CHAPTER VIII.
A CURE FOR DESPAIR.
LISHA WILKINS.
WHEN Christie opened the eyes that had closed so wearily, afternoon
sunshine streamed across the room, and seemed the herald of happier
days. Refreshed by sleep, and comforted by grateful recollections of
her kindly welcome, she lay tranquilly enjoying the friendly
atmosphere about her, with so strong a feeling that a skilful hand
had taken the rudder, that she felt very little anxiety or curiosity
about the haven which was to receive her boat after this narrow
escape from shipwreck.
Her eye wandered to and fro, and brightened as it went; for though a
poor, plain room it was as neat as hands could make it, and so
glorified with sunshine that she thought it a lovely place, in spite
of the yellow paper with green cabbage roses on it, the gorgeous
plaster statuary on the mantel-piece, and the fragrance of
dough-nuts which pervaded the air. Every thing suggested home life,
humble but happy, and Christie's solitary heart warmed at the sights
and sounds about her.
A half open closet-door gave her glimpses of little frocks and
jackets, stubby little shoes, and go-to-meeting hats all in a row.
From below came up the sound of childish voices chattering, childish
feet trotting to and fro, and childish laughter sounding sweetly
through the Sabbath stillness of the place.
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