for itself anywhere.

A very bright and happy time was this in Christie's life; but, like
most happy times, it was very brief. Only one summer allowed for the
blossoming of the friendship that budded so slowly in the spring;
then the frost came and killed the flowers; but the root lived long
underneath the snows of suffering, doubt, and absence.

Coming to her work late one morning, she found the usually orderly
room in confusion. Some of the girls were crying; some whispering
together,--all looking excited and dismayed. Mrs. King sat
majestically at her table, with an ominous frown upon her face. Miss
Cotton stood beside her, looking unusually sour and stern, for the
ancient virgin's temper was not of the best. Alone, before them all,
with her face hidden in her hands, and despair in every line of her
drooping figure, stood Rachel,--a meek culprit at the stern bar of
justice, where women try a sister woman.

"What's the matter?" cried Christie, pausing on the threshold.

MRS. KING AND MISS COTTON.

Rachel shivered, as if the sound of that familiar voice was a fresh
wound, but she did not lift her head; and Mrs. King answered, with a
nervous emphasis that made the bugles of her head-dress rattle
dismally:

"A very sad thing, Miss Devon,--very sad, indeed; a thing which
never occurred in my establishment before, and never shall again. It
appears that Rachel, whom we all considered a most respectable and