't know what would become of me."

Hannah tried to soothe her with soft words of comfort and assurances of
love.

"It will not be so dark and sad and friendless as you think," she said.
"All those people who have admired and praised you so will surely be
good to you--" But she was interrupted sharply.

"I am done with them," she said, "and done with fine dressing, and
becoming colors." Her voice shook, and Hannah, seeing that she was
completely unnerved, succeeded in persuading her to go up to her own
room. On the threshold she paused.

"Come into the dressing-room with me," Christine said. "Don't leave me.
He will not wake," she added, seeing her friend glance toward the door
between the dressing-room and sleeping-room. "He sleeps like a stone. I
shall lie here on the lounge till morning. I often do. I have lain
there, night in and out, and almost sobbed my heart away, and no one
knew."

Hannah braided the lovely hair, unfastened the exquisite white and gold
dress, which fell in a rich mass on the floor, and out of it Christine
stepped, looking more lovely than ever and more childlike. She caught
sight of the ornaments she still wore, and hastily taking them off laid
them in a heap on the dressing-table.

"They can be sold," she said. "I shall never want to put them on again.
Oh, Hannah, you are so good to me," she went on in the plaintive voice
of an unhappy child, as Hannah brought a warm dressing-gown and made her
put it on, and little soft-lined slippers for her feet. "I am so cold,"
she said, shivering. "Some day you will know, perhaps, how unhappy I am.
You don't know half of it now, and I cannot tell you. Oh, you have made
me so comfortable," she added, as Hannah tucked a warm coverlet over
her, on the big, soft lounge. "I haven't had any one to take care of me
for so long. Don't leave me, Hannah. Sit in that big chair and hold my
hand and let me go to sleep. I am so tired."

Her lids drooped and her voice fell. In another moment she was asleep.

Once only Christine opened her eyes, and finding Hannah still there said
piteously, "Oh, I am so unhappy," but the plaintive little tones died
away in sleepiness, and in a moment she was drawing in the regular
breaths of profound slumber.

By-and-by, without waking her, Hannah drew her hand away, and leaning
back in the big chair, threw a great shawl all around her, and worn out
by the experiences of the evening, she also fell asleep.

Morning found them so.