ily, "Come." Her friend rose.

"Perhaps if you were to try her for a month--" she suggested.

But Christie shook her head.

"But where can you go? What can you do?" said Mrs McIntyre, in a low
voice.

Where, indeed? Not to the house she had just seen Annie enter; she had
no claim there. Not home again, that was not to be thought of. She
turned a helpless glance to the persons who seemed to hold her destiny
in their hands. The lady looked annoyed; the gentleman, who had
observed the girl's excitement, asked:

"Were you ever at service before?"

"Oh, no!" said Mrs McIntyre, intending to serve Christie's cause. "The
family looked forward to something very different; but misfortunes and
the death--"

She stopped, intending that her pause should be more impressive than
words.

Other questions followed--Could she read and write? Could she sew? Had
she ever been in the city before?--till Christie's courage quite rose
again. It ended in nothing, however, but a promise to let her know in a
day or two what was decided.

In the silence that followed the closing of the streetdoor after them,
Christie felt that Mrs McIntyre was not well pleased with the
termination of the interview: and her first words proved it.

"You needna have been so sensitive," she said. "It will be a long time
before you get a place where everything will be to your mind. You
needna expect every lady to speak to you as your own sisters would. I
doubt you'll hear no more from these people."

But she was a good-natured and kind-hearted woman; and a glance at
Christie's miserable face stopped her.

"Never mind," she added; "there are plenty of folk in the town will be
glad to get a well-brought-up girl like you to attend to their children.
But you must look cheerful, and no' take umbrage at trifles."

Christie could not answer her. So she walked along by her side,
struggling, with a power which she felt was giving way rapidly, with the
sobs that were scarcely suppressed. She struggled no longer than till
she reached the little chamber where she and Annie had passed the night.
The hours that she was suffered to remain there alone were passed in
such an agony of grief and home-sickness as the poor child never
suffered from before. She quite exhausted herself at last; and when
Mrs McIntyre came to call her to dinner, she found her in a troubled
sleep.

"Poor child!" she said, as she stood looking at her, "I fear we must
send her ho