father. Perhaps, she would have been more than human, had she not occasionally reminded her step-daughter of Mr. Thomas Gray's misdeeds, and now and then taunted her with a "He never cared about you—you know."

Aye—Rachel knew it well enough. She knew that her own father loved her not—that though he had cared little for Jane, not being a tender-hearted man, still that he had cared somewhat, for that younger, and more favoured child. That before he left England, he would occasionally caress her; that when she died, tears had flowed down his stern cheek on hearing the tidings, and that the words had escaped him: "I am sorry I was not there."

All this Rachel knew. Her mind was too noble, and too firm for jealousy; her heart too pious, and too humble for rebellious sorrow; but yet she found it hard to bear, and very hard to be reminded of it as a reproach and a shame.

Was it not enough that she could not win the affection she most longed for? She was devoted to her step-mother; she had fondly loved her younger sister; but earlier born in her heart than these two loves, deeper, and more solemn, was the love Rachel felt for her father. That instinct of nature, which in him was silent, in her spoke strongly. That share of love which he denied her, she silently added to her own, and united both in one fervent offering. Harshness and indifference had no power to quench a feeling, to which love in kindness had not given birth. She loved because it was her destiny; because, as she once said herself, when speaking of another: "A daughter's heart clings to her father with boundless charity."

Young as she was when Thomas Gray left his home, Rachel remembered him well. His looks, the very tones of his voice, were present to her. Not once, during the years of his absence, did the thought of her father cease to haunt her heart. When, from the bitter remarks of her step-mother, she learned that he had returned, and where he had taken up his home, she had no peace until she succeeded in obtaining a glimpse of him. Free, as are all the children of the poor, she made her way to the street where he lived, and many a day walked for weary miles in order to pass by her father's door. But she never crossed the threshold, never spoke to him, never let him know who she was, until the sad day when she bore to him the news of her sister's death.

He received her with his usual coldness—in such emotion as he showed, she had no share, like strangers they had met—like strangers they parted. But, though his coldness and her own timidity prevented nearer advances, they did not prevent Rachel from often seeking the remote neighbourhood and gloomy street where her father dwelt.

It was a pleasure, though a sad one, to look on his face, even if she went not near him; and thus it happened, that on this dark night she stood in the sheltering obscurity of the well-known doorway, gazing on the solitary old man, yet venturing not to cross the narrow street.

The wind blew from the east. It was cold and piercing; yet it could not draw Rachel from her vigil of love. Still she looked and lingered, wishing she knew not what; and hoping against hope. Thus she stayed, until Thomas Gray left his work, put up the shutters, then left the house by the private door, and slowly walked away to the nearest public-house.

The shop was once more a blank in the dark street. Rachel looked at the deserted dwelling and sighed; than softly and silently she stole away.

CHAPTER III.

It was late when Rachel reached home. She found her step-mother sitting up for her, rigid, amazed y indignant—so indignant, indeed, that though she rated Rachel soundly for her audacity in presuming to stay out so long without previous leave obtained, she quite forgot to inquire particularly why she had not come home earlier. A series of disasters had been occasioned by Rachel's absence; Jane and Mary had quarrelled, Mrs. Gray had been kept an hour waiting for her supper, the beer had naturally become flat and worthless, and whilst Mrs. Gray was sleeping—and how could she help sleeping, being quite faint and exhausted with her long vigil—puss had got up on the table and walked off with Rachel's polony.

There was a touch of quiet humour in Rachel, and with a demure smile, she internally wondered why it was precisely her polony that had been selected by puss, but aloud she merely declared that she could make an excellent supper on bread and beer. Mrs. Gray, who held the reins of domestic management in their little household, assured her that she had better, for that nothing else was she going to get; she sat down heroically determined to eat the whole of her polony in order to punish and provoke her step-daughter; but somehow or other the half of that dainty had, before the end of the meal, found its way to the plate of Rachel, who, when she protested against this act of generosity, was imperiously ordered to hold her tongue, which order she did not dare to resist; for if Mrs. Gray's heart was mellow, her temper was sufficiently tart.

The apprentices had long been gone to bed; as soon as supper was over,
Mrs. Gray intimated to Rachel the propriety of following their example.
Rachel ventured to demur meekly.

"I cannot, mother—I have work to finish."

"Then better have sat at home and finished it, than have gone gadding about, and nearly got a pitch plaster on your mouth," grumbled Mrs. Gray, who was a firm believer in pitch plasters, and abductions, and highway robberies, and all sorts of horrors. "Mind you don't set the house a fire," she added, retiring.

"Why, mother," said Rachel, smiling, "you treat me like a child, and I am twenty-six."

"What about that? when you aint got no more sense than a baby."

Rachel did not venture to dispute, a proposition so distinctly stated. She remained up, and sat sewing until her work was finished; she then took out from some secret repository a small end of candle, lit it, and extinguished the long candle, by the light of which she had been working. From her pocket she took a small key; it opened a work-box, whence she drew a shirt collar finely stitched; she worked until her eyes ached, but she heeded it not, until they closed with involuntary fatigue and sleep, and still she would not obey the voice of wearied nature; still she stitched for love, like the poor shirtmaker for bread, until, without previous warning, her candle end suddenly flickered, then expired in its socket, and left her in darkness. Rachel gently opened the window, and partly unclosed the shutter; the moon was riding in the sky above the old house opposite, her pale clear light glided over its brown walls and the quiet street, down into the silent parlour of Rachel. She looked around her, moved at seeing familiar objects under an unusual aspect. In that old chair she had often seen her father sitting; on such a moonlight night as this she and Jane, then already declining, had sat by the window, and looking at that same sky, had talked with youthful fervour of high and eternal things. And now Jane knew the divine secrets she had guessed from afar, and Thomas Gray, alas! was a stranger and an alien in his own home.

"Who knows," thought Rachel, "but he will return some day? Who knows— who can tell? Life is long, and hope is eternal. Ah! if he should come back, even though he never looked at me, never spoke, blessed, thrice blessed, should ever be held the day…" And a prayer, not framed in words, but in deep feelings, gushed like a pure spring from her inmost heart. But, indeed, when did she not pray? When was God divided from her thoughts? When did prayer fail to prompt the kind, gentle words that fell from her lips, or to lend its daily grace to a pure and blameless