Rachel led her friend toward the city, and, coming to the mechanics'
quarter, stopped before the door of a small, old house.
"Just knock, say 'Rachel sent me,' and you'll find yourself at
home."
"Stay with me, or let me go with you. I can't lose you again, for I
need you very much," pleaded Christie, clinging to her friend.
"Not so much as that poor girl dying all alone. She's waiting for
me, and I must go. But I'll write soon; and remember, Christie, I
shall feel as if I had only paid a very little of my debt if you go
back to the sad old life, and lose your faith and hope again. God
bless and keep you, and when we meet next time let me find a happier
face than this."
Rachel kissed it with her heart on her lips, smiled her brave sweet
smile, and vanished in the mist.
Pausing a moment to collect herself, Christie recollected that she
had not asked the name of the new friend whose help she was about to
ask. A little sign on the door caught her eye, and, bending down,
she managed to read by the dim light of the street lamp these words:
"C. WILKINS, Clear-Starcher.
"Laces done up in the best style."
Too tired to care whether a laundress or a lady took her in, she
knocked timidly, and, while she waited for an answer to her summons,
stood listening to the noises within.
Pages:
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199