Ch. 7 - Through the Mist - Page 2

through the sorrowful perplexity
that comes to so many before they learn that religion cannot be
given or bought, but must grow as trees grow, needing frost and
snow, rain and wind to strengthen it before it is deep-rooted in the
soul; that God is in the hearts of all, and they that seek shall
surely find Him when they need Him most.

So Christie waited for religion to reveal itself to her, and while
she waited worked with an almost desperate industry, trying to buy a
little happiness for herself by giving a part of her earnings to
those whose needs money could supply. She clung to her little room,
for there she could live her own life undisturbed, and preferred to
stint herself in other ways rather than give up this liberty. Day
after day she sat there sewing health of mind and body into the long
seams or dainty stitching that passed through her busy hands, and
while she sewed she thought sad, bitter, oftentimes rebellious
thoughts.

It was the worst life she could have led just then, for, deprived of
the active, cheerful influences she most needed, her mind preyed on
itself, slowly and surely, preparing her for the dark experience to
come. She knew that there was fitter work for her somewhere, but how
to find it was a problem which wiser women have often failed to
solve. She was no pauper, yet was one of those whom poverty sets at
odds with the world, for favors burden and dependence makes the
bread bitter unless love brightens the one and sweetens the other.

There are many Christies, willing to work, yet unable to bear the
contact with coarser natures which makes labor seem degrading, or to
endure the hard struggle for the bare necessities of life when life
has lost all that makes it beautiful. People wonder when such as she
say they can find little to do; but to those who know nothing of the
pangs of pride, the sacrifices of feeling, the martyrdoms of youth,
love, hope, and ambition that go on under the faded cloaks of these
poor gentle-women, who tell them to go into factories, or scrub in
kitchens, for there is work enough for all, the most convincing
answer would be, "Try it."

Christie kept up bravely till a wearisome low fever broke both
strength and spirit, and brought the weight of debt upon her when
least fitted to bear or cast it off. For the first time she began to
feel that she had nerves which would rebel, and a heart that could
not long endure isolation from its kind without losing the cheerful
courage which hitherto had been her staunchest friend. Perfect rest,
kind care, and genial society were the medicines she needed, but
there was no one to minister to her, and she went blindly on along
the road so many women tread.

She left her bed too