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"There, darling!" said the old woman; "you are like no one else, my own Miss Christian. Kiss me and go."

Christian ran up first to her attic. She had secured a broken looking-glass, rather a large one, which she had placed in such a position that she could see herself when she acted the parts of her different heroes and heroines. From time to time she had induced the housemaids to give her candle-ends, and she possessed a large box of these interesting remnants. She lit a couple of dozen now, put them in different positions, and was at last able to get a good view of her own young figure. She was a rather tall and very upright girl, and she looked her best to-night.

"Is it I or is it another girl?" thought Christian.

Her quick imagination pictured the different heroines of history. Which should she select as her own rôle to-night? Finally, after a steadfast glance into her face, she decided to belong to the army of martyrs, and to imagine herself back in the time when people died for their faith. It seemed to her that she read resolution, determination, and unflinching self-sacrifice in her eyes.