"I mean that, being of age, I'm going to take care of myself, andnot be a burden any longer. Uncle wishes me out of the way; thinks Iought to go, and, sooner or later, will tell me so. I don't intendto wait for that, but, like the people in fairy tales, travel awayinto the world and seek my fortune. I know I can find it."Christie emphasized her speech by energetic demonstrations in thebread-trough, kneading the dough as if it was her destiny, and shewas shaping it to suit herself; while Aunt Betsey stood listening,with uplifted pie-fork, and as much astonishment as her placid facewas capable of expressing. As the girl paused, with a decided thump,the old lady exclaimed:

 

　　"What crazy idee you got into your head now?""A very sane and sensible one that's got to be worked out, so pleaselisten to it, ma'am. I've had it a good while, I've thought it overthoroughly, and I'm sure it's the right thing for me to do. I'm oldenough to take care of myself; and if I'd been a boy, I should havebeen told to do it long ago. I hate to be dependent; and now there'sno need of it, I can't bear it any longer. If you were poor, Iwouldn't leave you; for I never forget how kind you have been to me.

 

　　But Uncle doesn't love or understand me; I am a burden to him, and Imust go where I can take care of myself. I can't be happy till I do,for there's nothing here for me. I'm sick of this dull town, wherethe one idea is eat, drink, and get rich; I don't find any friendsto help me as I want to be helped, or any work that I can do well;so let me go, Aunty, and find my place, wherever it is.""But I do need you, deary; and you mustn't think Uncle don't likeyou. He does, only he don't show it; and when your odd ways frethim, he ain't pleasant, I know. I don't see why you can't becontented; I've lived here all my days, and never found the placelonesome, or the folks unneighborly." And Aunt Betsey lookedperplexed by the new idea.

 

　　"You and I are very different, ma'am. There was more yeast put intomy composition, I guess; and, after standing quiet in a warm cornerso long, I begin to ferment, and ought to be kneaded up in time, sothat I may turn out a wholesome loaf. You can't do this; so let mego where it can be done, else I shall turn sour and good fornothing. Does that make the matter any clearer?" And Christie'sserious face relaxed into a smile as her aunt's eye went from her tothe nicely moulded loaf offered as an illustration.

 

　　"I see what you mean, Kitty; but I never thought on't before. You bebetter riz than me; though, let me tell you, too much emptins makesbread poor stuff, like baker's trash; and too much workin' up makesit hard and dry. Now fly 'round, for the big oven is most het, andthis cake takes a sight of time in the mixin'.""You haven't said I might go, Aunty," began the girl, after a longpause devoted by the old lady to the preparation of some compoundwhich seemed to require great nicety of measurement in itsingredients; for when she replied, Aunt Betsey curiously interlardedher speech with audible directions to herself from the receipt-bookbefore her.

 

　　AUNT BETSEY'S INTERLARDED SPEECH.

 

　　"I ain't no right to keep you, dear, ef you choose to take (a pinchof salt). I'm sorry you ain't happy, and think you might be ef you'donly (beat six eggs, yolks and whites together). But ef you can't,and feel that you need (two cups of sugar), only speak to Uncle, andef he says (a squeeze of fresh lemon), go, my dear, and take myblessin' with you (not forgettin' to cover with a piece of paper)."Christie's laugh echoed through the kitchen; and the old lady smiledbenignly, quite unconscious of the cause of the girl's merriment.

 

　　"I shall ask Uncle to-night, and I know he won't object. Then Ishall write to see if Mrs. Flint has a room for me, where I can staytill I get something to do. There is plenty of work in the world,and I'm not afraid of it; so you'll soon hear good news of me.

 

　　Don't look sad, for you know I never could forget you, even if Ishould become the greatest lady in the land." And Christie left theprints of two floury but affectionate hands on the old lady'sshoulders, as she kissed the wrinkled face that had never worn afrown to her.

 

　　Full of hopeful fancies, Christie salted the pans and buttered thedough in pleasant forgetfulness of all mundane affairs, and theludicrous dismay of Aunt Betsey, who followed her about rectifyingher mistakes, and watching over her as if this sudden absence ofmind had roused suspicions of her sanity.

 

　　"Uncle, I want to go away, and get my own living, if you please,"was Christie's abrupt beginning, as they sat round the evening fire.

 

　　"Hey! what's that?" said Uncle Enos, rousing from the doze he wasenjoying, with a candle in perilous proximity to his newspaper andhis nose.

 

　　Christie repeated her request, and was much relieved, when, after ameditative stare, the old man briefly answered:

 

　　"Wal, go ahead.""I was afraid you might think it rash or silly, sir.""I think it's the best thing you could do; and I like your goodsense in pupposin' on't.""Then I may really go?""Soon's ever you like. Don't pester me about it till you're ready;then I'll give you a little suthing to start off with." And UncleEnos returned to "The Farmer's Friend," as if cattle were moreinteresting than kindred.

 

　　Christie was accustomed to his curt speech and careless manner; hadexpected nothing more cordial; and, turning to her aunt, said,rather bitterly:

 

　　"Didn't I tell you he'd be glad to have me go? No matter! When I'vedone something to be proud of, he will be as glad to see me backagain." Then her voice changed, her eyes kindled, and the firm lipssoftened with a smile. "Yes, I'll try my experiment; then I'll getrich; found a home for girls like myself; or, better still, be aMrs. Fry, a Florence Nightingale, or"--"How are you on't for stockin's, dear?"Christie's castles in the air vanished at the prosaic question; but,after a blank look, she answered pleasantly:

 

　　"Thank you for bringing me down to my feet again, when I was soaringaway too far and too fast. I'm poorly off, ma'am; but if you areknitting these for me, I shall certainly start on a firmfoundation." And, leaning on Aunt Betsey's knee, she patientlydiscussed the wardrobe question from hose to head-gear.

 

　　"Don't you think you could be contented any way, Christie, ef I makethe work lighter, and leave you more time for your books andthings?" asked the old lady, loth to lose the one youthful elementin her quiet life.

 

　　"No, ma'am, for I can't find what I want here," was the decidedanswer.

 

　　"What do you want, child?""Look in the fire, and I'll try to show you."The old lady obediently turned her spectacles that way; and Christiesaid in a tone half serious, half playful:

 

　　"Do you see those two logs? Well that one smouldering dismally awayin the corner is what my life is now; the other blazing and singingis what I want my life to be.""Bless me, what an idee! They are both a-burnin' where they are put,and both will be ashes to-morrow; so what difference doos it make?"Christie smiled at the literal old lady; but, following the fancythat pleased her, she added earnestly:

 

　　"I know the end is the same; but it does make a difference how theyturn to ashes, and how I spend my life. That log, with its one dullspot of fire, gives neither light nor warmth, but lies sizzlingdespondently among the cinders. But the other glows from end to endwith cheerful little flames that go singing up the chimney with apleasant sound. Its light fills the room and shines out into thedark; its warmth draws us nearer, making the hearth the cosiestplace in the house, and we shall all miss the friendly blaze when itdies. Yes," she added, as if to herself, "I hope my life may be likethat, so that, whether it be long or short, it will be useful andcheerful while it lasts, will be missed when it ends, and leavesomething behind besides ashes."Though she only half understood them, the girl's words touched thekind old lady, and made her look anxiously at the eager young facegazing so wistfully into the fire.

 

　　"A good smart blowin' up with the belluses would make the greenstick burn most as well as the dry one after a spell. I guesscontentedness is the best bellus for young folks, ef they would onlythink so.""I dare say you are right, Aunty; but I want to try for myself; andif I fail, I'll come back and follow your advice. Young folks alwayshave discontented fits, you know. Didn't you when you were a girl?""Shouldn't wonder ef I did; but Enos came along, and I forgot 'em.""My Enos has not come along yet, and never may; so I'm not going tosit and wait for any man to give me independence, if I can earn itfor myself." And a quick glance at the gruff, gray old man in thecorner plainly betrayed that, in Christie's opinion, Aunt Betseymade a bad bargain when she exchanged her girlish aspirations for aman whose soul was in his pocket.

 

　　"Jest like her mother, full of hifalutin notions, discontented, andsot in her own idees. Poor capital to start a fortin' on."Christie's eye met that of her uncle peering over the top of hispaper with an expression that always tried her patience. Now it waslike a dash of cold water on her enthusiasm, and her face fell asshe asked quickly:

 

　　"How do you mean, sir?""I mean that you are startin' all wrong; your redic'lus notionsabout independence and self-cultur won't come to nothin' in the longrun, and you'll make as bad a failure of your life as your motherdid of her'n.""Please, don't say that to me; I can't bear it, for I shall neverthink her life a failure, because she tried to help herself, andmarried a good man in spite of poverty, when she loved him! You callthat folly; but I'll do the same if I can; and I'd rather have whatmy father and mother left me, than all the money you are piling up,just for the pleasure of being richer than your neighbors.""Never mind, dear, he don't mean no harm!" whispered Aunt Betsey,fearing a storm.

 

　　But though Christie's eyes had kindled and her color deepened, hervoice was low and steady, and her indignation was of the inwardsort.

 

　　"Uncle likes to try me by saying such things, and this is one reasonwhy I want to go away before I get sharp and bitter and distrustfulas he is. I don't suppose I can make you understand my feeling, butI'd like to try, and then I'll never speak of it again;" and,carefully controlling voice and face, Christie slowly added, with alook that would have been pathetically eloquent to one who couldhave understood the instincts of a strong nature for light andfreedom: "You say I am discontented, proud and ambitious; that'strue, and I'm glad of it. I am discontented, because I can't helpfeeling that there is a better sort of life than this dull one madeup of everlasting work, with no object but money. I can't starve mysoul for the sake of my body, and I mean to get out of the treadmillif I can. I'm proud, as you call it, because I hate dependence wherethere isn't any love to make it bearable. You don't say so in words,but I know you begrudge me a home, though you will call meungrateful when I'm gone. I'm willing to work, but I want work thatI can put my heart into, and feel that it does me good, no matterhow hard it is. I only ask for a chance to be a useful, happy woman,and I don't think that is a bad ambition. Even if I only do what mydear mother did, earn my living honestly and happily, and leave abeautiful example behind me, to help one other woman as hers helpsme, I shall be satisfied."Christie's voice faltered over the last words, for the thoughts andfeelings which had been working within her during the last few dayshad stirred her deeply, and the resolution to cut loose from the oldlife had not been lightly made. Mr. Devon had listened behind hispaper to this unusual outpouring with a sense of discomfort whichwas new to him. But though the words reproached and annoyed, theydid not soften him, and when Christie paused with tearful eyes, heruncle rose, saying, slowly, as he lighted his candle:

 

　　"Ef I'd refused to let you go before, I'd agree to it now; for youneed breakin' in, my girl, and you are goin' where you'll get it, sothe sooner you're off the better for all on us. Come, Betsey, we mayas wal leave, for we can't understand the wants of her higher nater,as Christie calls it, and we've had lecterin' enough for one night."And with a grim laugh the old man quitted the field, worsted but ingood order.

 

　　"There, there, dear, hev a good cry, and forgit all about it!"purred Aunt Betsey, as the heavy footsteps creaked away, for thegood soul had a most old-fashioned and dutiful awe of her lord andmaster.

 

　　"I shan't cry but act; for it is high time I was off. I've stayedfor your sake; now I'm more trouble than comfort, and away I go.

 

　　Good-night, my dear old Aunty, and don't look troubled, for I'll bea lamb while I stay."Having kissed the old lady, Christie swept her work away, and satdown to write the letter which was the first step toward freedom.

 

　　When it was done, she drew nearer, to her friendly confidante thefire, and till late into the night sat thinking tenderly of thepast, bravely of the present, hopefully of the future. Twenty-oneto-morrow, and her inheritance a head, a heart, a pair of hands;also the dower of most New England girls, intelligence, courage, andcommon sense, many practical gifts, and, hidden under the reservethat soon melts in a genial atmosphere, much romance and enthusiasm,and the spirit which can rise to heroism when the great momentcomes.

 

　　Christie was one of that large class of women who, moderatelyendowed with talents, earnest and true-hearted, are driven bynecessity, temperament, or principle out into the world to findsupport, happiness, and homes for themselves. Many turn backdiscouraged; more accept shadow for substance, and discover theirmistake too late; the weakest lose their purpose and themselves; butthe strongest struggle on, and, after danger and defeat, earn atlast the best success this world can give us, the possession of abrave and cheerful spirit, rich in self-knowledge, self-control,self-help. This was the real desire of Christie's heart; this was tobe her lesson and reward, and to this happy end she was slowly yetsurely brought by the long discipline of life and labor.

 

　　Sitting alone there in the night, she tried to strengthen herselfwith all the good and helpful memories she could recall, before shewent away to find her place in the great unknown world. She thoughtof her mother, so like herself, who had borne the commonplace lifeof home till she could bear it no longer. Then had gone away toteach, as most country girls are forced to do. Had met, loved, andmarried a poor gentleman, and, after a few years of genuinehappiness, untroubled even by much care and poverty, had followedhim out of the world, leaving her little child to the protection ofher brother.

 

　　Christie looked back over the long, lonely years she had spent inthe old farm-house, plodding to school and church, and doing hertasks with kind Aunt Betsey while a child; and slowly growing intogirlhood, with a world of romance locked up in a heart hungry forlove and a larger, nobler life.

 

　　She had tried to appease this hunger in many ways, but found littlehelp. Her father's old books were all she could command, and theseshe wore out with much reading. Inheriting his refined tastes, shefound nothing to attract her in the society of the commonplace andoften coarse people about her. She tried to like the buxom girlswhose one ambition was to "get married," and whose only subjects ofconversation were "smart bonnets" and "nice dresses." She tried tobelieve that the admiration and regard of the bluff young farmerswas worth striving for; but when one well-to-do neighbor laid hisacres at her feet, she found it impossible to accept for her life'scompanion a man whose soul was wrapped up in prize cattle and bigturnips.

 

　　Uncle Enos never could forgive her for this piece of folly, andChristie plainly saw that one of three things would surely happen,if she lived on there with no vent for her full heart and busy mind.

 

　　She would either marry Joe Butterfield in sheer desperation, andbecome a farmer's household drudge; settle down into a sourspinster, content to make butter, gossip, and lay up money all herdays; or do what poor Matty Stone had done, try to crush and curbher needs and aspirations till the struggle grew too hard, and thenin a fit of despair end her life, and leave a tragic story to haunttheir quiet river.

 

　　To escape these fates but one way appeared; to break loose from thisnarrow life, go out into the world and see what she could do forherself. This idea was full of enchantment to the eager girl, and,after much earnest thought, she had resolved to try it.

 

　　"If I fail, I can come back," she said to herself, even while shescorned the thought of failure, for with all her shy pride she wasboth brave and ardent, and her dreams were of the rosiest sort.

 

　　"I won't marry Joe; I won't wear myself out in a district-school forthe mean sum they give a woman; I won't delve away here where I'mnot wanted; and I won't end my life like a coward, because it isdull and hard. I'll try my fate as mother did, and perhaps I maysucceed as well." And Christie's thoughts went wandering away intothe dim, sweet past when she, a happy child, lived with lovingparents in a different world from that.

 

　　Lost in these tender memories, she sat till the old moon-faced clockbehind the door struck twelve, then the visions vanished, leavingtheir benison behind them.

 

　　As she glanced backward at the smouldering fire, a slender spire offlame shot up from the log that had blazed so cheerily, and shoneupon her as she went. A good omen, gratefully accepted then, andremembered often in the years to come.