"I have come," said Doris. "Will you let me help you?"
Alice rose from her knees, and took the outstretched hand in hers. "Do you know everything? Has Mrs. Austin told you everything?" she asked.
"Yes. I honour you. And the work that is good enough for you is good enough for me. Besides I--I have been dismissed from my employment. My lamp-shade work has failed, at last----" Doris broke down a little, remembering her despair, but clung to the proffered hands.
"Poor dear!" Alice kissed her, and from that moment they were friends.
CHAPTER X.
DORIS AND ALICE WORK TOGETHER.
He that is thy friend indeed,
He will help thee at thy need.
Old Proverb.
A very beautiful thing is true friendship. History and mythology give us many notable examples--for instance, David and Jonathan, Damon and Pythias, Orestes and Pylades, and so on. Man was not meant to live alone. All cannot marry, but no one need be without a friend. Our Lord Himself loved one disciple more than all the others, and made him a friend. "Friendship is love without wings," says a German proverb, and certainly it is often more stable and more enduring.
The friendship between Doris Anderson and Alice Sinclair began warmly, and gave promise of growing apace. They were both young and comparatively friendless, they had both seen much trouble, and both were compelled to work hard and continuously. In some respects alike, their characters were in others dissimilar: in fact, they were complementary to each other. Doris was gentle and good-tempered, affectionate and reserved, painstaking and conscientious: in fact, truly religious. Alice, on the other hand, was lively, almost boisterous, sometimes passionate, yet loving withal, and frank, clever and enterprising, but not very scrupulous, and though religious extremely reserved about it.
"I must tell you exactly how I came to make imitation oil-paintings," said Alice candidly, as she sat on the three-legged stool in her garret that first evening, with Doris in the Windsor chair beside her. "I was forced into it by necessity. I am an orphan, you must know, and I live with my dear elder brother Norman. He is an artist--a real gifted, talented artist: he can paint such glorious pictures! But they don't sell yet. The fact is, the British public is so foolish!" She tossed her curly head as she spoke. "It--it prefers these," waving her hand towards the artificial oil paintings. "And meantime," she continued, "meantime, Norman and I have come to the end of our resources. He doesn't know. He is such a dear old muddle-head about business matters that he thinks the ten pounds he gave me last Christmas is still unfinished!"