the other work was done, and little Vicka sleep or happy with her playthings, Christy collapsed the laces, sprinkled muslins, and picked out edgins at the great table where Miss Wilkins stood, ironing, fluting, and crimping until the kitchen bustled all over the immaculate frails and flounces. It was pretty delicate work, and Christy liked it, for Miss Wilkins was inept at her trade and took as much pride and pleasure in it as any French Bajie Le Souce tripping through the streets of Paris with a tree full of cookess caps, capes, and petticoats born before her by a half-invisible boy. Being women, of course, they talked as industriously as they worked. Fingers flew and tongues clapped with equal profit and pleasure. And by Saturday, Christy had made up her mind that Miss Wilkins was the most sensible woman she had ever knew. Her grammar was an outrage upon the memory of Lindley Maury, but the goodness of her heart would have done honor to any saint in the calendar. She was very plain, and her manners were by no means elegant, but good temper made that homely face most lovable, and natural refinement of soul made mere eternal polish of small account. Her shrewd ideals and odd sayings amused Christy very much, while her good sense and bright way of looking at things did the younger woman a world of good. Mr. Wilkins devoted himself to the making of shoes and the consumption of food with the silent regularity of a placid animal. His one dissipation was tobacco, and in a fragrant cloud of smoke he lived and moved and had his being so entirely that he might have been described as a pipe with a man somewhere behind it. Christy once laughingly spoke of this habit, and declared she would try it herself as she thought it would make her as quiet and as undismodestive as Mr. Wilkins, who, to tell the truth, made no more impression on her than a fly. I don't approve on it, but he might do us. We all have to have our comfort somehow. So I let Lisha smoke as much as he likes. He lets me gab. So what's about Fay, I reckon? Answered Mrs. Wilkins from the suds. She laughed as she spoke, but something in her face made Christy suspect that at some period of his life Lisha had done worse in subsequent observation confirmed his suspicion and another one also that his good wife had saved him and was gently easing him back to self-control and self-respect. But as old fellow Quinkly says, she so gently folded up his faults and silenced that few guest him, and loyalty paid him that respect which she desired others to bestow. It was always, Lisha and me, I'll ask my husband, or Lisha I'll know, he don't say, but he's a dreadful smart man, and she kept up the friction so dear to her wifely soul by endowing him with her own virtues and giving him the credit of her own intelligence. Christy loved her all the better for this devotion, and for her sake treated Mr. Wilkins as he possessed the strength of Samson and the wisdom of Solomon. He received her respect as if it was his due, and now and then graciously accorded her a few words beyond the usual scantily allowance of morning and evening greetings. At his shop all day, she only saw him at meals and sometimes of an evening, for Miss Wilkins tried to keep him at home safe from temptation, and Christy helped her by reading, talking, and fiddling with the children so that he might find home attractive. He loved his babies and would even relish his precious pipe for a time to ride the little chaps on his foot, or amuse Vic with a shout of rabbits on the wall. At such times the entire content in Miss Wilkins' face made tobacco fumes indurable, and the burden of a dull man's presence less oppressive to Christy, who loved to play her debts in something besides money. As they sat together finishing off some delicate laces that Saturday afternoon, Miss Wilkins said, It's fair tomorrow I want you to go to my meeting and hear my minister, it'll do you good. Who is he? Mr. Powell. Christy looked rather startled, for she had heard of Thomas' power as a rampant, radical, and infidel of the deepest dye, and been warned never to visit that den of an equity called his free church. Why Miss Wilkins? You don't mean it, she said, leaving her laced to drive the most critical stage. He had do, answered Miss Wilkins, settling down her flat iron with emphasis and evidently preparing to fight valiantly for her minister, as most women will. I beg your pardon, I was a little surprised, for I heard all sorts of things about him. Christy hastened to say, Did you ever hear him, or read out of his writings? Demanded Miss Wilkins with a calm air, never, then don't judge. You don't go here and see that blessed man, and if you don't say he's the shade of a great rock and a desert land, I'll give up. cried the good woman, waxing poetically in her warmth. It will, I will, to please you, if nothing else. I did go once just because I was told not to, but it did not preach that day and everything was so peculiar, I didn't know whether to like it or to be shocked. And this kind of saying at first, I'm free to confess, and not as church as some folks like, but there ain't no place but that big enough to hold the crowds that want to go. For the more he's abused, the more folks' flocks to see him, to get the money's worth through, I believe, for though ain't no more popes and pews, there's a sight of butterly love round them seats, in pious practice, as well as powerful preaching, and as shabby desk. He don't need no commandments painted up behind him to read on Sunday, for he keeps them in his heart and life all the week as honest as man can. There Miss Wilkins paused, flushed, and breathless, with her defiance, and Christy said candidly, I did like the freedom and good will there, for people sat where they liked, and no one frowned over shut, pew doors at me a stranger. An old black woman sat next to me, and said, amen, when she liked what she heard, and a very shabby young man was on the other, listening as if his soul was as hungry as his body. People read books, laughed, and cried, clapped when pleased, and hissed when angry, that I did not like it. No more does Mr. Power. He don't mind the crying and the smiling as it's natural, but noise and disrespect of no kind ain't pleasing to him. His own folks behave the common, but strangers go and act as they like. Think of that, there ain't no balance to the word free. Then we are picked at for the doings, and Mr. Power has to carry other folks' sins on the shoulder. For this is, it ain't much matter after all, if the soul is well-meaning. Children always make a noise at strival after what they most want, and I shouldn't wonder if the Lord forgive all our shortcomings of that sort since we are hankering and reaching for the truth. I wish I had heard Mr. Power that day, for I was striving after peace with all my heart, and he might have given it to me. I said, Christy, interested and impressed with what she heard. Well, I know, dear, I guess not. Peace ain't give to no one all of a sudden. It gently comes through much tribulation, and a sort that comes hard as its best with having Mr. Power would applaud and horror you, so to speak, and so good seed-liberal, than if for you one barren, grounding things would have drove, and the Lord give you a harvest according to your labor. Who did you hear? asked Miss Wilkins, pausing the starch and clapped vigorously. A very young man who seemed to be airing his ideals and beliefs in the frankest manner. He belabored everybody and everything, upset church and state, God-names arranged heaven and earth to suit himself, and evidently meant every word he said. Much of it would have been ridiculous if the boy had not been so thoroughly in earnest. Sincerely always commands respect, and though people smile, they liked his courage and seemed to think he would make a man when his spiritual wild oats were sown. I ain't a doubt on it. We often have such, and ain't a-all empty talk, neither. Some of them are surprisingly bright, and all mean so well I don't never reluck to him. They must blow off the steam somewheres, else they'll bust with the big ideas of swelling in them. Mr. Power knows and gives them the chance they can't find no where else. Appears to me, added Miss Wilkins, ironing rapidly as she spoke. That folks is very like clothes, and a sight has to be done to keep them clean and whole. All of us has to lend a hand in this dreadful mix-up wash, and each do our part, same as you and me as now. There's a scrubbing and billing, retching and bluing dine, and folding, ironing, and polishing, before any of us is fit for wear a Sunday morning. What part does Mr. Power do, asked Christie, much amused at this particularly appropriate semi? Living in the building? That's always the hardest and the hardest part. He starts the dirt and gets to staying out and leaves him ready for other folks to finish off. It ain't such a pleasant work as hanging out with such pretty workers doing up, but someone's gotta do it, and them that strongest does his best, though they don't get half so much credit as them as polishes and crimps. That's showy work, but it wouldn't be no use if the things weren't wear wash first, and Miss Wilkins thoroughly surveyed a snowy muslin cap, with his border fluted like the petals of a prim white daisy that hung in her hand. I like to be a washerwoman of that sort, but as I'm not one of the strong, I'll be a laundress, and try to make purity as attractive as you do, said Christie soberly. Oh, my dear, it's warm and wearing work, I do assure you. And hard to give satisfaction, try as you may. Crowns of glory ain't war in this world, but it's my opinion that them that does the hard jobs here will stand a good chance of having extra bright ones when they get through. I know you will, said Christie warmly. Land alive, child. I wasn't thinking I sent thee Wilkins, but Mr. Power, I'll be satisfied if I can set low down somewheres and see him get the medal. He won't in this world, but I know there's reward saved enough for him by me by. I'll go tomorrow if it pours, said Christie with decision. Do, and I'll lend you my bonnet, cried Miss Wilkins, passing with comical rapidly from crowns of glory to her own cherished handgear. Thank you, but I can't wear blue. I look as yellow as a dandelion in it. Miss Flint let me have my best things, though I offer to leave them, so I shall be respectful and by and by blossom out. On the morrow, Christie went early, got a good seat, and for half an hour watched the gathering of the motley congregation that filled the great hall. Some came intimately as if doubtful of their welcome. Some noisily as if, as Miss Wilkins said, they had not learned the wide difference between liberty and license, many as if eager and curious and a large number of a look of children gathering around a family table ready to be fed, ensure that wholesome food would be bountifully provided for them. Christie was struck by the large proportion of young people in the place, of all classes, both sexes, and strongly contrasting faces. Delicate girls looking with a sweet whistfulness of maidenly hearts, for something strong to lean upon in love. Sad eye woman turning to heaven for the consolation or the satisfaction earth could not give them. Ancients mothers perplexed with many cares, trying to find light and strength. Young men with ardent faces, restless, aspiring and petuous, longing to do and dare, tired looking students with perplexed winkles on their forehead, evidently come to see if this man had discovered the great secrets they were dwelling after. And so sick people trying this new and perhaps dangerous medicine when others failed to cure. Many earnest, thoughtful men and women were there, some on the ancient seat and some already at peace, having found the clue that leads safely through the laboring of life. He and there a whitehead, a placid old face, or one of those fine countenances that tell unconsciously the beautiful story of a victorious soul. Some read, some talked. Some had flowers in their hands and all sat at ease, rich and poor, black and white, young and old, waiting for the coming of the man who had power to attract and hold so many of his kind. Chrissy was so intent on watching those about her that she did not see him enter and only knew about the silence which began just in front of her and seemed to flow backward like a wave, leaving a sea of expecting faces to turn one point. That point was a gray head, just visible above the little desk which stood in the middle of a great platform. A vase of lovely flowers was on the little shelf at one side, a great Bible reposed on the other and a manuscript lay on the red slope between. In a moment, Chrissy forgot everything else and waited with a curious anxiety to see what manner of man this was. Presently he got up with an open book in his hand, saying in a strong, cheerful voice, let us sing. And having read him as if he had composed it, he sat down again. Then everybody did sing, not harmoniously but heartily. Led by an organ was the voices follow that their own sweet will. At first Chrissy wanted to smile, for some shouted and some hummed, some sat silent and others sung sweetly. But before the hymn ended, she liked it and thought that the natural praise of each individual soul was perhaps more grateful to the ear of God than masses by great masters or psalms wobbled tunefully by hired opera singers. Then Mr. Power rose again and laying his hands together with a particularly soft and reverent gesture, lifted up his face and prayed. Chrissy had never heard a prayer like that before, so devout, so comprehensive and so brief. A quiet talk with God, asking nothing but more love and duty toward him and our fellow men, thanking him for many mercies and confiding in all things trustfully to the dear father and mother of souls. The sermon which followed was as peculiar as the prayer and as effective. One of Power's judgment day sermons, as she heard one man say to another when he was over, Chrissy certainly felt at first as if kingdoms and thrones were going down and each man being sent to his own place, a powerful and popular wrong was arrested, tried and sentenced then and there with a courage and fidelity that made plain words eloquent and stern justice beautiful. He did not take David of old for his texts, but the strong, sinful, splendid David of our day who had not fulfilled the promise of their youth and whose seemingly success was a delusion and a snare to themselves and others. Sure to be followed by sorrowful abandonment, defeat and shame. The ashes of the ancient hypocrisies and the Pharisees was left in peace, but those now living were heartily denounced, modern money changers scourged out of the temple and the everlasting truth set upon their end. As he spoke, not loudly nor vehemently, but with the indescribable effect of inward force and true inspiration, a curious stir went through the crowds of times as a great wind sweeps over a cornfield, lifting the broad leaves to the light and testing the strength of root and stem. People looked at one another with a roused expression, eyes kindled, heads nodded involuntarily, approval and an emphatic, that's oh! dropped from the lips of men who saw their own vague instincts and silent opinions strongly confirmed and nobly uttered. Consciences seemed to have been prickled to duty, eyes clear to see that their golden items had feet of clay and waving wheels strengthen by the salutary courage and integrity of one indomitable man. Another hymn and a benediction that seemed like a fit grace after meat and then the crowd pour out, not yawning, thinking of best clothes or longing for dinner, but waking up full of talk and eager to do something to redeem the country in the world. Chrissy went rapidly home because she could not help it and bursted upon Miss Wilkins with her face full of enthusiasm, exclaiming why she cast off her bonnet as if her head had outgrown it since she left. It was splendid. I never heard such a sermon before and I'll never go to church anywhere else. I knew it, any feeling? Don't it give you a kind of spearing and hiss and make things worth more somehow? Cried Miss Wilkins, gesturing with the pepper pot in a way which did not improve the steak she was cooking and caused great anguish to the noses of her offspring. Who are watching the operation? Quite deaf to the chorus of sneezes which accomplish her words, Chrissy answered brushing back her hair as if to get a better outlook at creation generally. Oh yes indeed. At first it was rather terrible and yet so true I wouldn't change a word of it. But I don't wonder he is misunderstood, belied and abused. He tells the truth so plainly and lets in the light so clearly that hypocrisies and sinners must fear him and hate him. And I think he was a little hard and unsparing sometimes. Though I don't know enough to judge the men and measures he's condemned, I admired him very much. But I should be afraid of him if I ever saw him near. No you wouldn't, not a grain. You hear him preach again and you'll find him as gentle as a lamb. Strong folks is apt to be rather harsh at times. They can't help it if no more than this stove can help scorching the vitals when it gets red hot. Dinner's ready, so sit right up and tell me all about it. Said Miss Wilkins, slapping the steak on the plate and beginning to deal our fried potatoes all round with absent-minded lavishness. Chrissy talked and the good soul enjoyed far more than her dinner for she meant to ask Mr. Power to help her find a right sort of home for the stranger who unfitnessed for her pleasant place was every day made more apparent to the mind of her hostess. What took you there first, asked Chrissy, still wondering at Mrs. Wilkins' choice of a minister. The Lord, my dear, answered a good woman in a tone of calm conviction. I heard of him and I'll always have a leaning towards them that revile so no Sabbath I felt to go and I did. That's the gospel for me, says I. My old church ain't big enough now and I ain't gonna set not there any longer and I didn't. Hadn't you any doubts about it? Any fears of going wrong or being sorry afterwards? Asked Chrissy, who believed, as many do, that religion could not be attained without much tribulation of some kind. And some things, folks, is led. I'll be frequent and when them's leading calm, I don't ask no question but just following it always turns out right. I wish I could be led. You'll be, my dear, every day of your life only you don't see it. When you are doubtful, set still till the call comes, then get up and walk which ever way it says and you won't fall. You had bread and water long enough. Now you want meat and wine and spale, take it and when it's time for milk and honey, someone will fetch them for you, keep your table ready. The Lord feeds us right and it's we that quarrel for vitals. I will, said Chrissy, and beginning once to prepare her little board for the solid food of which she had had a taste that day. That afternoon, Miss Wilkins took her turn at church going, saw Mr. Power, told Chrissy's story in her best style and ended by saying, she's too grit. I do assure you, sir, willing to work, but she's singing a hard side of things and got kind of discouraged. Soul and body both once tickering up and I don't know anybody who can do the job better than you. Very well, I'll come and see her, answered Mr. Power, and Miss Wilkins went home well satisfied. He kept his word and about the middle of the week came walking in upon them as they were at work. Don't let the arms cool, he said, and sitting down in the kitchen beginning to talk as comfortably as if in the best parlor. More so perhaps, for best parlors are apt to have a depressing effect upon the spirits, while the mere sight of labor is exhilarating to an energetic mind. He greeted Chrissy connolly and then addressed himself to Miss Wilkins on various charitable matters for which he was a minister at large and she one of his armors. Chrissy could really see him now for when he preached she'd forgotten the man in the sermon and thought of him only as a visible conscience.  Rough gray hair and all the features rather rugged as if the great sculpture had blocked out a grand statue and left the man's own soul to finish it. Had Chrissy known that he came to see her and she would have been ill at ease, but Miss Wilkins had kept her own counsel so when Mr. Power turned to Chrissy saying, my friend here tells me you want something to do. Would you like to help a Quaker lady with her housework just out of town? She answered readily. Yes, sir, anything that is honest. Not as a servant exactly, but companion and helper.  It is good to be there and I think you'll say so if you go. It sounds pleasant. When shall I go? Mr. Power smiled at her atrocity but the longing look in her eyes explained it for he saw at a glance that her place was not here. I'll write it once and let you know how matters are settled. When you shall try it, and if it is not what you want, you will find you something else. There's plenty to do and nothing pleasanter than to put the right pair of hands to the right task. Goodbye. Come and see me if the spirit moves and don't let go of Miss Wilkins till you lay hold of a better friend if you can find one. Then he shook hands cordially and went walking out again into the wild March weather as if he liked it. Were you afraid of him? Asked Miss Wilkins. I forgot all about it. He looked so kind and friendly but I shouldn't like to have those piercing eyes on his thick still me long if I had any secret on my conscience. Answer Christy, you ain't nothing to fear. He liked your way of speaking first rate. I see that and you'll be all right now. He's took hold. Do you know Miss Sterling? Only by sight, but she's a sweet appearing woman and I wouldn't ask nothing better to see more of her, said Miss Wilkins warmly, seeing Christy's heart might misgive her. But it did not. And when it no came saying Miss Sterling would be ready for her the next week, she seemed quite content with everything. For though the wages were not high, she felt that country air and quiet were worth more to her than just money and that Wilkinsons were better taken homophatically. The spirit did move her to go and see Mr. Power but she could not make up her mind to pass that invisible barrier which stands between so many who could give one another genuine help if they only dared to ask it. But when Sunday came she went to church eager for more and thankful that she knew where to go for it. This was a very different sermon from the other and Christy felt as if he had preached it alone for her. Keep innocencey and take heed to the thing that is right for this will bring a man peace at all the last. Might have been the text and Mr. Power treated it as if he had known all the trials and temptations that made it hard to live up to. Justice and righteous wrath possessed him before. Now mercy and tenderness sympathy for those who falter and well-doing and the stern judge seemed changed to a pitiful father. But better than the pity was the wise counsel the cheering crowds and the devout surrender of the soul to its best instincts. Its close communion with its maker unchilled by fear untrammeled by the narrowest of sect or superstition but full and free and natural as the breath of life. As she listened, Christy felt as if she was climbing up from a solitary valley through mist and shadow toward a mountain top where though the way might be rough and strong winds blow she would get a wider outlook over the broad earth and be near the serene blue sky.  Not a vague vast idea floating behold for her now beautiful, now terrible always undefined and far away. She was strangely and powerfully moved that day for the plowing had begun and when the rest stood up for the last hymn Christy could only bow her head and let the uncontrollable tears flow down like summer rain while her heart sang with new inspiration. Nearer my God to thee even though it cross it to thee that raised me still all my song shall be nearer my God to thee nearer to thee. Sitting with her hand before her eyes she never stirred to the sound of many feet told her that service was done. Then she wiped her eyes, dropped her veil and was about to rise when she saw a little bunch of flowers between the leaves of the hymn book lying open in her lap. Only a knot of violets set in their own broad leaves but blue as friendly eyes looking into hers and sweet as kind words whispered in her ear. She looked about her hoping to detect and thank the giver but all faces were turned the other way and all feet departing rapidly. Christy followed with a very grateful thought in her heart for this little kindness from some unknown friend and anxious to recover herself entirely before she faced Miss Wilkins. She took her turn in the park. The snow was gone, high winds had dried the walk and a clear sky overhead made one forget sudden turf and chilly air. March was going out like a lamb and Christy enjoyed an occasional vernal whiff from far off fields and wakening woods as she walked down the broad mall watching the birds on the broth and listened to the Twitter of the sparrows evidently discussing the passers-by as they sat at the doors of their little mansions. Presently she turned to walk back and saw Mr. Power coming toward her. She was glad for all her fear had vanished now and she wanted to thank him for the sermon that had moved her so deeply. He shook hands in his gorge away and turning walked with her beginning at once to talk of her affairs as if interested in them. Are you ready for the new experience? He asked. Quite ready, sir. Very glad to glow and very much obligated to you for your kindness in providing for me. That is what we were put into the world for to help one another. You can pass on the kindness by serving my good friends who, in return, will do their best for you. That's so pleasant. I always knew there were plenty of good, friendly people in the world. Only I did not seem to find them often or be able to keep them long when I did. Is Mr. Sterling an agreeable old man? Very agreeable, but not old. David is about 31 or two, I think. He is the son of my friend. The husband died some years ago. I thought I mentioned it. You said in your note that Mr. Sterling was a florist and might like me to help in the greenhouse if I was willing. It must be lovely work and I should like it very much. Yes, David devotes himself to his flowers and leads a very quiet life. You may think him rather grave and blunt at first, but you'll soon find out and get on comfortably, for he is a truly excellent fellow and my right-hand man in good works. A curious little change had passed over Chrissy's face during these last questions and answers. Unconscious, but quite observable to keen eyes like Mr. Powers. Surprise and interest appeared at first, then a shadow reserve as if the young woman dropped a thin veil between herself and the young man. And at last, words of half-smile and a slight raisin of the brows seemed to express the queer mixture of pity and indifference with which we are all apt to regard. Excellent fellows and amicable girls. Mr. Powers understood the look and went on more confidently than he had at first intended, for he did not want Chrissy to go off with a prejudice in her mind, which might do both David and herself injustice. People sometimes misjudge him, for he is rather old-fashioned in manner and plain in speech and may seem unsociable because he does not seek society, but those who know the cause of this forgive any little shortcomings for the sake of the genuine goodness of the man. David had a great trouble some years ago and suffered much. He is learning to bear it bravely and is the better for it, though the memory of it is still better and across hard to bear, even will pry to help him hide it and principle to keep him from despair. Mr. Powers glanced at Chrissy as he paused and was satisfied with the effect of his words, for interest, pity, and respect shown in her face, and proved that he had touched the right stream. She seemed to feel that this little confidence was given for a purpose and showed that she accepted it as a sort of gauge for her own fidelity to her new employers. Thank you, sir. I shall remember, she said, with her frank eyes, lifted gravely to his own. I like to work for people whom I can respect, she added, and it will bear with any peculiarities of Mr. Sterling's without a thought of complaint. When a man has suffered through one woman, all women should be kind and patient with him, and try to atone for the wrong which lessens his respect and faith in him. There you are right. And in this case, all women should be kind, for they are piety and protects women kind as the only retaliation for the lifelong grief one woman brought upon him. That's not a common revenge, is it? It's beautiful, cried Chrissy, and instantly David was a hero. At one time it was an even chance whether that trouble sent David to the devil, as he expressed it, or made a man of him. That little saint of a mother kept him safe till the first desperation was over, and now he lives for her as he ought. Not so romantic and ending as a pistol or barbonic scorn for the world and genuine woman in particular, but dutiful and brave, since it often takes more courage to live than to die. Yes, sir, said Chrissy heartily, though her eyes fell, remember how she had failed with far less cause for despair than David. They were at the gate now, and Mr. Powell left her, saying with a vigorous handshake, best wishes for a happy summer. I shall come sometimes to see how you prosper and remember if you tired of it and want to change, let me know, for I take great satisfaction and put in the right people in the right places. Goodbye and God be with you. End of chapter nine, recording by Daisy 55. Chapter 10 of work, a story of experience. This is the Liberal Rocks recording, all Liberal Rocks recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit liberalrock.org. Recording by Daisy 55. Work, a story of experience by Luisa May Alcott. Chapter 10, beginning again. It was a neighbor day when Christy went to her new home. Warm rains had melted the last trace of snow and every bank was full of pricking brass blades, brave little pioneers and heralds of the spring. The budding alms brought swung in the wind, blue jays screamed among the apple trees and robins chirped cheerily as if rejoicing over winter hardships safely passed. Vernal freshness was in the air, despite its chill and lovely hints of summertime were everywhere. These welcomed sights and sound met Christy as she walked down the lane and, coming to a gate, paused there to look about her. An old-fashioned car stood in the midst of a garden just awakening from its winter sleep. One arm hung protectively over the low roof, sunshine lay warmly on it and at every window flowers' bright faces smiled at the past by inviting them. On one side glittered a long green house and on the other a barn with a sleek cow ruminating in the yard and an inquiring horse poking his head out of his stall to view the world. Many comfortable gray hands were chuckling and scratching about the haste-true floor and a flock of doves sat cooing on the roof. A quiet, friendly place it looked for nothing married its peace and the hopeful, helpful spirit of the season seemed to haunt the spot. Snow drops and coaxes were up in one secluded nuke. A plump, naughty cat sat purring on the porch and a dignified old doll came marching down to walk the scorched stranger in. With a brightened face, Christy went up the path and tapped at the quaint knocker, hoping that the face she was about to see would be in keeping with the present place. She was not disappointed, for the dearest of little quaker ladies open to her was such an air of peace and goodwill that the dearest roughened coming-to-mour less or make afraid would have it impossible to maw the tranquility of that benign old face or disturb one fold of the soft, muslin cross upon her breast. I come from Mr. Power and I have a note for Ms. Sterling begin Christy in her gentlest tone as if her last tea had vanished at sight of that mild maternal figure. I am she, come in friend. I am glad to see thee, said the old lady, smiling placently as she led the way into a room whose principal furniture seemed to be books, flowers and sunshine. The look, the tone, the gentle deed went straight to Christy's heart and while Ms. Sterling put on her spectacles and slowly read the note, she stroked the cat and said to herself, surely I have fallen among a set of angels. I thought Mrs. Wilkins a sort of saint. Mr. Power was an improvement even upon that good soul and if I am not mistaken, this sweet little lady is the best and dearest of all. I do hope she will like me. It is quite right, my dear and I am most glad to see thee for we need help at this season of the year and have had none for several weeks. Step up to the room at the head of the stairs and lay off thy things. Then if thee is not tired, I will give thee a little job with me in the kitchen, said the old lady with a kindly directness which left no room for awkwardness on the newcomer's part. Up went Christy and as they hastily looked around the room as plain and white and still as a nun's cell, she whisked on a working apron and ran down again feeling as if she fancied the children dead in the fairy tale when they first arrived at the house of the little old woman who lived in the wood. Ms. Wilkins kitchen was as neat as a room could be where in six children came and went, but this kitchen was tidied with the immaculate order of which shakers and quakers alone seemed to possess the secret, a fragrant shining cleanliness that made even black cattle ornament and dishpans objects of interest. Nothing burned or boiled over, though the stove was full of dinner pots and skillets. There was no litter or hurry, though the baking of cake and pies was going on. And when Ms. Dirland put a pan of apples and a knife into her new assistant's hands, saying in the tone that made the request a favor, will the kindly pair these me, Chrissy wonder what would happen if she dropped a seed upon the floor or did not cut the apples into four exact quarters. I never shall suit this dear prim soul, she thought. As her eye went from puss, sedately perched on one small mat to the doll doosin' upon another and neither offering to stir from their own dominions. This dainty, nicely amused her at first, but she liked it. And very soon her thoughts went back to the old times when she worked with Aunt Betsy and learned the good old fashioned arts which now were to prove her fitness for this pleasant place. Ms. Dirland saw the shadow that crept into Chrissy's face and led the chat to cheerful things, not saying much herself, but beguiling the other to talk and listening with an interest that made it easy to go home. Mr. Powell and the Wilkinsons made them friends very soon and in an hour or two, Chrissy was moving about the kitchen as if she had already taken possession of her new kingdom. The like housework, I think, said Ms. Dirland as she watched her hang up a towel to dry and rinse her dishcloth when the cleaning was done. Oh yes, if I need not do it with shiftness, I wish girls to drive me distracted to pretending to help. I have lived out and did not find it hard while I had my good help see. I was a second girl and can set a table in style. Shall I try now? She asked as the old lady went into a little dining room with fresh napkins in her hand. Yes, but we have no style here. I will show thee once and hereafter it will be thy work as thy feet are younger than mine. A nice old fashioned table was soon spread and Chrissy kept smiling at the contrast between this and Mrs. Stewart's.  Now, would thee take thy picture of water to David's room? It is at the top of the house and may need a little dusting. I have not been able to tend to it as I would like since I have been alone, said Mr. Room. Rooms usually betray something of the character and taste of the occupants and Chrissy paused the moment as she entered David's to look about her with feminine interest. It was the attic and extended the whole length of the house. One end was curtain off as a dead room and she smiled at its austere simplicity. A garble in the middle made a sunny recess where were stored bags and boxes of seed, bunches of herbs and shells full of those tiny pots in which baby plants are born and nursed till they can grow alone. The west end was evidently the study and here Chrissy took a good look as she dusted tightly. The furniture was nothing, only an old sofa and the horse hair sticking out of its tuffs here and there and then tweaked secretary and a table covered with books. As she whisked the dusk down the front of the ancient piece of furniture, one of the doors in the upper half soon opened and Chrissy saw three objects that irresistibly reverted her eyes for a moment. A broken fan, a bundle of letters tied up with a black ribbon in a little work basket in which lay a fanciful needle book with letty embroidered on it in faded silk. Poor David, that is his little shrine and I have no right to see it, thought Chrissy, shutting the door with self-approach haste. At the table she paused again for books always attracted her and here she saw a goodly array whose names were like the faces of old friends because she remembered them in her father's library. Foss was full of firm, Shakespeare of rough sketches of the man and woman whom he has made immortal. St. Lee Herbert lay side by side with St. Augustine's confessions. Milton and Montage stood socially together and Anderson's lovely machine fluttered its picture leaves in the middle of an open playto while several books in unknown tongues were half-hidden by volumes of browning, keats, and collage. In the middle of this foreign society, slender and transparent as the spirit of a shape stood a little bit holding one half open rose, fresh and fragrant as it just gathered. Chrissy smiled as she had sought and wondered if the dear, dead, or false woman had been found in roses. Then her eye went to the mantelpiece just above the table and she laughed for on it stood three bust idols evidently but very shabby ones. One with both their nose was broken, Schiller's head cracked visibly and the dust of ages seemed to have stuttered upon Linus in the middle. On the wall above them hung a curious old picture of a monk kneeling in devout ecstasy while the face of an angel is dimly seen through the radiance that floods the cell with divine light. Portraits of Mr. Powell and Martin Luther stared thoughtfully at one another from either side as if making up their minds to shake hands in spite of time and space. Melancholy, learned and sentimentality said Chrissy to herself as she settled David's character after these discoveries. The sound of a bill made her hasten down more curious than ever to see if this belief was true. Perhaps thee had better step out and call my son. Sometimes he does not hear the bill when he is busy. Thee will find my garden hood and shawl behind the door, said Mr. Allen, presently for punctuality was a great virtue in the old lady's eyes. Chrissy, demurely tied on the little pumpkin hood, wrapped the gray shawl about her and set about to find her master and she had a fancy to call this unknown David. From the hints dropped by Mr. Powell and her late discoveries, she had made a hero for herself. A sort of melancholy, juxtaposed, sad and pale and stern, retired from the world to nurse his wounds in solitude. She rather liked this picture for romance dies hard in a woman and in spite of her experiences, Chrissy still indulged in dreams and fantasies. It will be so interesting to see how he bears his secret sorrow. I am fond of woe, but I do hope he won't be too lackadaisal for I never could abide that sort of blighted being. Thus thinking, she peeped here and there but saw no one in yard or barn except a workman scraping the mold of his boots near the conservatory. This David is among the flowers, I fancy. I will just ask and not vote in as he does not know me. Where is Mr. Sterling? Added Chrissy out loud as she approached. The man looked up and a smile came into his eyes as he glanced from the old hood to the young face inside.  I am David and this is Chrissy Devon. I know, how do you do? Yes, dinner's ready, was all she could reply for the discovery that was the master nearly took her breath away. Not the faintest trace of the melancholy shock about him. Nothing interesting, romantic, pensive or even stern. Only a broad-shouldered, brown-bearded man with an old hat and coat. Trousers tucked into his boots. Fresh mold on the hand he had given her the shape and the cheeriest voice she had ever heard.  Chrissy actually felt vexed with him for disappointing her soul and could not recover herself but stood rare and awkward till with a last scrape with his boots David said with classic brevity. Well, shall we go in?  Then, assuming her gravest air, she went to give the finishing touches to Demi. 10 minutes later, she received another surprise for David appeared washed, brushed and in a suit of gray, a personable gentleman, quite unlike the workman in the yard. Chrissy gave one look, met a pair of keen yet kind eyes with a suppressed laugh in him and dropped her on to be no more lifted up till Demi was done. It was a very quiet meal. No one said much and it was evidently the custom of the house to eat silently. Only now and then saying a full friendly words to show that the hearts were social if the tongues were not. On the present occasion, this sooty Chrissy and she ate her dinner without making any more discoveries except that the earth stained hands were very clean now and skilfully supplied her once before she could make them known. As they rose from the table, Miss Sterling said, David, does the want any help this afternoon? I shall be very glad of some in about an hour if they can spare it, mother. I can, dear. Do you care for flowers? As David turned into Chrissy, because if you do not, this will be a very trying place for you. I used to love them dearly, but I have not had any for so long. I hardly remember how they look, answered Chrissy with a sigh and she recalled Rachel's roses dead long ago.  Come to the conservatory in an hour and I'll show you the best part of her German, he said, with a nod and a smile, as he went away, beginning to whistle like a boy when the door was shut behind him. What did he mean, thought Chrissy, as she helped clear the table and put everything in Pimlico order. She was curious to know and when Miss Dirlin said, now my dear, I am going to take my nap and then you can help David if he likes. She was quite ready to try the new work. She would have been more than woman if she had not first slipped upstairs to smooth her hair, put on a fresh collar and a black silk apron with certain effective frills and pockets while a scarlet wickalette replaced the hood and lent a little color to her pale cheeks. I am a poor ghost of what I was, she thought, but that's no matter. Few can be pretty, anyone can be neat and that is more than ever necessarily here. Then she went away to the conservatory, feeling rather oppressed with the pity and sympathy for which there was no calm and fearfully wishing that they would not be so comfortable, for he ate a hearty dinner, laughed four times and whistled as no heartbroken man would dream of doing. No one was visible as she went in and walking slowly down the green aisle, she gave herself up to the enjoyment of a lovely place. The damp, sweet air made some of there and a group of slender oriental trees whispered in the breath of wind that blew in from an open sash. Strange vines and flowers hung overhead, vines of azaleas, rooty, white and purple, bloomed in one place. Roses of every hue turned their lovely faces to the sun. Ranks of delicate ferns and heaps of their wax and bells were close by, glowing geraniums and stately lilies side by side, savage-looking scarlet flowers with purple hearts or orange spikes rising from leaves mottled with strange colors.  All manner of beautiful and curious plants were there and Chrissy walked among them as happy as a child who finds its playmates again. Coming to a bed of pansies, she sat down on a rustic chair and leaning forward, piecing her eyes on these her favorites. Her face grew young as she looked. Her hands touched them with a lingering tenderness as if to her they were half human and her own eyes were so busy enjoying the gold and purple spread before her that she did not see another pair appearing at her over an unneverly old cactus. All prickles and queer knobs. Presently a voice said at her elbow, you look as if you saw something beside pansies there. David spoke so quietly that it did not slaughter her and she answered before she had time to feel ashamed of her fancy. I do, for ever since I was a child, I always see a little face when I look at this flower. Sometimes it is a sad one. Sometimes it's merry, often lowish, but always a dear little face. And when I see so many together, it's like a flock of children all nodding and smell at me at once. So it is that David nodded and smelled himself as he handed her two or three of the finest as if it was as natural thing as to put a sprig of mignolette in his own buttonhole. Chrissy stank him and then jumped up remembering that she came there to work, not to dream. He seemed to understand and went into a little room nearby saying as he pointed to a heap of gay flowers on the table, these are to be made into little vocats for a German tonight. It is pretty work and better fitting for a woman's finger than a man's. This is all you have to do and you can vice your taste as colors. While he spoke, David laid a red and white coordination on a bit of simulac, tied them together, twisted a morsel of silver foil around the stem and laid it before Chrissy as a sample. Yes, I can do that and she'll like it very much, she said, burying her nose in the mass of sweetness before her and feeling as if her new situation grew pleasanter every minute. Here is the apron my mother uses. That bit of silk will soon be spore for the flowers are wet and David gravely offered her a large checkered pinnacle. Chrissy could not help laughing as she put it on. All this was so different from the imaginary picture she had made, she was disappointed and yet she began to feel as if the simple truth was better than a sentimental fiction and glanced up at David involuntarily to see if there were any traces of interesting woe about him. But he was looking at her with a steady, straightforward look which she liked so much yet could not meet just yet. And all she saw was that he was smiling also with an indulgent expression as if she was a little girl whom he was trying to amuse. Make a few and I'll be back directly when I have attended to another order. And he went away thinking Chrissy's face was very like the pansies they had been talking about. One of the summer ones with the bright touch of gold deep down in the heart for thin and pale as the face was, it lighted up at a kind word and all the sadness vanished out of the exanctious eyes when the frank laugh came. Chrissy failed to work over a woman's entrance in such a pleasant task and so tied and twisted skillfully exercising all her taste and contrast and a pretty little conceit flower lovers can produce. She was so interested that presently she began to hum half unconsciously and she was apt to do when happily employed. Welcome maids of honors. You do bring in the spring and wait upon her. She had virgins many, fresh and fair yet you all more sweet than any. There she stopped for David's step junior and she remembered where she was. The last verse is the best and that little poem. Have you forgotten here he said? Pleased and surprised to find the newcomer singing heroic lines to violets. Almost, thy father used to say that when we went looking for early violets and these lovely ones reminded me of it, explained Chrissy rather abashed. As if the pusher at ease, David added, as he laid another handful of double violets in the table. Why are the maiden posee and so graced to be placed for the mask roses yet, though thus respected, by and by ye do lie, poor girls neglected. Now always think of them as pretty, modest nades after that and can't bear to throw them away, even faded. Chrissy hoped he did not think her sentimental and changed the conversation by pointing to her work and saying in a business-like way, will these do? I have varied the posee as much as possible so that they may suit all sorts of tastes and whims. I never went to a journal myself, but I have looked on and remembered here the young people say the little bouquets didn't mean anything. So I try to make these expressive. Well, I should think you have succeeded excellently and it is a very pretty fancy. And it is a very pretty fancy. Tell me what some of them mean, will you? You should know better than I, being a florist, said Chrissy. Glad to see he approved of her work. I can't grow the flowers. But not read them. And David looked rather depressed by his own ignorance of those delicate matters. Still, with the business-like air, Chrissy held up one after another up a little knock, singing soberly. Though her eyes smiled, this white one might be given to a newly engaged girl as suggestive of the common bridal. That half-blown bud would say a great deal from a lover to an idol. And this hella trope be most encouraging to a timid swan. Here is a rosy daisy for some merry little damsel. There is a scarlet posy for a soldier. This delicate Isaiah inferred for some lovely creature just out.  If spinsters go to Germans, help, sentinists, but pretty, would do for many these palmer valets for one with a sorrow and his curious purple flower with arrow-shaped stagnants would just suit a handsome, sharp-tongued woman of any partner dared give it to him. David laughed as his eyes went from the flowers to Chrissy's face. And when she laid down the last breast knight, looking as if she would like the chance of presenting it to some once she knew, he seemed much amused. If the butte and the bells at this party have the wit to read your palsy, my fortune will be made and you will have your hands full, supplying compliments, declaration, and boots, and criticism for the fashionable butterfly. I wish I could put consolation, hope, and submission into my work at Thiesling, but I am afraid I can't. He added a moment afterwards with a changed face as he began to lay the loveliest white flowers into a box. Those are not for a wedding then, for a dead baby. And I can't seem to find any white and sweet enough. You know the people asked Chrissy with the sympathetic tone in her voice, never saw or heard of them till today. Isn't it enough to know that baby's dead, as the poor man said, to make one feel for them? Of course it is. Only you seemed so interested in ranging the flowers. I naturally thought it was for some friend. Chrissy answered hastily, for David looked half ignorant at her question. I want them to look lovely and comforting when the mother opens the box and I don't want the seam to have the right flowers. Will you give it a touch? Women have a tender way of doing such things that we can never learn. I don't think I can improve it unless I add another sort of flower that seems appropriate. May I? Anything you can find. Chrissy waited for no more but ran out of the greenhouse to David's great surprise and presently came hurrying back with a handful of snowdrops. Those are just what I wanted but I didn't know the little deers were up yet. You shall put them in and I know they will suggest what you hope to these poor people. He said it previously, as he placed the box before her and stood by watching her adjust the little sheaf of pale flowers tied up with a blade of grass. She added a frail fern or two and did give just a graceful touch here and there which was big to the mother's gore heart of the tender though someone had taken for her dear darling. The box was sent away and Chrissy went on with her work but that little task performed together seemed to have made them friends. And while David tied up several grand bouquets at the same table, they talked as if the strangeness was fast melting away from their short acquaintance. Chrissy's own manners were so simple that simplicity and others always put her at her ease. Kindness soon vanished to reserve and the desire to show that she was grateful for it helped her to please. David Bluntness was of such a gentle sort that she soon got used to it and found it a pleasant contrast to the polite insincerity so common. He was as frank and friendly as a boy yet had a certain to turn away with him which rather annoyed her at first and made her feel as if he bought her a mere girl. While she was very sure he could not be but a year or two older than herself. I'd rather he be masterful and order me about she thought still rather regretting the blighted being she had not found. In spite of this she spent a pleasant afternoon sitting in that sunny place, handling flowers, asking questions about them and getting the sort of answers she liked not dry botanical names and facts but all the delicate traits, curious habits and political romances of the sweet things as if the speaker knew and loved them as friends not merely valued them as merchandise.  Mother one's eggs. Will you come to the barn and get them? Hey is wholesome and you can feed the dogs if you like. Said David leading the way with Brian rotten about him. Why don't he offer to put up a swing for me or get me a dog? It's the pinnacle that deceives him nevermind like it rather after all thought Christy but she left the egg behind her and followed with the most dignified air. It did not last long however for the sights and sounds that greeted her carried her back to the days of egg hunting and uncle Eno's big barn and before she knew it she was rustling through the hay mow talking to the cow and receiving the intentions of Brian with a satisfaction it was impossible to conceive. The hens gathered about her feet cocking their excepting eyes at her. The dogs came circling around her head. The cow stared placently and then inquisitive horse responded affably when she offered him a handful of hay. How tame they all are. I like animals. They are so contented and intelligent. She said as the pump dove lit on her shoulder with an impatient coon that was Kitty's pet. She always fed the fowls. Would you like to do it? Said David offered a little measure of coats. Very much said Chrissy began to scatter the grain wondering who Kitty was. As if he saw the wish on her face David added why he shelled corns for the hens. She was the little girl who was with us last. Her father kept her in the factory and took on her wages barely giving her clothes and food enough to keep her alive. The poor child ran away and was trying to hire what Mr. Powell found and sent her here to be cared for. As he did me say Chrissy quickly. Yes, that's the way he has. A very kind and Christian way. Why didn't she stay? Well, it was rather quiet for the lively little thing and rather too near the city. So we got a good place up in the country where she can go to school and learn housework. The mill head left her no time for these things and at 15 she was as ignorant as a child. You must miss her. I do very much. Was she pretty? She looked like a little rose sometimes and David smiled to herself as he fed the gray hens.  Just then David handed her the basket saying in the paternal way that half muse half peaked her. It is getting too chilly for you here. Take these in please and I'll bring the milk directly. In spite of herself she smiled as a sudden vision of the elegant Mr. Fletcher devotedly carrying her book or beach basket passed through her mind. Then hastily to explain the smell for David lifted his brows inquiringly and glanced about him to see what amused her. I beg your pardon, I've lived alone so much that it seems a little odd to be told to do things even if they are as easy and pleasant at this. I am so used to taking care of people and directing that I do so without thinking. I won't if you don't like it. And he put out his hand to take back the basket with a grave apologetic air. But I do like it. Only it amused me to be treated like a little girl again when I am nearly 30 and feel 70 at least. Life has been so hard to me lately. Her face over in the last words and David's instantly grew so pitiful she could not keep her eyes on at least they should feel. So suddenly did the memory of past troubles overcome her? I know he said in a tone that warmed her heart. I know, but we are going to try and make life easier for you now and you must feel that this is home and we are friends. I do. And Christy flushed with grateful feeling and a little shame as she went in begging to herself.  Whatever he might have thought, David's marriage was unchanged when he came in and found her busy with the table. It's pleasant to see the resting mother and everything going on so well, he said, going to the bathroom where the old lady sat and nodding toward the kitchen where Christy was toasting bread in her neatest manner. Yes, David, it was about time I had a helper for thy sake. At least, and this is a great improvement upon heedless kidding, I'm inclined to think. Miss Sterling dropped her voice over their last sentence but Christy heard it and was pleased. A moment or two later, David came toward her with a glass in his hand seen as if rather doubtful of his reception. New milk is part of a queue. Will you try it? For the first time, Christy looked straight up in the honest eyes that seemed to demand honesty in others and took the glass answering heartily. Yes, thank you. I drink good help to you and better manners to me. The newly lighted lamp shone full in her face and though it was neither young nor booming, it showed something better than youth in bloom to one who could read the subtle language of character as David could. He nodded as he took the glass and went away saying quietly, we are plain people here and you won't find it hard to get on with us, I think. But he liked the candid look and thought about it as he chopped Kenlyn's whistling with a vigor which caused Christy to smile as he strained the milk. After tea, a spider leg table was drawn out toward Hall where an open fire burned cheerily and pushed Purrard on the rug with Brian nearby. David unfolded his newspaper, Ms. Sterling pinned on her knitting sheet and Christy sat a moment and joined a comfortable little scene. She sighed without knowing it and Ms. Sterling happily asked, is the tire my dear? Oh, no, only happy. I am glad of that. I was afraid thee would find it dull. It's beautiful. Then Christy checked herself, feeling that these outwards would not suit such quiet people and half ashamed of showing how much she felt, she added soberly. If you will give me something to do, I shall be quite contented. Someone is not good for thee. If thee likes to knit, I'll set up a sock for thee tomorrow. Said the old lady well pleased at the industrious turn of her new handmaiden. I went to dawn and I see some to be done in this basket. May I do it? And Christy laid hold of the weekly job, which even the best housewives are asked to set aside to present her task. As thee likes, my dear, my eyes will not let me so much in the evening. Else I should have finished that batch tonight. Thee will find the yarn and needles in the little bag. So Christy failed to work on gray socks and neat lavender colored holes while the old lady knit swiftly and David read out loud. Christy thought she was listening to the report of a fine lecture, but her ear only caught the word, for her mind wandered away into a region of its own and lived there till her task was done. Then she laid the tidy pile in the basket, drew her cheer to a corner of the hall and quietly enjoyed herself. The cat, feeling sure of a welcome, came up onto her lap and went to sleep in a cozy bunch. Brian laid his nose across the feet and blinked at her with sleepy goodwill. While her eyes wandered round the room from its quaint furniture and the dreaming flowers in the windows to the faces of its occupants and lingered there. The plain border of a Quaker cat in circles that mild old face with brands of silver hair parted on a forehead marked with many lines, but the eyes were clear and sweet. Winter roses bloomed in the cheeks and an exquisite neatness prevailed a small figure from the trim feet on the stool to the soft shawl folded about the shoulders as only a Quakerness can fold one. And Miss Sterling piety and peace made O.H. lovely. In the mere presence of this tranquil soul seemed to fill the room with a reposed charm none could resist. The other face possessed no striking calmness of shape or color, but the brown becoming beard made it manly and the broad arch of a beloved brown added nobility to features otherwise not beautiful. A face plainly expressing resolution and retitude. Inspired respect as naturally as its certain protective kindness of manner one confidence. Even in reposed wearing a diligent look as if some hidden pain or passion lay in way to surprise and conquer the sober cheerfulness that softened the lines of the firm set lips and warmed the glance of the thoughtful eyes. Chrissy fancied she possessed the key to this and long to know all the story of the cross with which Mr. Power said David had learned to bear so well, then she began to wonder if they could like and keep her to hope so and to feel that here at last she was at home with friends but the old sadness crept over her and she remembered how often she had thought this before and how soon the dream ended. The ties were broken and she drift again. Oh well, she said within herself. I won't think of tomorrow but take the good that come and enjoy it while I may. I must not disappoint Rachel since she kept her words so nobly to me. Dear soul, when shall I see her again? The thought of Rachel always touched her heart more now than ever.  The eyes peering over the spectacles telegraphed a meaning message to the other eyes glancing over the paper now and then and both these friends indeed, as well as name felt assured that this woman needed all the comfort they could give her but the busy needles never stopped their click and the sonorous voice read on without a pause. So Christy never knew what mute confidences passed between mother and son or what helpful confessions her treacherous face had made for her. The clock struck nine and these primitive people prepared for rest for their day began at dawn and much wholesome work made sleep a luxury. Davy will tap at thy door as he goes down in the morning and I will soon follow to show thee about matter. Good night and good rest my child. So speaking, the little lady gave Christy a maternal kiss. Davy shook hands and then she went away wondering why service was so likened by such little kindness.  End of chapter 10, recording by Daisy 55. Chapter 11 of Work, A Story of Experience. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Bethany Joy. Work, A Story of Experience by Louisa May Alcott, chapter 11 in the Strawberry Bed. From that day a new life began for Christy, a happy, quiet, useful life, utterly unlike any of the brilliant futures she had planned for herself, yet indescribably pleasant to her now. For past experience had taught her its worth and made her ready to enjoy it. Never had spring seemed so early or so fair. Never had such a crop of hopeful thoughts and happy feelings sprung up in her heart as now, and nowhere was there a brighter face, a blither voice, or more willing hands than Christy's when the apple blossoms came. This was what she needed, the protection of a home, wholesome cares and duties, and the best of all, friends to live and labor for, loving and beloved. Her whole soul was in her work now, and as health returned, much of the old energy and cheerfulness came with it, a little sobered, but more sweet and earnest than ever. No task was too hard or humble, no day long enough to do all she longed to do, and no sacrifice would have seemed too great for those whom she regarded with steadily increasing love and gratitude. Up at dawn the dewy freshness of the hour, the morning rapture of the birds, the daily miracle of sunrise, set her heart in tune and gave her nature's most healing balm. She kept the little house in order, with Mrs. Sterling, to direct and share the labor so pleasantly, that Mistress and maid soon felt like mother and daughter. Christy often said she did not care for any other wages. The housework of this small family was soon done, and then Christy went to tasks that she liked better. Much out-of-door life was good for her, and in the garden and greenhouse there was plenty of light labor she could do. Though she grubbed contentedly in the wholesome earth, weeding and potting, learning to prune and bud, and finding Mrs. Wilkins was quite right in her opinion of the sanitary virtues of dirt, trips the town to see the good woman and carry country gifts to the little folks, afternoon drives with Mrs. Sterling in the old-fashioned chaise, drawn by the Roman nose-tours, and Sunday pilgrimages to church to be righted up by one of Mr. Power's stirring sermons were among her new pleasures. But, on the whole, the evenings were her happiest times, for then David read aloud while she worked, she sang to the old piano tuned for her use, or, better still, as spring came on, they sat in the porch and talked as people only do talk when twilight, veiling the outer world, seems to lift the curtains of that inner world where minds go exploring, hearts learn to know one another, and souls walk together in the cool of the day. At such times, Christy seemed to catch glimpses of another David, then the busy, cheerful man apparently contented with the humdrum duties of an obscure, laborious life, and the few unexciting pleasures afforded by books, music, and much silent thought. She sometimes felt, with a woman's instinct, that under this composed, commonplace existence another life went on, for now and then, in the interest of conversation, or the involuntary yielding to a confidential impulse, word, a look, a gesture, betrayed an unexpected power and a passion, a secret unrest, a bitter memory that would not be ignored. Only at rare moments did she catch these glimpses, and so brief, so indistinct were they, that she half believed her own lively fancy created them. She longed to know more, but David's trouble had made him sacred in her eyes from any prime curiosity. And always, after one of these twilight betrayals, Christy found him so like his unromantic self next day that she laughed and said, I shall never outgrow my foolish way of trying to make people other than they are. Gods are gone, heroes hard to find, and one should be contented with good men, even if they do wear old clothes, lead prosaic lives, and have no accomplishments but gardening, playing the flute, and keeping their temper. She felt the influences of that friendly place at once, but for a time she wondered at the natural way in which kind things were done, the protective care extended over her, and the confiding air with which these people treated her. They asked no questions, demanded no explanations, seemed unconscious of conferring favors, and took her into their life so readily that she marveled, even while she rejoiced, at the good fortune which led her there. She understood this better when she discovered what Mr. Power had not mentioned, that the little cottage was a sort of refuge for many women like herself, a halfway house where they could rest and recover themselves after the wrongs, defeats, and weariness that came to such in the battle of life. With a chivalry older and finer than any Spencer song, Mr. Power befriended these for long souls, and David was his faithful squire. Whoever knocked at that low door was welcomed, warned, and fed, comforted, and set on their way, cheered and strengthened by the sweet goodwill that made charity no burden, and restored to the more desperate and despairing their faith in human nature and God's love. There are many such green spots in this world of ours, which often seemed so bad that a second alluge could hardly wash it clean again, and these beneficent, unaustentious asylums are the salvation of more troubled souls than many a great institution gilded all over with the rich bequests of men who find themselves too heavily laden to enter in at the narrow gate of heaven. Happy the foot sore, heart weary traveler who turns from the crowded, dusty highway down the green lane that leads to these humble inns, where the sign of the good Samaritan is written on the face of whomsoever opens to the stranger, and refreshment for the soul and body is freely given in the name of him who loved the poor. Mr. Power came now and then, for his large parish left him but little time to visit any but the needy. Christy enjoyed these brief visits heartily, for her new friends soon felt that she was one of them, and cordially took her into the large circle of workers and believers to which they belonged. Mr. Power's heart was truly an orphan asylum, and every lonely creature found a welcome there. He could rebuke sin sternly, yet comfort and uplift the sinner with bodily compassion.  He was a Moses in his day and generation, born to lead his people out of the bondage of dead superstitions, and go before them through a red sea of persecution, into the larger liberty and love all souls hunger for, and many are just beginning to find, as they come doubting, yet desiring, into the goodly land such pioneers as he have planted in the wilderness. He was like a tonic to weak natures and wavering wills, and Christy felt a general revival going on within herself, as her knowledge, honour, and affection for him grew. His strength seemed to uphold her, his integrity, to rebuke all unworthiness in her own life, and the magic of his generous, genial spirit to make the hard places smooth, the bitter things sweet, and the world seemed a happier, honester place than she had ever thought it since her father died. Mr. Power had been interested in her from the first, had watched her through other eyes, and tried her by various unsuspected tests. She stood them well, showed her felt as frankly as her virtues, and tried to deserve their esteem by copying the excellencies she admired in them. She is made of the right stuff. We must keep her among us, for she must not be lost or wasted by being left to drift about the world with no ties to make her safe and happy. She is doing so well here. Let her stay until the restless spirit begins to stir again. Then she shall come to me and learn contentment by seeing greater troubles than her own. Mr. Power said this one day as he rose to go after sitting an hour with Mrs. Sterling and hearing from her a good report of his new protégé. The young people were out at work and had not been called in to see him, for the interview had been a confidential one. But as he stood at the gate he saw Christy in the strawberry bed and went toward her, glad to see how well and happy she looked. Her hat was hanging on her shoulders, and the sun giving her cheeks a healthy color. She was humming to herself like a bee as her fingers flew, and once she paused, shaded her eyes with her hand, and took a long look at a figure down in the meadow. Then she worked on, silent and smiling, a pleasant creature to see, though her hair was ruffled by the wind, her gingham gown pinned up, and her fingers deeply stained with the blood of many berries. I wonder if that means anything, thought to Mr. Power, with a keen glance from the distant man to the busy woman close at hand. It might be a helpful, happy thing for them both if David could only forget. He had time for no more castle-building, for a startled robin flew away with a shrill chirp, and Christy looked up. Oh, I'm so glad, she said, rising quickly. I was picking a special box for you, and now you can have a feast beside, just as you like it, fresh from the vines. Sit here, please, and I'll hold faster than you can eat. This is luxury, and Mr. Power sat on the three-legged stool offered him with a rhubarb leaf on his knee which Christy kept supplying with delicious mouth-balls. Well, and how goes it? Are we still happy and contented here? He asked. I feel as if I had been born again, as if this was a new heaven and a new earth, and everything was as it should be, answered Christy, with the look of perfect satisfaction in her face. That's a pleasant hearing. Mrs. Sterling has been praising you, but I wanted to be sure you were as satisfied as she. And how does David wear? Well, I hope.  Much of this is fine work for women, and so healthy.  Yes, David is a good gardener. I often send my plants here, and he always makes them grow and blossom sooner or later, answered Mr. Power, regarding her like a beneficent genie on a three-legged stool. You are the fresh air, and Mrs. Sterling is the quiet sunshine that does the work, I fancy. David only digs about the roots. Thank you for my share of the compliment, but why say only digs? That is a most important part of the work. I'm afraid you don't appreciate David. Oh, yes I do. He rather aggravates me sometimes, said Christie, laughing, as she put a particularly big berry in the green plate, to atone for her frankness. How, as Mr. Power's, interested in these little revelations? Well, he won't be ambitious. I try to stir him up, for he has talents, I've found that out, but he won't seem to care for anything but watching over his mother, reading his old books, and making flowers bloom double when they ought to be single. There are worse ambitions than those, Christie. I know many a man who would be far better employed in cherishing a sweet old woman, studying Play-Doh, and doubling the beauty of a flower than in selling principles for Mummy, building up a cheap reputation that dyes with him, or chasing pleasures that turn to ashes in his mouth. Yes, sir, but isn't it natural for a young man to have some personal aim or aspiration to live for? If David was a weak or dull man, I could understand it, but I seem to feel a power, a possibility for something higher and better than anything I see, and this frets me. He is so good, I want him to be great also in some way. A wise man says, the essence of greatness is the perception that virtue is enough. I think David, one of the most ambitious men I ever knew. Because at thirty he has discovered this truth and taken it to heart. Many men can be what the world calls great. Very few men are what God calls good. This is the harder task to choose, yet the only success that satisfies, the only honor that outlives death. His faithful lives, whether seen of men or hidden in corners, are the salvation of the world, and few of us fail to acknowledge it in the hours when we are brought close to the heart of things and see a little as God sees. Christy did not speak for a moment. Mr. Power's voice had been so grave and his words so earnest that she could not answer lightly, but sat turning over the new thoughts in her mind. Presently, as she said, in a penitent but not quite satisfied home. Of course you're right, sir. I'll try not to care for the outward and visible signs of these hidden virtues, but I'm afraid I still have a hankering for the worldly honors that are so valued by most people. Success and glory are the children of hard work and God's favor, according to Islas, and you will find he was right. David got a heavy blow some years ago, as I told you, I think, and he took it hard, but did not spoil him. It made a man of him, and if I'm not much mistaken, he will yet do something to be proud of, though the world may never hear of it. I hope so, and Christy's face brightened at the thought.  Everyone has two sides to his nature. David has shown you the least interesting one, and you judge accordingly. I think he will show you the other side some day, for you are one of the women who win confidence without trying, and then you will know the real David. Don't expect too much, or quarrel with the imperfections that make him human, but take him for what he is worth, and help him, if you can, to make his life a brave and good one. I will, sir, answered Christy so meekly that Mr. Power laughed, for this confessional in the strawberry-bed amused him very much.  Saints walk about the world today as much as ever, but instead of haircloth and halos they now wear bradcloth and wide-brimmed hats, added Christy, looking up as if she had already found a better Saint Thomas than any the church ever canonized. He thanked her with a smile, and went on with a glance toward the meadow, and knights go crusading as gallantly as ever against the giants and the dragons, though you don't discover it, because instead of banner, lance, and shield they carry bushel-basket, spades, and sweet-flag for their mothers, putting Christy again, as David came up the path with the loam he had been digging. Both began to laugh, and he joined in the merriment without knowing why, as he put down his load, took off his hat, and shook hands with his honored guest. What's the joke, he asked, refreshing himself with the handful of berries Christy offered him. Don't tell, she whispered, looking dismayed at the idea of letting him know what she had said of him. But Mr. Power answered tranquilly. We were talking about coins, and Christy was expressing her opinion of when I showed her. The face and date she understands, but the motto puzzles her. She's not seen the reverse side yet, so does not know its value. She will some day, then she will agree with me, I think, that it is sterling gold. The emphasis on the last words enlightened David. His son Bert Cheek reddened, but he only shook his head, saying, she will find a brass farthing, I'm afraid, sir, and began to crumble a handful of loam about the roots of a carnation that seemed to have sprung up by chance at the foot of the apple-tree. How did that get there? asked Christy, with a sudden interest in the flower. It dropped when I was setting out the others, took root and looked so pretty and comfortable that I left it. These waves sometimes do better than the most carefully tended ones. I only dig about them a bit, and leave them to sun and air. Mr. Power looked at Christy with so much meaning in his face that it was her turn to color now. But with feminine perversity she would not own herself mistaken, and answered with eyes as full of meaning as his own. I like the single one's best. Double carnations are so untidy, all bursting out of the calyxes if the puddles had quarreled and could not live together. The single ones are seldom perfect, and look poor and incomplete, with little center beauty. But unconscious, David, propping up the thin-leaved flower that looked like a pale, solitary maiden beside the great crimson and white carnations nearby, filling the air with spicy odor. I suspect you will change your mind, by and by, Christy, as your taste improves, and you will learn to think the double one's the handsomest, adding Mr. Power, wondering in his benevolent heart if he would ever be the gardener to mix the colors of the two human plants before him. I must go, and David shouldered his basket as if he felt he might be in the way. So must I, or they will be waiting for me at the hospital. Give me a handful of flowers, David. They often do the poor souls more good than my prayers are preaching. Then they went away, and left Christy sitting in the strawberry bed, thinking that David looked less than ever like a hero with his blue shirt, rough straw hat, and big boots, also wondering if he would ever show her his best side, and if she would like it when she saw it. End of Chapter 11, Recording by Bethany Joy, Ontario, Canada


So about a month ago or so, I messed around with un-Google Chromium, and then I switched to Brave. And everyone who's watched the channel for any amount of time will know that I've been on a browser journey of sorts over the last two or three years. I've been trying to find the best browser for me. And it has been a very difficult road. I've switched from Firefox to Kube browser. Back to Firefox, I've switched to Edge, I've switched to regular Chrome. I've switched to Google Chromium Brave. I'm sure there are other ones that I've tried. And there just doesn't seem to be a browser out there that is for me. It doesn't seem like there's one out there that is just perfect across the board. Now I completely understand that my expectations are too high. Like I'm expecting perfection, and expecting perfection is only going to lead to disappointment. That's the way it is with everything, because there's nothing that's perfect. So the conclusion that I've come to is that I'm just going to have to settle. And I thought over the last month that I've settled on Brave. And Brave is a good browser. Don't get me wrong. It is a much better browser than I originally thought it was. My first video on Brave pretty much called it Meh. I'm pretty sure that's actually the title of the video. Brave browser is Meh. And some part of me still feels that way. And that part of me is the one that says that it's basically just Chrome with crypto nonsense tacked on to it. And I still, again, kind of feel that way. But since that original video, my opinion of Brave has moved a little bit more towards so what? Who cares that it's just a copy of Chrome, but with cryptocurrency on it? You can turn the cryptocurrency off and you still have a good copy, an open source copy of Chromium. It's okay. And for the most part, my experience over the last month has been fairly good with Brave. And it's not any big thing that has caused me to look at my experience over the last month and see it with kind of a negative feeling, but it's more just an overall feeling of discontent. I don't really care for Brave all that much. It was a good experience. It's a good browser, but it makes me feel a little icky. And I think it has to do with the crypto nonsense. Now, I've turned the crypto stuff off. I left it on. Actually, you want to know the funny thing is I said at the beginning of the month that it's been over a month, it's been a month, but this has actually gone on at least now for two months. And I know that because I left the crypto nonsense on for a whole month plus some because I wanted to see how much I earned from the Brave ads. I thought, well, you know, I'm going to use this. I want to just see what a month would give me. It turns out, I earned like a dollar. Now I wasn't expecting to earn a whole lot of money. I wasn't having that expectation. And actually, now that I think about it, a dollar actually seems like it's kind of more than I really expected. But the point is, is that the level of investment they seem to have had in that cryptocurrency stuff doesn't seem to be worth that dollar that I earned. If that makes any sense at all. So I turned it off a couple of weeks ago. And now I'm just basically using Brave like I would use Google Chrome. And there's nothing wrong with that. I don't know then why I use Brave, you know, because there's, if you're not going to mess around with the cryptocurrency stuff and you're not going to care that much about the privacy stuff, which I really don't, then what's the purpose of using Brave? It's not as, I mean, it is open source, but it's not as, it doesn't feel like the brave guys care as much about the fact that it is open source as like something like Firefox, the people behind Firefox do. Maybe that's just a feeling, it could be incorrect, but it's just the way it kind of seems to me. They seem to be more invested in pushing forward their products than actually pushing forward the ideals of open source software. Not that Mozilla doesn't do the same thing often, but at least with Mozilla, they at least sometimes come across as open source advocates where it never feels that way with Brave. So here's the thing. This is what my Brave looks like. It looks like Google Chrome and it's fine. And I have discovered some cool things in my couple months of using this. The whole tab groups thing that you see up here is awesome. It gets amazing. I don't know why I never knew that it existed before. Apparently Firefox has this feature too. If that's the case, I'm gonna be very happy because, spoiler alert, I'm switching back to Firefox. But we'll get to that in a minute. I think at the end of the day, what my biggest problem with Brave is, is two-fold. One, as I said before, the developers behind it feel a little shady. I don't know much if shady is the right word.  The other thing that has been bothering me is the lack of customization. Now, I know that customization for a lot of people is not a big deal. Like, they're perfectly fine using a browser that looked exactly like Google Chrome and has no ability to be customized outside of the thing. That's fine. But I miss user Chrome.css. I really do. And it's only available on Firefox. It's a thing that I messed around with and had a lot of fun customizing. And I miss it. I want it back. So that's the reason why I'm switching back to Firefox. Those two reasons, I don't care for the direction Brave is going. Like, it feels too invested in the cryptocurrency stuff. And that's not for me. Like, I know everyone, I've had comments say, Matt, you should invest in cryptocurrency. 90% of those are spam. But the legit ones, I always respond like, it's just not for me. I don't care that there are people becoming millionaires because of cryptocurrency. Good for those people. It's just not for me. It's not something that I really particularly care to worry about or get invested in. It's just not for me. So the fact that the Brave guys are so invested in this and this is how they've chosen to make money, it feels like I'm participating in something that's just not for me, if that makes sense. Now that I've turned the cryptocurrency stuff off, I kind of feel guilty because how I'm not supporting the Brave guys the way I was before. And that feels a little icky too.  I don't know. It's a weird and confusing feeling, that whole situation. And that's kind of the way I feel whenever cryptocurrency is involved in anything. It just kind of makes me feel weird. I feel like a psychic. You know, where it has like a weird feeling going into a haunted house or something, I don't know. It's just a weird feeling every time something has to do with cryptocurrency. And that has been my experience the whole time I've used Brave is where I think it's a good browser, but this other extra stuff on top of it that is supposed to be an alternative way of monetizing the internet and the browser just feels not for me. And on top of that, that I miss user Chrome.css and you get to the point where I'm switching back to Firefox. So that's the whole point of the video. It feels like every about two months or so I switched to a different browser. And that's true. Like I know that I'm always getting these comments like, Matt, you switch stuff too often. You don't stick with anything. That's true. I do like change and I do like trying new things. And I think I've done a lot better job over the last four or five months of when I do switch to something, sticking with it for at least a couple months because then I at least truly get the experience of using it. So I've done better at least in that but I still switch to stuff all the time. That's not going to change. One of the things about being a Linux YouTuber is that you kind of have to have content. In order to have content, you kind of have to try out new things. And that entails switching stuff, switching distros, switching browsers, doing all this stuff. And a lot of the reason why I don't seem to stick on stuff all that often is simply because I want to change things up in order to get some ideas for the new videos or whatever. So that's part of it. Also, I have a serious case of ADD. And I can't seem to stay focused on one thing. My ADD seems to be tended, focused towards constantly changing my computer setup like all the time. Like, I write things all the time and that's just part of it. You guys don't even know the rest. I could tell stories about, no, I won't get into it. Those aren't the kind of stories that would make me look good. Anyways, I'm switching back to Firefox. I'm hoping that my experience with Firefox is better than it was the last time I used Firefox. I was still having quite a few problems with page rendering. I'm assuming that that problem hasn't gone away. But I'm hoping that I can at least overlook it because I'm at the point now where I've tried everything. Like, I've tried them all. There's no longer a browser out there that I haven't really just tried. Now, some of them I haven't spent a lot of time with like Vib and some of the other like very minimal browsers. Like I haven't spent a lot of time with surf because it's terrible. And it was just not a good experience. I spent like an hour with it and just said, well, this is too slow. I'm not using it. So there are some browsers out there. They're just kind of like that. But all the major ones, I've tried all of them. I have experience with all of them. And it's time now for me to find my home. And my home is where my home always should have been, Firefox. So that is it for this video. If you wanna get in contact with me, you can do so in the comments section below. You can also follow me on Twitter at the Linuxcast. You can support me on Patreon at patreon.com slash linuxcast before I go. I'd like to take a moment to thank my current patrons. Today, Devon, East Coast Web, Patrick O, Primus, Marcus, Megalyn Jackson, I have tools, Steve A. Sebrega, Lennox, Garrick, Mitchell, ArcSphere Center, Carpenter, Jeremy, Sean, Odin, Martin, Merrick, Kamp, Joshua, Lee, Daydog, Peteray, Chris Willem, DartBand, and Sixth. Thanks everybody for watching. I'll see you next time.