“You 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 git up and walk whichever way it says, and you won’t fall. You’ve had bread and water long enough, now you want meat and wine a spell; take it, and when it’s time for milk and honey some one will fetch ’em ef you keep your table ready. The Lord feeds us right; it’s we that quarrel with our vittles.” “I will,” said Christie, and began at once to prepare her little board for the solid food of which she had had a taste that day. That afternoon Mrs. Wilkins took her turn at church-going, saw Mr. Power, told Christie’s story in her best style, and ended by saying: “She’s true grit, I do assure you, sir. Willin’ to work, but she’s seen the hard side of things and got kind of discouraged. Soul and body both wants tinkerin’ up, and I don’t know anybody who can do the job better ’n you can.” “Very well, I’ll come and see her,” answered Mr. Power, and Mrs. 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 irons cool,” he said, and sitting down in the kitchen began 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 energetic minds. He greeted Christie kindly, and then addressed himself to Mrs. Wilkins on various charitable matters, for he was a minister at large, and she one of his almoners. Christie could really see him now, for when he preached she forgot the man in the sermon, and thought of him only as a visible conscience. A sturdy man of fifty, with a keen, brave face, penetrating eyes, and mouth a little grim; but a voice so resonant and sweet it reminded one of silver trumpets, and stirred and won the hearer with irresistible power. Rough gray hair, and all the features rather rugged, as if the Great Sculptor had blocked out a grand statue, and left the man’s own soul to finish it. Had Christie known that he came to see her she would have been ill at ease; but Mrs. Wilkins had kept her own counsel, so when Mr. Power turned to Christie, 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, any thing that is honest.” “Not as a servant, exactly, but companion and helper. Mrs. Sterling is a dear old lady, and the place a pleasant little nest. 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 alacrity, but the longing look in her eyes explained it, for he saw at a glance that her place was not here.