She was not disappointed, for the dearest of little Quaker ladies opened to her, with such an air of peace and good-will that the veriest ruffian, coming to molest or make afraid, would have found it impossible to mar the tranquillity of that benign old face, or disturb one fold of the soft muslin crossed upon her breast. “I come from Mr. Power, and I have a note for Mrs. Sterling,” began Christie in her gentlest tone, as her last fear 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 placidly, as she led the way into a room whose principal furniture seemed to be books, flowers, and sunshine. The look, the tone, the gentle “thee,” went straight to Christie’s heart; and, while Mrs. 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 new-comer’s part. Up went Christie, and after a hasty look round a room as plain and white and still as a nun’s cell, she whisked on a working-apron and ran down again, feeling, as she fancied the children did in the fairy tale, when they first arrived at the house of the little old woman who lived in the wood. Mrs. Wilkins’s kitchen was as neat as a room could be, wherein six children came and went, but this kitchen was tidy with the immaculate order of which Shakers and Quakers alone seem to possess the secret,—a fragrant, shining cleanliness, that made even black kettles ornamental and dish-pans 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 Mrs. Sterling put a pan of apples, and a knife into her new assistant’s hands, saying in a tone that made the request a favor, “Will thee kindly pare these for me?” Christie wondered 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 dog dozing upon another, and neither offering to stir from their own dominions.