WHEN it was all over, the long journey home, the quiet funeral, thefirst sad excitement, then came the bitter moment when life says tothe bereaved: "Take up your burden and go on alone." Christie's hadbeen the still, tearless grief hardest to bear, most impossible tocomfort; and, while Mrs. Sterling bore her loss with the sweetpatience of a pious heart, and Letty mourned her brother with thetender sorrow that finds relief in natural ways, the widow sat amongthem, as tranquil, colorless, and mute, as if her soul had followedDavid, leaving the shadow of her former self behind.

"He will not come to me, but I shall go to him," seemed to be thethought that sustained her, and those who loved her saiddespairingly to one another: "Her heart is broken: she will notlinger long."

But one woman wise in her own motherliness always answeredhopefully: "Don't you be troubled; Nater knows what's good for us,and works in her own way. Hearts like this don't break, and sorreronly makes 'em stronger. You mark my words: the blessed baby that'sa comin' in the summer will work a merrycle, and you'll see thispoor dear a happy woman yet."

Few believed in the prophecy; but Mrs. Wilkins stoutly repeated itand watched over Christie like a mother; often trudging up the lanein spite of wind or weather to bring some dainty mess, someremarkable puzzle in red or yellow calico to be used as a patternfor the little garments the three women sewed with such tenderinterest, consecrated with such tender tears; or news of the warfresh from Lisha who "was goin' to see it through ef he come homewithout a leg to stand on." A cheery, hopeful, wholesome influenceshe brought with her, and all the house seemed to brighten as shesat there freeing her mind upon every subject that came up, from thedelicate little shirts Mrs. Sterling knit in spite of failingeyesight, to the fall of Richmond, which, the prophetic spirit beingstrong within her, Mrs. Wilkins foretold with sibylline precision.

She alone could win a faint smile from Christie with some oddsaying, some shrewd opinion, and she alone brought tears to themelancholy eyes that sorely needed such healing dew; for she carriedlittle Adelaide, and without a word put her into Christie's arms,there to cling and smile and babble till she had soothed the bitterpain and hunger of a suffering heart.

She and Mr. Power held Christie up through that hard time,ministering to soul and body with their hope and faith till lifegrew possible again, and from the dust of a great affliction rosethe sustaining power she had sought so long.

As spring came on, and victory after victory proclaimed that the warwas drawing to an end, Christie's sad resignation was broken, bygusts of grief so stormy, so inconsolable, that those about hertrembled for her life. It was so hard to see the regiments come homeproudly bearing the torn battle-flags, weary, wounded, butvictorious, to be rapturously welcomed, thanked, and honored by thegrateful country they had served so well; to see all this and thinkof David in his grave unknown, unrewarded, and forgotten by all buta faithful few.

"I used to dream of a time like this, to hope and plan for it, andcheer myself with the assurance that, after all our hard work, ourlong separation, and the dangers we had faced, David would get somehonor, receive some reward, at least be kept for me to love andserve and live with for a little while. But these men who havemerely saved a banner, led a charge, or lost an arm, get all theglory, while he gave his life so nobly; yet few know it, no onethanked him, and I am left desolate when so many useless ones mighthave been taken in his place. Oh, it is not just! I cannot forgiveGod for robbing him of all his honors, and me of all my happiness."

So lamented Christie with the rebellious protest of a strong naturelearning submission through the stern discipline of grief. In vainMr. Power told her that David had received a better reward than anyhuman hand could give him, in the gratitude of many women, therespect of many men. That to do bravely the daily duties of anupright life was more heroic in God's sight, than to achieve in anenthusiastic moment a single deed that won the world's applause; andthat the seeming incompleteness of his life was beautifully roundedby the act that caused his death, although no eulogy recorded it, nosong embalmed it, and few knew it but those he saved, those heloved, and the Great Commander who promoted him to the higher rankhe had won.

Christie could not be content with this invisible, intangiblerecompense for her hero: she wanted to see, to know beyond a doubt,that justice had been done; and beat herself against the barrierthat baffles bereaved humanity till impatient despair was weariedout, and passionate heart gave up the struggle.

Then, when no help seemed possible, she found it where she leastexpected it, in herself. Searching for religion, she had found love:now seeking to follow love she found religion. The desire for it hadnever left her, and, while serving others, she was earning thisreward; for when her life seemed to lie in ashes, from their midst,this slender spire of flame, purifying while it burned, rosetrembling toward heaven; showing her how great sacrifices turn togreater compensations; giving her light, warmth, and consolation,and teaching her the lesson all must learn.

God was very patient with her, sending much help, and letting herclimb up to Him by all the tender ways in which aspiring souls canlead unhappy hearts.

David's room had been her refuge when those dark hours came, andsitting there one day trying to understand the great mystery thatparted her from David, she seemed to receive an answer to her manyprayers for some sign that death had not estranged them. The housewas very still, the window open, and a soft south wind was wanderingthrough the room with hints of May-flowers on its wings. Suddenly abreath of music startled her, so airy, sweet, and short-lived thatno human voice or hand could have produced it. Again and again itcame, a fitful and melodious sigh, that to one made superstitious bymuch sorrow, seemed like a spirit's voice delivering some messagefrom another world.

Christie looked and listened with hushed breath and expectant heart,believing that some special answer was to be given her. But in amoment she saw it was no supernatural sound, only the south windwhispering in David's flute that hung beside the window.Disappointment came first, then warm over her sore heart flowed thetender recollection that she used to call the old flute "David'svoice," for into it he poured the joy and sorrow, unrest and pain,he told no living soul. How often it had been her lullaby, beforeshe learned to read its language; how gaily it had piped for others;how plaintively it had sung for him, alone and in the night; and nowhow full of pathetic music was that hymn of consolation fitfullywhispered by the wind's soft breath.

Ah, yes! this was a better answer than any supernatural voice couldhave given her; a more helpful sign than any phantom face or hand; asurer confirmation of her hope than subtle argument or sacredpromise: for it brought back the memory of the living, loving man sovividly, so tenderly, that Christie felt as if the barrier was down,and welcomed a new sense of David's nearness with the softest tearsthat had flowed since she closed the serene eyes whose last look hadbeen for her.

After that hour she spent the long spring days lying on the oldcouch in his room, reading his books, thinking of his love and life,and listening to "David's voice." She always heard it now, whetherthe wind touched the flute with airy fingers or it hung mute; and itsung to her songs of patience, hope, and cheer, till a mysteriouspeace carne to her, and she discovered in herself the strength shehad asked, yet never thought to find. Under the snow, herbs of gracehad been growing silently; and, when the heavy rains had melted allthe frost away, they sprung up to blossom beautifully in the sunthat shines for every spire of grass, and makes it perfect in itstime and place.

Mrs. Wilkins was right; for one June morning, when she laid "thatblessed baby" in its mother's arms, Christie's first words were:

"Don't let me die: I must live for baby now," and gathered David'slittle daughter to her breast, as if the soft touch of the fumblinghands had healed every wound and brightened all the world.

"I told you so; God bless 'em both!" and Mrs. Wilkins retiredprecipitately to the hall, where she sat down upon the stairs andcried most comfortable tears; for her maternal heart was full of athanksgiving too deep for words.

A sweet, secluded time to Christie, as she brooded over her littletreasure and forgot there was a world outside. A fond and jealousmother, but a very happy one, for after the bitterest came thetenderest experience of her life. She felt its sacredness, itsbeauty, and its high responsibilities; accepted them prayerfully,and found unspeakable delight in fitting herself to bear themworthily, always remembering that she had a double duty to performtoward the fatherless little creature given to her care.

It is hardly necessary to mention the changes one small individualmade in that feminine household. The purring and clucking that wenton; the panics over a pin-prick; the consultations over a pellet ofchamomilla; the raptures at the dawn of a first smile; the solemnprophecies of future beauty, wit, and wisdom in the bud of a woman;the general adoration of the entire family at the wicker shrinewherein lay the idol, a mass of flannel and cambric with a bald headat one end, and a pair of microscopic blue socks at the other.Mysterious little porringers sat unreproved upon the parlor fire,small garments aired at every window, lights burned at unholy hours,and three agitated nightcaps congregated at the faintest chirp ofthe restless bird in the maternal nest.

Of course Grandma grew young again, and produced nurseryreminiscences on every occasion; Aunt Letty trotted day and night togratify the imaginary wants of the idol, and Christie was soentirely absorbed that the whole South might have been swallowed upby an earthquake without causing her as much consternation as theappearance of a slight rash upon the baby.

No flower in David's garden throve like his little June rose, for nowind was allowed to visit her too roughly; and when rain fellwithout, she took her daily airing in the green-house, where fromher mother's arms she soon regarded the gay sight with suchsprightly satisfaction that she seemed a little flower herselfdancing on its stem.

She was named Ruth for grandma, but Christie always called her"Little Heart's-ease," or "Pansy," and those who smiled at first atthe mother's fancy, came in time to see that there was an unusualfitness in the name. All the bitterness seemed taken out ofChristie's sorrow by the soft magic of the child: there was so muchto live for now she spoke no more of dying; and, holding that littlehand in hers, it grew easier to go on along the way that led toDavid.

A prouder mother never lived; and, as baby waxed in beauty and instrength, Christie longed for all the world to see her. A sweet,peculiar, little face she had, sunny and fair; but, under the broadforehead where the bright hair fell as David's used to do, thereshone a pair of dark and solemn eyes, so large, so deep, and oftenso unchildlike, that her mother wondered where she got them. Evenwhen she smiled the shadow lingered in these eyes, and when she weptthey filled and overflowed with great, quiet tears like flowers toofull of dew. Christie often said remorsefully:

"My little Pansy! I put my own sorrow into your baby soul, and nowit looks back at me with this strange wistfulness, and these greatdrops are the unsubmissive tears I locked up in my heart because Iwould not be grateful for the good gift God gave me, even while hetook that other one away. O Baby, forgive your mother; and don't lether find that she has given you clouds instead of sunshine."

This fear helped Christie to keep her own face cheerful, her ownheart tranquil, her own life as sunny, healthful, and hopeful as shewished her child's to be. For this reason she took garden andgreen-house into her own hands when Bennet gave them up, and, with astout lad to help her, did well this part of the work that Davidbequeathed to her. It was a pretty sight to see the mother with heryear-old daughter out among the fresh, green things: the littlegolden head bobbing here and there like a stray sunbeam; the babyvoice telling sweet, unintelligible stories to bird and bee andbutterfly; or the small creature fast asleep in a basket under arose-bush, swinging in a hammock from a tree, or in Bran's keeping,rosy, vigorous, and sweet with sun and air, and the wholesomeinfluence of a wise and tender love.

While Christie worked she planned her daughter's future, as motherswill, and had but one care concerning it. She did not fear poverty,but the thought of being straitened for the means of educatinglittle Ruth afflicted her. She meant to teach her to labor heartilyand see no degradation in it, but she could not bear to feel thather child should be denied the harmless pleasures that make youthsweet, the opportunities that educate, the society that ripenscharacter and gives a rank which money cannot buy. A little sum toput away for Baby, safe from all risk, ready to draw from as eachneed came, and sacredly devoted to this end, was now Christie's soleambition.

With this purpose at her heart, she watched her fruit and nursedher flowers; found no task too hard, no sun too hot, no weed toounconquerable; and soon the garden David planted when his lifeseemed barren, yielded lovely harvests to swell his littledaughter's portion.

One day Christie received a letter from Uncle Enos expressing a wishto see her if she cared to come so far and "stop a spell." It bothsurprised and pleased her, and she resolved to go, glad that the oldman remembered her, and proud to show him the great success of herlife, as she considered Baby.

So she went, was hospitably received by the ancient cousin fivetimes removed who kept house, and greeted with as much cordiality asUncle Enos ever showed to any one. He looked askance at Baby, as ifhe had not bargained for the honor of her presence; but he saidnothing, and Christie wisely refrained from mentioning that Ruth wasthe most remarkable child ever born.

She soon felt at home, and went about the old house visitingfamiliar nooks with the bitter, sweet satisfaction of such returns.It was sad to miss Aunt Betsey in the big kitchen, strange to seeUncle Enos sit all day in his arm-chair too helpless now to plodabout the farm and carry terror to the souls of those who servedhim. He was still a crabbed, gruff, old man; but the narrow, hard,old heart was a little softer than it used to be; and he sometimesbetrayed the longing for his kindred that the aged often feel wheninfirmity makes them desire tenderer props than any they can hire.

Christie saw this wish, and tried to gratify it with a dutifulaffection which could not fail to win its way. Baby unconsciouslylent a hand, for Uncle Enos could not long withstand the sweetenticements of this little kinswoman. He did not own the conquest inwords, but was seen to cuddle his small captivator in private;allowed all sorts of liberties with his spectacles, his pockets, andbald pate; and never seemed more comfortable than when sheconfiscated his newspaper, and sitting on his knee read it to him ina pretty language of her own.

"She's a good little gal; looks consid'able like you; but you warn'tnever such a quiet puss as she is," he said one day, as the childwas toddling about the room with an old doll of her mother's latelydisinterred from its tomb in the garret.

"She is like her father in that. But I get quieter as I grow old,uncle," answered Christie, who sat sewing near him.

"You be growing old, that's a fact; but somehow it's kind ofbecomin'. I never thought you'd be so much of a lady, and look sowell after all you've ben through," added Uncle Enos, vainly tryingto discover what made Christie's manners so agreeable in spite ofher plain dress, and her face so pleasant in spite of the gray hairat her temples and the lines about her mouth.

It grew still pleasanter to see as she smiled and looked up at himwith the soft yet bright expression that always made him think ofher mother.

"I'm glad you don't consider me an entire failure, uncle. You knowyou predicted it. But though I have gone through a good deal, Idon't regret my attempt, and when I look at Pansy I feel as if I'dmade a grand success."

"You haven't made much money, I guess. If you don't mind tellin',what have you got to live on?" asked the old man, unwilling toacknowledge any life a success, if dollars and cents were left outof it.

"Only David's pension and what I can make by my garden."

"The old lady has to have some on't, don't she?" "She has a littlemoney of her own; but I see that she and Letty have two-thirds ofall I make."

"That ain't a fair bargain if you do all the work." "Ah, but wedon't make bargains, sir: we work for one another and share everything together."

"So like women!" grumbled Uncle Enos, longing to see that "theproperty was fixed up square."

"SHE'S A GOOD LITTLE GAL! LOOKS CONSID'ABLE LIKE YOU."

"How are you goin' to eddicate the little gal? I s'pose you think asmuch of culter and so on as ever you did," he presently added with agruff laugh.

"More," answered Christie, smiling too, as she remembered the oldquarrels. "I shall earn the money, sir. If the garden fails I canteach, nurse, sew, write, cook even, for I've half a dozen usefulaccomplishments at my fingers' ends, thanks to the education you anddear Aunt Betsey gave me, and I may have to use them all for Pansy'ssake."

Pleased by the compliment, yet a little conscience-stricken at thesmall share he deserved of it, Uncle Enos sat rubbing up his glassesa minute, before he led to the subject he had in his mind.

"Ef you fall sick or die, what then?"

"I've thought of that," and Christie caught up the child as if herlove could keep even death at bay. But Pansy soon struggled downagain, for the dirty-faced doll was taking a walk and could not bedetained. "If I am taken from her, then my little girl must do asher mother did. God has orphans in His special care, and He won'tforget her I am sure."

Uncle Enos had a coughing spell just then; and, when he got over it,he said with an effort, for even to talk of giving away hissubstance cost him a pang:

"I'm gettin' into years now, and it's about time I fixed up mattersin case I'm took suddin'. I always meant to give you a littlesuthing, but as you didn't ask for't, I took good care on 't, and itain't none the worse for waitin' a spell. I jest speak on't, so youneedn't be anxious about the little gal. It ain't much, but it willmake things easy I reckon."

"You are very kind, uncle; and I am more grateful than I can tell. Idon't want a penny for myself, but I should love to know that mydaughter was to have an easier life than mine."

"I s'pose you thought of that when you come so quick?" said the oldman, with a suspicious look, that made Christie's eyes kindle asthey used to years ago, but she answered honestly:

"I did think of it and hope it, yet I should have come quicker ifyou had been in the poor-house."

Neither spoke for a minute; for, in spite of generosity andgratitude, the two natures struck fire when they met as inevitablyas flint and steel.

"What's your opinion of missionaries," asked Uncle Enos, after aspell of meditation.

"If I had any money to leave them, I should bequeath it to those whohelp the heathen here at home, and should let the innocent FeejeeIslanders worship their idols a little longer in benighted peace,"answered Christie, in her usual decided way.

"That's my idee exactly; but it's uncommon hard to settle which ofthem that stays at home you'll trust your money to. You see Betseywas always pesterin' me to give to charity things; but I told her itwas better to save up and give it in a handsome lump that lookedwell, and was a credit to you. When she was dyin' she reminded meon't, and I promised I'd do suthing before I follered. I've beenturnin' on't over in my mind for a number of months, and I don'tseem to find any thing that's jest right. You've ben round among thecharity folks lately accordin' to your tell, now what would you doif you had a tidy little sum to dispose on?"

"Help the Freed people."

The answer came so quick that it nearly took the old gentleman'sbreath away, and he looked at his niece with his mouth open after aninvoluntary, "Sho!" had escaped him.

"David helped give them their liberty, and I would so gladly helpthem to enjoy it!" cried Christie, all the old enthusiasm blazingup, but with a clearer, steadier flame than in the days when shedreamed splendid dreams by the kitchen fire.

"Well, no, that wouldn't meet my views. What else is there?" askedthe old man quite unwarmed by her benevolent ardor.

"Wounded soldiers, destitute children, ill-paid women, young peoplestruggling for independence, homes, hospitals, schools, churches,and God's charity all over the world."

"That's the pesky part on 't: there's such a lot to choose from; Idon't know much about any of 'em," began Uncle Enos, looking like aperplexed raven with a treasure which it cannot decide where tohide.

"Whose fault is that, sir?"

The question hit the old man full in the conscience, and he winced,remembering how many of Betsey's charitable impulses he had nippedin the bud, and now all the accumulated alms she would have been soglad to scatter weighed upon him heavily. He rubbed his bald headwith a yellow bandana, and moved uneasily in his chair, as if hewanted to get up and finish the neglected job that made hishelplessness so burdensome.

"I'll ponder on 't a spell, and make up my mind," was all he said,and never renewed the subject again.

But he had very little time to ponder, and he never did make up hismind; for a few months after Christie's long visit ended, Uncle Enos"was took suddin'," and left all he had to her.

Not an immense fortune, but far larger than she expected, and greatwas her anxiety to use wisely this unlooked-for benefaction. She wasvery grateful, but she kept nothing for herself, feeling thatDavid's pension was enough, and preferring the small sum he earnedso dearly to the thousands the old man had hoarded up for years. Agood portion was put by for Ruth, something for "mother and Letty"that want might never touch them, and the rest she kept for David'swork, believing that, so spent, the money would be blest.